The Night Isn't Over Yet

The Back Door

I should have gone straight home.

Instead, I stood in the back hallway of Brew & Ash with my hand on the cold metal door, my heart beating so loud I could hear it in my ears.

Lock the back door tonight.

I had locked it myself at ten o'clock. I always did. I pushed the handle down anyway, just to be sure.

It opened.

Cold air and rain rushed in. The alley was dark and empty, with one broken light flickering over the dumpster. But in the wet ground by the step, there were footprints. Fresh. Big. Someone had stood here. Maybe for a long time.

"Shit," I whispered.

I slammed the door, locked it twice and pushed a crate against it. Then I ran to the front window.

The black car was still there. Lights off. Engine running. I couldn't see anyone inside.

I don't know why, but it scared me less than the footprints did.

2 AM

My apartment was small, quiet and exactly how I had left it. I checked every room anyway. The closet. The bathroom. Under the bed, like a child.

Nothing.

I was pulling off my wet shoes when my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Lock the door. Both locks. — K.

I stared at it. My mouth went dry.

I had never given him my number. I had never even told him my last name.

I should have called the police. I knew that. Any smart woman would have.

Instead, I locked both locks, sat on the floor with my back against the door, and read the message again and again until the rain stopped and the sky turned grey.

And I hated that a small part of me felt safe.

The Next Night

I told myself I wouldn't go back to work.

I went back to work.

Rent was due on Friday. That was the reason I gave myself. The truth was uglier. I wanted to see if he would come.

At 11:40 p.m., the bell above the door rang.

Of course.

Kabir shook the rain from his coat, slowly, like he wanted me to watch. He did not go to the window table. He walked straight to the counter and sat on the stool right in front of me. Close enough to touch.

"Black coffee," he said. "No sugar."

"No." I slammed my hands on the counter. "No coffee. Answers first. Who are you? How did you get my number? Why were there footprints at my back door?"

For a moment, something dark moved across his face. Then it was gone.

"You found them," he said quietly.

"Don't change the subject, Kabir."

"My name sounds better when you say it angry."

"Fuck you."

"Careful, Meera." His voice dropped. "I might enjoy that."

My hand tightened around the glass I was holding. I didn't notice how hard, until it cracked.

The Broken Glass

It broke in my palm. The pain came a second later, sharp and hot. Blood ran down my wrist.

"Shit—"

Before I could move, his hand closed around my wrist. Not rough. But firm, like iron wrapped in silk. He pulled my hand toward him and looked at the cut, his jaw tight.

"Stay still."

"I'm fine—"

"You're bleeding." His eyes lifted to mine. "Stay. Still."

I stayed.

He took a clean towel from the counter and pressed it to my palm. His other hand slid under mine, warm and steady, and his thumb settled on the inside of my wrist, right on my pulse.

He didn't say anything about it. He didn't have to. My heartbeat said everything.

The café was empty. The rain hammered the window. And he was so close that I could smell rain and smoke and something dark and expensive on his skin. I could see a tiny scar above his eyebrow. I could feel his breath on my cheek.

He wrapped my hand slowly, carefully, like I was something that could break.

Which was strange, because he was the one who looked dangerous.

"You're scared of me," he said, so low that I almost missed it.

"Yes."

"And you're still standing here."

I swallowed. "Yes."

"That," he murmured, tying the cloth, "tells me everything I need to know."

He did not let go of my hand. I did not pull it away. His eyes dropped to my mouth, and for one long, burning second, I thought he would kiss me. I wanted him to. God help me, I wanted him to.

His forehead almost touched mine. My lips parted.

Then he stepped back.

"Not tonight," he said roughly. "When you kiss me, Meera, it won't be because you're bleeding and scared."

"When I kiss you?" My voice shook. "You're delusional."

A small, dark smile. "We'll see."

The Deal

He didn't touch his coffee. He waited on that stool until I flipped the sign to CLOSED at 12:45.

"Three nights," he said.

"What?"

"Stay after closing. Sit with me. Ask me anything you want, and I'll tell you the truth." He leaned back, calm as a king. "After the third night, if you want to run, run. I won't stop you. I won't follow you. I'll disappear."

"And if I don't want to run?"

His eyes darkened. "Then we'll talk about that on the fourth night."

My heart did something stupid and dangerous.

Every smart part of me said no. This was how women ended up in the news. This was exactly how the story went wrong.

But my hand was still warm where he had held it.

"Three nights," I heard myself say. "And you tell me everything."

"Everything you ask."

"That's not the same thing."

"No," Kabir said, standing. "It isn't. You're smarter than you look."

"Go to hell."

He smiled at the door. "Only if you come with me."

The Second Man

He left at 1 a.m. The black car pulled away without a sound.

I turned off the lights, counted the till, and stepped outside into the cold. I was locking the front door when a voice came from the dark.

"Meera."

I froze.

A man stood under the dead streetlight across the road. Hoodie. Hands in his pockets. His face was hidden in shadow.

My stomach dropped. Two men knew my name tonight.

"What did he tell you?" the man asked. He took one step into the rain. "Because whatever it was, Meera... it's a lie."

The wind blew. A car horn sounded far away.

And in my bandaged hand, my phone buzzed.

Don't talk to him. Walk to my car. Now. — K.

The night isn't over yet. — E.N.