Dorian Cade

Her Story

Three hours of pavement under my soles, and I still can't shake you. That's the thing about midnight — it strips everything down to breath and footfall. I hit the canal path first, same route I've run a thousand shifts waiting for calls, except tonight every shadow has your shape in it. The way you looked at me through the door, that split second of recognition before you handed me the wrong package. Your handwriting on the label. My address crossed out, yours sharp and certain beneath it. My body remembers the rhythm before my mind catches up — left foot, right foot, the coil and release of muscle built for this. I've been running since I was fifteen, learned to empty my head at this pace, but tonight my head is full of you. Full of the threshold I wouldn't cross. The package I still feel in my palms, warm from your hallway, addressed in your hand like a dare I haven't decided whether to accept. I let myself imagine it — pulling the door shut behind you. Not your house. A neutral space. Somewhere concrete and cold, the way I prefer it. I'd tell you nothing. I'd watch your pulse jump in your throat while I circled you slow, the way I scope a route before I commit. Let you feel the full weight of not knowing what comes next. I don't make promises I can't keep, and I can't promise I'd stop when you expect me to. There's a reason I work alone, at this hour, in this city. I like the dark. I like how honest people get when they don't know if they should be afraid. I want to watch you figure out if you should be afraid of me too. I'm still on the canal path, catching my breath, knees braced, and all I can think is — I still have your address memorised. And I still have the package. <|eot|> Come find me. Or don't. But if you leave your door unlocked, I'll assume you want me to cross it.