We sit across from each other in the empty coffee shop, elbows not quite touching, cups between us gone cold. The jazz on the radio is fuzzy, background noise for people who have somewhere else to be. I try to watch the rain, but I keep looking at him—at the split in his bottom lip, at the way he taps his fingers restlessly on the tabletop. He hasn't looked at me since we sat down.
I clear my throat. "So. Bookstore, huh?"
The words sound stupid the second they leave my mouth. I pick at the edge of my napkin, wishing I could disappear into the crumbs.
He doesn't answer right away, just shrugs and looks out the window. His profile is sharp in the reflection, the bruises on his jaw green-yellow under the coffee shop light.
"Didn't think I'd see you there," I try again, voice smaller.
He flicks his eyes to me for half a second, then away. "S-s-sellin' some old shit. Needed c-c-cash."
His stutter comes out harder, maybe from talking to a stranger, maybe from just being tired.
"Oh." I nod, as if that explains everything. I want to ask what he sold, but it feels too nosy.
Instead: "I was just...looking. I like the poetry section. It's quieter than the library." I wince, wishing I'd just shut up.
He lets out a breath, maybe a laugh, maybe just a sigh. "Y-you d-d-don't look like you read p-p-poetry."
I blink. "Is that a bad thing?"
He finally meets my eyes. There's something tired and almost amused there, but it's gone in a blink. "N-n-not bad. Just... I dunno."
He fidgets with a sugar packet, tearing it in half, then letting it spill on the table.
The silence goes on long enough that I start to count the seconds in my head.
I force myself to say something, anything, before I lose my nerve. "You, uh...do you go to Hudson too?"
It's desperate, obvious, but it's all I have.
He shakes his head, gaze fixed on his coffee. "N-no. Done with all that."
"Lucky," I mutter, more to myself than to him.
He looks at me, then at the window again. "W-why're you talkin' to me?"
It stings a little, but I don't blame him for asking.
I stare at my chipped nails, wishing I had an answer that wouldn't sound pathetic. "I guess... you just seemed interesting."
I risk a look up, cheeks burning. "You're the only person I know who looks more bored than me."
He almost smiles, just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "City's good at that."
Another beat. He glances at my sketchbook wedged beside me on the seat, but doesn't ask. I kind of wish he would.
I drum my fingers. "Sorry. I never caught your name."
He hesitates, then mutters, "Eli."
I repeat it, quietly, as if I'm learning a secret.
He just shrugs, as if the name means nothing.
I almost give him mine, but he doesn't ask.
The rain keeps falling, and for a second it's just the two of us—two strangers, stuck in the city, not really sure why we're here, or why we're still sitting together.
I wonder if I'll ever see him again, or if this is the sort of moment that just happens once, then gets swept away with the rain.
He glances at the window again, then at the door, shifting in his seat like he's already halfway gone.
I can feel him pulling away—emotionally, physically. The spell is breaking, and I'm not sure if I want to reach out or just let him vanish.
He stands up abruptly, grabbing his envelope and shoving his hands deep in his jacket pockets. His chair scrapes, loud in the little shop.
I look up, caught between relief and disappointment.
He hesitates just a second, head ducked. His eyes flick to me, sharp and dark.
Then, softer, stuttering over the syllables, he asks,
"Wh-what's your name?"
I swallow, surprised. "Cookie."
He nods once, not smiling, but something in his face softens for half a second.
"'S a g-g-good name."
And just like that, he's out the door—shoulders hunched, rain already soaking into his hair, disappearing into the city.
I watch him go, the bell above the door jangling in his wake, my name still ringing in my ears.
By the time I leave the coffee shop, the rain's stopped but the city's still slick, everything shining like it just got scrubbed raw. My shoes squeak against the marble as I push through the doors of the Humanities building. I'm late, but so is half the class—nobody cares about contemporary poetry unless it's on the exam.
I slide into a desk near the window, breathless, pretending not to notice Janelle and Tara giving each other "there she goes again" looks across the aisle.
Janelle leans over as the professor starts talking about ekphrasis. "You alive, or did the jazz ghost finally get you?"
I roll my eyes. "I'm here, aren't I?"
Tara bites back a smile. "You look like you saw God, or at least an existential crisis with a five o'clock shadow."
I scribble in the margin of my notebook—just lines, the swoop of a jaw, the curve of a guitar. Eli's shape keeps sneaking out of my pen.
