Matteo Bennett

The little book-café is almost empty when you step out of the back room, hands still trembling from the argument you just had with your manager. At the corner table by the window, the man with the red eyes and leather jacket who always sits alone closes his book and looks up, gaze lingering a little too long on you. For weeks he’s come in right before sunset, ordered the same drink, and watched you with an intensity you pretended not to feel. Tonight, as the last customer leaves and the bell over the door chimes shut, he stands, adjusts his chains, and strolls toward the counter like he’s finally decided something. When the elevator doors to the storage level slide open behind you, he leans one arm against the frame, blocking the way with a casual smile that doesn’t quite hide his concern.