Elara
He doesn’t walk me home the next night.
He waits inside my building lobby.
That should terrify me.
Instead, it makes my pulse quicken in a way I don’t want to analyze.
I push through the glass doors, rain dampening the edges of my coat, and there he is — leaning casually against the far wall near the mailboxes. No tension in his posture. No urgency. Just presence.
“How did you get in?” I ask, keeping my voice steady.
He tilts his head slightly. “Your neighbor held the door.”
That’s probably true.
It’s also not the whole truth.
“You can’t just appear places,” I say.
“I can,” he replies calmly. “The question is whether you want me to.”
Silence stretches between us.
I should say no.
Instead, I ask, “Why are you here?”
His gaze softens — not weak, not uncertain, but less s