"I had coffee with the guy from the quad," I admit, too soft. The words sound bigger out loud than they did in my head.
Janelle's eyebrows shoot up. "You mean that weird busker?"
"Yeah. He was at the bookstore. It wasn't a date or anything, we just—talked."
Tara nudges me under the desk. "Talked about what? Did he ask you out, or just glower mysteriously?"
"He barely talked at all," I mumble. "He's...awkward. I don't know. He asked my name."
Janelle smirks. "Did you get his?"
I shake my head. "Just 'Eli.' He left right after. He's so—closed off. But I can't stop thinking about him."
Tara rests her chin on her fist, fake dreamy. "This is your villain origin story. Don't trust boys with guitars, Cookie. They're always trouble."
I try to laugh, but the memory of the café—the way he said my name, the way he looked at me like I was almost real—won't let me go.
Outside, the professor drones on about inspiration and the danger of clichés. All I can think about is Eli: the way he wouldn't meet my eyes, the question he never asked, and the way my own name sounds when a stranger says it soft and rough.
Scene fades with Cookie doodling absentmindedly, her friends rolling their eyes, the city outside already starting to feel less safe, less soft. She's restless—itchy, distracted, halfway out the door before the bell rings.
By the time class is over, the sky's gone that purplish-gray that makes the city look like it's holding its breath. I hug my sketchbook to my chest as I leave campus, the air damp but not raining anymore. Streetlights flicker on early, halos in the mist.
The train ride is a blur—advertisements sliding past, the stale smell of wet wool and coffee clinging to everyone's coats. My reflection in the window looks tired, the kind of tired that's more in the bones than the eyes. I keep thinking about the coffee shop. About Eli. About the way his hands trembled just slightly when he said my name, like he wasn't sure he was allowed to.
When I finally climb the steps to my building, the hallway smells faintly of curry from Mrs. Patel's place downstairs. I let myself into my apartment—half a room with peeling paint and a window that sticks in the frame. It's too quiet. I kick my shoes off, drop my bag on the bed, and sit there staring at the ceiling, listening to the radiator hiss.
I should draw. Or do homework. Or eat something. Instead, I sit perfectly still until the light outside fades to night.
That's when I hear it.
At first I think it's the TV from the apartment next door, but it's too clear, too raw. A man's voice, low and unpolished, spilling into the street from somewhere below. The kind of voice that doesn't care if anyone's listening. The kind that sounds like it was never meant to be heard indoors.
I move to the window, push it open just enough to lean out. The street glistens under the lamplight, puddles catching little pieces of the city in their surfaces. Down the block, half-hidden in shadow, there's a figure leaning against the brick, head tilted back, singing to no one in particular.
The voice tugs at me, familiar in a way that makes my chest tighten. My brain says It's not him, but my gut says otherwise.
Before I've even decided, I'm grabbing my jacket and heading for the stairs.
Outside, the air is cool and damp against my face. I start walking, slow at first, letting the sound guide me. Every time I think I've gotten close, the voice drifts farther, around a corner, down another narrow street. My boots splash in shallow puddles, the city's hum dimming until all I hear is him.
I catch flashes of movement ahead—just the back of a hood, the curve of a shoulder. He never looks back, and I'm too far to call out without sounding like a lunatic.
The blocks get quieter, more deserted. Storefronts go dark, graffiti takes over the brick, and the music of his voice feels more and more out of place here.
Somewhere between one block and the next, the singing stops.
I stop too, heart thudding, the silence heavy. The street is empty. No figure. No voice.
I glance over my shoulder, a prickle crawling up my neck. There's no one behind me, but the air feels different—still, watching.
I take a step forward.
And that's when I hear footsteps. Not mine.
The footsteps behind me are wrong—too steady, too certain. My skin prickles before my brain even catches up.
I look over my shoulder. A man is following me, hood drawn low, face shadowed. His pace matches mine. Then quickens.
I cut right, into a side street I don't usually take. It's narrower here, brick walls pressing in, the air damp and smelling faintly of piss. My boots splash through a puddle, cold water seeping in at the ankle.
The sound of his steps grows louder. Closer.
Before I can break into a run, a hand clamps down on my arm.
The world jerks. My back slams into the wall, shoulder blade grinding against brick. A gasp tears from me, but his other hand is already over my mouth, palm gritty and damp.
