His Prey

The wind had been picking up all afternoon, tugging at coat hems and tossing leaves across the sidewalks. Del Teller was halfway through her walk home when the first mist of rain kissed her cheeks. She didn’t speed up right away, not until the light drizzle grew insistent and the clouds darkened.

Her sketchbook was in her tote bag. It wasn’t waterproof.

She tucked her chin down, pulled her sweater tighter around her frame, and broke into a jog, her flat shoes slightly slippery against the wet pavement. She passed bookstores, empty bus stops, and a newsstand already covered in plastic. Then the side of her shoe caught the uneven lip of the curb.

Her knees buckled. She hit the ground hard, hands scraping on the concrete, right knee colliding with the edge of the sidewalk. The pain flared sharply and fast, stealing her breath.

“Shit,” she hissed, her voice lost beneath the first loud drumming of rain.

The skies opened. Just like that, the light drizzle turned to a full downpour. Fat, cold drops hammered the ground, the street, her shoulders. Del scrambled up with a wince, biting down against the sting in her leg, and limped toward the only shelter she could see.

A small cafe was nestled between a florist and a tailor, the kind of place that didn’t bother with neon signs or modern menus. Just warm lights behind fogged glass and the faint glow of a hanging bell above the door.

The bell chimed as she pushed open the door, and the sound of a TV was in the background. The space was small and quiet, with only four other people tucked into the corner:  two older women chatting in low murmurs, a man reading beside the window, and a young man leaning against the counter with a book half-open in his hand.

Del limped past the display case and slid into the booth furthest from the door. Her knee throbbed beneath the fabric of her trousers, and when she lifted the cuff, she saw the smear of blood running down her shin, soaked into the hem.

She exhaled through her nose.

Her hair was damp, her headphones shoved uselessly around her neck, and her palms ached from the fall. She glanced around—no napkins on the table, and she wasn’t about to limp back up front and ask.

Then a hand appeared in front of her, holding a small bunch of paper napkins.

She looked up.

He was tall and lean in a way that suggested strength, like someone who used to run drills before sunrise. His blazer clung to broad shoulders, and the soft tee beneath did little to hide the definition in his chest. Rain dotted the sleeves of his jacket, and his dark chocolate hair was damp, tousled in a way that made him look boyishly handsome, charming without effort.

Then his sapphire blue eyes met hers.

“You look like you could use these,” he said, his voice warm and unbothered, like this was something he did all the time—walked up to strangers bleeding in booths.

Del stared at him. “You were watching me.”

He blinked. Then grinned. “Guilty. But I promise, not in a creepy way. More of a… concerned passerby vibe.”

“I don’t like being watched,” she said simply, reaching for the napkins anyway.

“I figured,” he replied, still smiling. “You looked like you were about to curse out the sky.”

“I did.” Del dabbed at the blood, trying not to wince. 

He slipped his hands into his blazer pockets, rocking slightly on his heels like he wasn’t quite ready to walk away.

“I’m Oliver, by the way,” he offered. “In case you decide I’m not a serial killer and want to direct future curses my way.”

Her gaze drifted to the rain-washed window, then to the half-wet hem of her trousers. She didn’t like giving her name to strangers, especially ones who smiled too easily.

Oliver waited. Then added, “Come on, just a first name. I promise I won’t look you up or send you memes. Unless they’re really good.”

Her lips twitched faintly, almost like a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“April,” she said finally. “Call me April.”

He nodded, clearly unconvinced. “April. Got it.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“I do,” he said with that same infuriating ease. “I just don’t think it’s the one on your student ID.”

Del didn’t respond, and he didn’t push.

“You want anything? I can grab you a drink. Coffee’s good here. I recommend the cinnamon latte. It’s unreasonably comforting.”

She narrowed her eyes, then shrugged. “I don’t like cinnamon.”

His smile widened. “Alright. Black coffee girl. Got it.”

“I didn’t say—”

But he was already turning, walking back toward the counter like he had nothing better to do than annoy a stranger with a bleeding knee. Del looked after him, then down at the napkins in her hand.

A few minutes later, he returned with two drinks in hand. He slid into the seat across from her without asking, setting a cup in front of her.

“Decaf. Just in case you’re a caffeine purist. Or one of those people who claim it messes with their aura.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t say you could sit here.”

“Nope. You didn’t say I couldn’t either.” He took a sip from his own cup, his eyes twinkling over the rim. “Also, you’re welcome.”

Del stared at him, but the drink was warm and smelled... fine. No cinnamon. She took a cautious sip.

“You didn’t doctor this with anything weird, did you?”

“Just a little splash of charm.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t argue.

They sat like that for a moment, the hum of the espresso machine behind them, the muted clink of someone stirring sugar. Rain tapped steadily against the windows, a sound that filled the silence without making it awkward.

Oliver leaned back. “So, I was right, huh?”

She didn’t look up. “About what?”

“You’re a student.”

Del paused mid-sip. “What?”

He grinned. “Earlier, I said something about your student ID, and you didn’t say anything. Also, you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“That ‘I’ve survived three hours of lectures and now I want the world to leave me alone’ look. Plus the tote bag... It’s a dead giveaway.”

Del narrowed her eyes again and just kept sipping her drink, her knee aching just slightly less.

“Art student?” Oliver ventured.

Del’s eyes flicked up from her cup. “Are you a stalker?”