Page 108 of Twisted Violet

The first nightI show up outside of the bakery, she flinches.

Not visibly. Not in a way most people would catch. But I’m not most people and she’s not just anyone.

She’s got her keys looped around her fingers, her phone tucked under her arm, and her eyes are scanning the street like she’s memorizing the shadows.

When she sees me, standing on the sidewalk, hands in my pockets, she stills for half a second.

I don’t say anything. I just fall into step beside her as she makes the walk from the back door of the bakery to the lot where her car is parked.

Three minutes.

That’s all I get.

I don’t ask her how she’s been and she doesn’t ask me why I’m there.

She just unlocks her car, gets in, and drives away.

I stay until her taillights disappear.

Then I go home.

It becomes a thing after that.

Every night, closing time.

Same corner of the lot.

Samethree-minute walk.

She never says much.

Sometimes she nods.

Sometimes she just looks at me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle she isn’t sure she wants the answer to.

But she lets me walk her.

Every time.

It’s not about safety.

Not really.

The neighborhood is quiet. There are cameras, streetlights, and the police constantly patrol the area.

It’s about showing up for her, even when she doesn’t ask,especiallywhen she doesn’t ask.

Some nights are harder than others. The dark still messes with my head. But I show up anyway. Because she’s worth it.

She’s worth everything.

One night she turns to me, halfway through the walk, and says, “You don’t have to do this, you know…”

I shrug. “I know.”

She studies me for a second. “Then why do you?”

I hesitate.