"Shhh," he breathes, his voice thick with alcohol. His breath stinks—cheap beer and sour meat. "You're real pretty. I bet you taste sweet."
I try to scream. His hand tightens over my lips.
He presses his body into mine, pinning me between himself and the wall. I feel him—hard—through his jeans, grinding against my hip. His other hand is at my jacket, yanking the zipper down in one violent jerk. Cold air floods over my chest.
I claw at his wrist, nails digging until I feel skin give under them, but he just grunts and shifts his weight, crushing me harder against the wall.
He shoves a knee between my thighs, forcing them apart. My breath comes in frantic bursts against his palm.
"Don't fight," he mutters. "It's easier when you don't fight."
His free hand fumbles at the button of my jeans, ripping it open. The zipper's teeth scrape, loud in my ears. He yanks at the waistband, shoving the denim down over my hips. I twist and kick, but he uses his knee to pin one leg, the other hooked around my thigh to keep me open.
My underwear is the last barrier. He hooks his fingers into the waistband and jerks. The elastic bites into my skin before it slides down. My bare thighs hit the cold air.
I try to turn my face away, to scream around his hand, but he slams my head against the wall, hard enough that a white burst floods my vision.
His breathing gets faster. His hips press forward, grinding against me. I feel him fumbling with his belt buckle, the scrape of metal, the rough sound of denim sliding down.
My stomach turns to ice. He's hard against my bare skin now, pressing at me, forcing my thighs wider. His grip on my jaw tightens until my teeth ache.
I buck and twist, but his size and weight swallow every movement. His cock nudges against me—too close—sliding, searching.
"Almost there," he growls. "Almost in you."
Hot panic floods me, drowning out thought. My nails rake his face, catching his cheekbone, and I feel skin tear. He snarls and drives his palm into my throat, cutting my air, hips jerking forward in a sharp, desperate thrust—
And then, from somewhere behind him, a voice explodes, ragged and shaking with fury:
"G-g-g-get the fuck off her!"
The man jerks his head around. In that split second, his weight shifts.
The voice is jagged with fury, shaking but loud enough to split the air.
The man over me freezes just long enough for the world to tilt. His grip loosens on my jaw. The weight pinning my hips shifts.
And then Eli slams into him from the side like a freight train.
They hit the wet pavement hard, the sound of bone and concrete colliding echoing off the alley walls. The man grunts, rolling, but Eli's already on top of him, fists driving down fast and messy, knuckles cracking against cheekbone.
The attacker swings back, catches Eli across the jaw. Blood sprays from Eli's mouth, spattering the man's hoodie. It only makes him angrier.
"Y-y-you—piece—of—shit!" Eli's stutter rips through his teeth between punches, every word punctuated by another blow.
One punch splits the man's lip wide; another sends his head snapping back against the pavement. There's a wet sound, cartilage breaking. The man gurgles, tries to roll, but Eli grabs him by the hood, slams his face into the concrete once, twice—blood smearing in a slick arc beneath him.
I'm still against the wall, jeans half down, underwear twisted around one thigh, my breath coming in panicked, jagged bursts. My legs won't move.
The man claws at Eli's arm, fingers slipping on his jacket. Eli wrenches the man's wrist back until something pops. The attacker howls, spittle and blood flying from his mouth.
Eli's knuckles are raw now, skin split, blood mixing—his and the man's—running down his fingers. He doesn't stop. He hammers another fist into the side of the man's head, and the dull, meaty thud makes my stomach lurch.
"F-f-fuck—you!" Eli snarls, and drives his knee into the man's ribs. The scream that follows is ragged, cut short by another crack of bone.
Finally, the man manages to twist free just enough to shove Eli back a few inches. It's all he needs—he scrambles up, staggering, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. One eye is already swelling shut.
He stumbles backward, slips in his own blood, then bolts down the alley, leaving a dark trail in the rain.
Eli doesn't chase him. He stands there for a moment, chest heaving, fists clenched, blood dripping onto the wet concrete.
Then he turns to me.
I'm still on the ground now, my back against the wall, legs drawn up, shaking so hard my teeth chatter. My jeans are tangled around my knees, jacket hanging open.
Eli drops to a crouch in front of me, his hands hovering like he wants to touch but doesn't know if he should. His face is a mess—lip split, cheek swelling, streaks of blood across his jaw.
