He took a step closer. Then another. His footsteps were deliberate, measured, the way he did everything. Like he was always counting the cost of each movement.

He stopped just out of arm's reach. Close enough to feel like a threat, far enough to look like he respected your space. He knew exactly what he was doing.

The name hung in the air like smoke. Marcus. The guy from the diner. The one who'd smiled at you, bought you coffee, left his number on a napkin. The one who'd never made it home that night.

He let the words settle, watching you with that patient, terrible intensity. Waiting for the crack. The give.