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With the dribbled coffee on my shirt mostly dry, I held her books, helped her with the door, and held the luminous green matchafucking whateversmoothie that she gets from this juice bar three times a week.

My heart thumped so hard that I felt it against my ribs. I was uncharacteristically quiet, waiting for her to make the next move. Not once has she spoken to me before. Mosttimes we see each other, she purposely avoids any kind of interaction. On days I am graced with eye contact, it is accompanied by scowls, eye rolls, and a click of her tongue that I could find a much better use for.

I’ve tried to work it out for months, but finding nothing online to connect us, I accepted that all I would ever receive from her was a look of disgust, or worse,indifference.

But this morning, she looked nervous as she approached my table. Like she was deciding whether she could make a move or not. Like she is finally tired of waiting, and for the dumbest second of my life, I thought maybe that is why she's been so angry. Because she feels like I've snubbed her. Maybe I've read her wrong this whole time, and really, she is annoyed that I haven't asked her out that first day I saw her like I'd wanted to.

She struggled up from the wingback chair at the window where she always sits on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Her Kindle hooked on her little finger as her thumb brushed over the screen at the rate of a professional speed reader.

She isn’t her usual put-together self this morning. Her hair is thrown up into a loose bun, her usual styled braids or sleek ponytail nowhere to be seen. And I assumed it was the injury to her arm that’s caused her dishevelment. A sling wrapping her left hand protectively.

And standing here now, it reminds me of a conversation with Dr. Alfie about lessons I’ve learned from my father. The most prominent being those who assume are those who are unprepared. And in our world, those who are unprepared best be ready to die.

Yeah, Alfie’s signature eye roll had suggested he didn’t like that lesson. Although it seems to fit this situation to a tee.

She stumbled and giggled as she attempted to carry her things. I instinctively reached to help her, fully expecting to be swatted away. But I was graced with pearly whites and a nervous chuckle. My raised eyebrows must have shown mysurprise because her gaze softened as she looked down at me. Only a small bite of her lower lip gave any indication of nerves, and in my arrogance, I put that down to her wanting to ask me out.

I had never been so close to her. From a distance, she has seemed so ethereal. Whenever she leaned forward to pick up her juice from the low coffee table, never taking her eyes off the book she was reading, the light from the window created a soft glow around her. She looked angelic, otherworldly. But up close today, I could see a splattering of freckles. Her usual perfect makeup is rushed, and a small fleck of mascara sits on her cheek. If I had really thought about it, I would have known something was wrong. Especially since I’ve seen the video she posted yesterday where her arm was fine. Sure she could have filmed it weeks ago and spent time editing. But I know she’s only just cut her hair like this since Wednesday.

Yes...I’m that guy. But I’m not a stalker. I’m...an admirer. Our time together in this juice bar, horrendously named Squeeze the Day, is the highlight of my week. A small respite to the otherwise debt-settling that I force myself to endure the remainder of my time. A punishment, if you will, for who I used to be. But in another way, this is a torture in itself. So close to someone so perfect who hates me so vehemently for reasons seemingly unrelated to my past. I’ve been so bad in my past life that even the new me needs to be punished.

So when she stumbled to my table this morning, I thought for a second my debt had been paid. I’ve repented enough, suffered enough, and deprived myself for long enough that, finally, something good might happen.

“Such a gentleman.” She smiled warmly when I helped her pick up her things.

“Only when absolutely necessary,” I quipped and that’s when I saw it, her real smile. Not the poised ones from her fitness videos and not the polite ones she gives other patrons of Squeeze the Day. This one was real, and it was all for me.

“Well, helping a damsel in distress should count as necessary for a ‘sometimes’ gentleman.” She practically purred.

I was putty, and her hands were wrapped around me, molding me the second she speaks. So, of course, I allowed her to lead me down the corridor toward the back of the café.

The fact that it is ill-lit with no cameras didn’t seem dangerous. I’m Austin Black. Bad things don’t happen to me. I do bad things to others—mostly those who deserve it. And if I’m honest, I just didn't see her as a threat at all. And if I give myself some credit, neither does anyone else. The café owners, Jenny and Anthony, waved cheerily as we made our way out the back.

I opened the door to her jeep, not questioning how she can drive with an injured arm. She asked me to place her things on the back seat, and I did. She stood so close to me that the hairs stood on the back of my neck. This was it. This is the moment I had been imagining for so long. I wasn’t going to ask her out; I was going to tell her I’ll pick her up. I’d promise her the best goddamn date she’s ever had. We’d laugh about why it’s taken so long for us to do this. I’ll take her hand in mine, ending our night with a soft kiss that a gentleman would give. Never pushing her. Letting her set the pace. And if I were the luckiest son of a bitch in the entire solar system, she’d take me to bed, and I’d finally see what’s underneath her workout gear she’s only ever given hints of.

You’re nearly brought up to speed. In just a few more seconds, I will have that resigned yet confused look on my face. Because I take a deep breath and turn just as a popping noise fills my ears. Olivia’s mouth downturned, her smile and sling both missing, replaced with her usual scowl of indifference.

My eyes seek out the popping noise. A small black box in her hand crackles inches away from my crotch, the electric spark flashing in the dimly lit alley.

She is braced, ready to strike at any moment. But to anyone more than a few meters away, we must look like acouple readying ourselves to return home.

And because I’m an idiot, the thought that we look like that to others makes me smile.

“I’m going to need you to hold this cloth to your mouth, please.”

Her casual tone suggests she’s asked me to move the books to another location or perhaps open the door for her. But the words replay in my head, and somehow, I am still confused, even after staring at the white rag in her perfectly manicured hand.

“Umm...what?” I chuckle, her politeness throwing my center of gravity off kilter. I’m not nervous about my physical safety, but her detached tone is unnerving.

“The cloth,” she repeats. “Hold it to your mouth. Maybe sit in the car first. I won’t be able to lift you.” She’s patient, like she’s practiced this, fully expecting my confusion.

“Why would I make this easier for you?” I smirk, glancing toward the back door of the café, which is slightly ajar. Surely, someone will come out and witness this any second now.

The taser pops again as she grips the little black box tighter.

The Seattle sun, which earlier was so unwelcome, seems now like a warning. Like something is off about the day. Like seeing a cat on a leash or a rabbit in one of those rucksacks with the mesh cloth so they have a view of the world.Unsettling.

“I’ll taser your dick and balls unless you do what I say. So lie back and hold it to your mouth...”