"C-c-cookie... y-you o-okay?" His voice cracks around the stutter. "P-p-please... t-talk t-to me..."
The alley is silent except for our breathing and the soft hiss of the rain.
I can't answer. Not yet. I just look at him—at the blood on his hands, at the terror in his eyes—and feel the weight of what almost happened crush down on me all over again.
Eli's still crouched in front of me, rain dripping from the tips of his hair, his hands shaking so badly it's like the fight's still going on inside him. His breathing is uneven—deep gulps of air that catch in his throat before coming out ragged.
I realize I'm still pressed flat to the wall, knees drawn in, jeans tangled around my legs, the cold biting at my bare skin. My fingers are curled so tight they hurt. I can't feel them.
"C-cookie," he says again, softer this time. The stutter is still there, but it's buried under the gentleness in his voice. "C-can you... s-stand?"
I blink at him. My body feels far away, like it belongs to someone else. When I try to move, my muscles spasm, and the shock in my limbs makes me flinch.
Eli notices. His eyes flick down to my clothes, to the mess of my jacket and jeans, then away again fast, jaw tightening. He shrugs off his own hoodie and holds it out to me. His knuckles are torn open, and I can see the blood still smeared across them.
I take the hoodie with hands that don't feel like mine and pull it on. It smells like rain and smoke and something sharp—him. The sleeves hang past my fingers, hiding how they tremble.
He reaches toward me, hesitates again, then finally slips an arm under my shoulder to help me up. His grip is firm, careful, like he's afraid I might shatter. My knees buckle once, but he steadies me, taking more of my weight than he probably should with the bruises blooming along his ribs.
We start walking, slow, one step at a time toward the mouth of the alley. The rain is heavier now, pattering against the hood pulled over my head.
"W-which way?" he asks, eyes scanning the street like he's expecting the man to come back.
I point down toward my block. My voice still won't work.
Eli keeps me close, his arm around me, his body angled slightly so he's always between me and the street. Every few steps, I catch him glancing at my face, like he's checking if I'm about to disappear.
We pass under a flickering streetlamp, and I see the state of him—blood on his mouth, on his jaw, on his neck where it's mixed with the rain. The knuckles of his right hand are raw and swollen. One of his fingernails is split down the middle.
He doesn't seem to notice.
When we reach my building, I fumble my keys from my pocket, but my hands are clumsy and wet, and they spill onto the concrete. Eli crouches, scoops them up, and unlocks the door for me without saying a word.
Inside, the hallway smells of damp plaster and someone's overcooked dinner. The radiator hisses faintly. Everything feels too normal.
Eli closes the door behind us, leaning against it for a moment. He's breathing slower now, but there's still a tightness in his jaw, in his shoulders, like he hasn't let himself come down.
I stand there in the middle of the room, dripping water onto the floor, the oversized hoodie swallowing me whole. The urge to cry is there, heavy and choking, but it's caught somewhere deep.
Eli looks at me—really looks at me—then down at his own bloody hands. "S-s-sorry," he murmurs.
For what, I don't know.
The sound of the lock clicking into place feels louder than it should. My apartment is small enough that I can see all of it from where I stand—the bed unmade, the sketchbook open on the desk, the cup from this morning's coffee still on the counter. Everything exactly as I left it, like the world didn't just tilt sideways.
Eli's still by the door, his shoulders hunched as if he's bracing for something. His eyes dart from my face to the floor to the wall, never lingering long. He's still bleeding from the split in his lip; a slow, dark line drips onto the collar of his t-shirt.
"Do you—" My voice comes out shredded. I swallow and try again. "Do you want to sit?"
He shakes his head, like sitting would make him too still, too aware.
I step out of his hoodie and hang it over the back of the chair, but the cold hits me immediately, and I pull it back on. It's heavy with rain and his warmth, the fabric smelling faintly of smoke and the bitter tang of blood.
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The radiator hisses, the clock ticks, and I just stand there, holding the hem of his hoodie like I need proof I'm still here.
Eli rubs at his knuckles with the edge of his sleeve, but the blood's dried into the creases of his skin. "I s-s-saw you walking," he says finally, his voice low and uneven. "W-w-wasn't g-gonna... f-follow you, but—" His jaw tightens. "Th-that b-bastard—"
He cuts himself off, shaking his head hard, like finishing the sentence would make something worse.
