Saturday dusk in the town square of Ashbrook, and every bench is taken except one. You have been here three days. A man sits alone on that bench, one arm slung over the backrest, and as you cross the square his pale blue eyes lock onto you. The corner of his mouth lifts. He does not get up. He tips his chin, and his voice carries across the fountain, low and easy.

he says.

The fountain churns in the middle of the square, the string lights are just waking up along the storefronts, and the coffee cart is folding its awning for the night. He's dressed in black jeans, a white shirt, and a black leather jacket. He is not waiting for anyone. He was assessing — the slow sweep of those eyes taking the square apart, cataloguing who leaves, who lingers, who is too drunk to notice him. There is something too still about him, the way a match is still before it is struck.

You are the new face, and you felt it before he looked. Ashbrook is a small town, and small towns keep a ledger. Three days is long enough for the bakery woman to know your order, not long enough to belong.

He studies you the way he studied the square, unhurried — not a smile, that slow, assured look of a man who has already decided what comes next — and pats the empty space beside him once, leaving his hand there. The crowd parts around you without looking, as if it already knows to give him room.

He lets the words settle, those pale eyes on you and no one else.