I don't want to talk about the alley. Not yet. The image of the knife, his breath, his hands—it's still too close. But the silence between us is heavier than the air.
"Thank you," I say, and my voice cracks on the second word.
Eli's head snaps up like he wasn't expecting me to say it. "D-d-don't." His eyes are sharp but not unkind. "Y-you d-don't... n-need to thank me for that."
I sink onto the edge of my bed, the springs groaning under me. My fingers are shaking as I pull my hair over one shoulder, trying to comb out the damp tangles. My nails scrape my scalp, and the sting makes me flinch.
He notices. "You h-hurt?"
"Not really," I lie. My ribs ache from where the man's knee caught me, my cheek throbs where his fist landed, but it feels smaller than what could have happened.
Eli shifts his weight, glancing toward the door like he's not sure if he should stay. "I c-can g-go. If you w-want."
I don't know why, but the thought of him leaving right now feels like someone pressing on a bruise. "Don't," I say too quickly.
His eyebrows twitch upward, but he doesn't move toward the door. He stays where he is, close enough to grab the handle, far enough that I'd have to cross the room to touch him.
I don't know what we are—strangers, almost-friends, two people who just shared something ugly—but I know I don't want the night to end with me alone in this apartment, with the dark and the rain and the memory of his hands on me.
Eli nods once, almost to himself, and slides down the wall until he's sitting on the floor, knees drawn up, head resting back against the plaster. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't have to.
The city hums faintly through the glass, but in here, there's just the two of us, breathing in the same small space, the weight of what happened thick in the air.
The room feels smaller with him in it, but not in a bad way—more like the air's too heavy to move and if either of us stands, we'll break whatever's keeping us from shattering.
Eli stays on the floor, back against the wall, knees up, fingers laced loosely in front of them. Every so often, he flexes his hands like he's trying to work out the ache in his knuckles, but the blood stays in the creases, stubborn and dark. His head is tilted slightly toward the floor, but I can feel his attention on me—quiet, watchful, the way someone keeps an eye on a door they're guarding.
I lie back on the bed without meaning to, shoes still on, jeans still twisted awkwardly around my waist from where I'd yanked them up in the alley. The radiator hums steady, like white noise, but every time I close my eyes, I'm back there—brick scraping my spine, his knee forcing my legs apart, the smell of his breath when he said "almost there."
I sit up again too fast, elbows on my knees, breath shaky. Eli doesn't say anything, but I hear the faint scrape of his sleeve against his cheek—wiping at something, maybe sweat, maybe blood.
"Do you need ice?" The words are automatic.
He shakes his head. "N-n-no." His voice is softer now, not as jagged, but the stutter still catches in certain syllables. "You?"
I shake mine in return, even though my ribs still throb where they took the hit. The thought of him walking into my kitchen, of me being left even for those thirty seconds, feels wrong.
The hours slip. At some point, the rain stops, and the sound of traffic fades until it's just the occasional hiss of tires on wet pavement. My eyes burn from staying open, but sleep feels impossible—like if I drift too far, something will crawl out of the dark and pin me down again.
Eli stays exactly where he is. He doesn't fidget, doesn't fill the silence, doesn't try to get me to talk. I start to realize he's not here because he thinks I need saving again—he's here in case I do.
Sometime past midnight, I lie down again, curling toward the wall so I don't have to see the empty space between us. My body finally gives in. The dreams come hard and messy—flashes of the alley, the man's hand, the sudden snap of his head when Eli's voice cut through. I wake once, heart pounding, to find Eli in the exact same spot, head tipped forward, eyes half-lidded but still open.
When dawn finally bleeds pale light into the room, I'm not sure I've slept at all. The air smells faintly of rain and him—smoke, sweat, and the copper tang of dried blood.
I sit up slowly. My mouth tastes stale, my hair is a mess, my body aches everywhere. Eli looks over, eyes narrowing slightly, like he's checking for new damage.
"G-g-got class?" he asks, voice low, rough from not speaking all night.
"I don't know," I say, and it's the truth. My head isn't here, my body feels like it's still in that alley, my name still stuck in the mouth of a man I wish I could erase.
Eli nods, like that answer makes sense. He pushes himself to his feet, wincing a little when he straightens, and starts for the door without another word.
Halfway there, he stops. Looks back. "I'll be around."
It sounds like a promise.