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Steven had his usual seat at the corner table, the one that gave him a clear view of the counter — and you. It wasn’t exactly subtle, but neither of you pretended it was just coincidence anymore. He claimed the spot for the good light and the peace for his reading, but you both knew he liked watching you work almost as much as you liked catching him doing it.
It was comfortable between you — best friends, neighbours, the kind of people who could wander into each other’s flats without knocking.
And then there was Marc.
You wouldn’t call him a stranger — you’d shared enough late-night conversations in the hallway, enough cups of coffee in Steven’s kitchen, enough teasing remarks that lingered a little too long in your head. He wasn’t as talkative as Steven, but when he did look at you, it was like he’d already weighed and measured every word he might say.
Today, it was Steven at the café. Books spread open, pen tucked behind his ear, that content little smile when you brought him his tea without asking. He was telling you about some inscription he’d been translating when the bell over the door chimed.
You excused yourself with a quick, “Back in a sec,” and moved behind the counter to greet the new customer.
The smile you’d been wearing slipped the second you saw him.
The man wasn’t unfamiliar — you’d seen him before. Persistent. Always too close, always pushing conversation beyond what your politeness could gracefully cut short. Still, you straightened your apron, keeping your voice professional. “What can I get for you today?”
He ordered slowly, deliberately leaning over the counter, lowering his voice so only you could hear. The words were too smooth, the tone too familiar for someone you barely knew. You kept your expression neutral, poured his coffee in a to-go cup, and set it in front of him with a clipped, “Here you go.”
He didn’t take the hint.
“So… when do you get off?” he asked casually, fingers drumming on the counter.
“Late,” you said, hoping brevity would do the trick.
“You got plans after work? We could—”
From the corner table, Steven had gone still.
“Marc…” his thought was wary.
“I see him,” Marc replied, already paying closer attention.
Steven hesitated. “She can handle herself.”
“She shouldn’t have to,” Marc answered.
You gave the creep your politest customer-service smile and stepped back, hoping distance would end the conversation. But he leaned in again, undeterred.
That’s when your gaze flicked — instinctively, unconsciously — toward the corner table.
The next blink and it was Marc standing, moving toward the counter with that calm, unhurried stride that somehow made people get out of his way.
You didn’t need to ask who you were looking at. One glance at his eyes and you knew.
When he reached you, Marc slid an arm lightly around your waist, leaning in just enough that the gesture felt natural. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, voice pitched low, smooth.
You smiled — not your work smile, but the one you knew would sell the act — and rose onto your toes to kiss him on the cheek. The faint stubble catches against your lips, and the heat in his eyes spikes.
“Hey, you,” you said easily, letting yourself lean into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The man at the counter faltered. “Oh… you two…?”
Marc’s arm tightened just slightly around you. “Yeah. Problem?”
A flicker of something crossed the man’s face before he muttered something and took his coffee to go. The bell chimed again as the door closed behind him.
Marc didn’t move right away. His thumb brushed lightly over your hip, more grounding than affectionate, and his eyes searched yours. “You okay?”
“Fine,” you said, still keeping your voice light, though you knew your pulse was running higher than usual.
“Good.” He released you, stepping back just enough to give you space. “You’re quick on the draw, you know that?”
You smirked faintly. “Guess I’ve got good instincts.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, like he wanted to say more. But he just nodded, retreating to the corner table — still Marc, not Steven — and sitting back with that watchful air.
You caught your breath and, almost on autopilot, prepared his usual — bold espresso, no sugar, a splash of oat milk. It slid smoothly from your hands to the table, casual enough that it seemed routine. “Thought you might like this,” you said, letting your eyes meet his.
He looked up, just for a moment, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before it softened into something warmer, approving. A tiny, shared smile passed between you.
Marc lifted the cup, testing the aroma, then nodded once, eyes lingering on yours. “You remembered,” he said softly, more to himself than to you.
“Of course I did,” you replied, brushing past him to return to the counter as if it were completely normal. But you both knew it wasn’t — not really.
And for the rest of your shift, every time you glanced over, he was still watching. Not the way the creep had, but like someone who had already decided he’d step in for you without hesitation.
And maybe, just maybe, you liked that more than you’d admit.
~~
It wasn’t unusual for you to have company on the walk home — Steven had made it a habit long ago. But tonight, it was Marc beside you, hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders angled slightly toward you as though shielding you from the quiet street.
The air was cool, carrying the faint smell of rain from earlier in the day. The streetlamps painted the wet pavement in gold, your shadows trailing long behind you. You could still feel the faint imprint of him at your waist from the café, the warmth of his cheek against your lips, the faint rasp of his stubble. You hadn’t even meant to kiss him — it had just felt… right in the moment.
And now you couldn’t stop replaying it.
“You sure you’re okay?” Marc’s voice was low, like he didn’t want to break the quiet.
“I’m fine,” you said, which was only mostly true. Fine… and a little unsteady, but not because of the creep.
Marc’s gaze flicked to you, sharp and assessing. “You handled it well.”
You shrugged, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “It’s easier when I’ve got backup.”
“Steven would’ve done the same.”
You smiled faintly. “Yeah. But it wasn’t Steven.”
That earned you a sidelong look, something unreadable glinting in his eyes. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he’d thought better of whatever had nearly slipped out.
The quiet stretched. Your flats were only two blocks away now, but each step felt slower, heavier with the things neither of you was saying.
You glanced at him — at the tension in his jaw, the way his hand flexed once at his side as though he’d thought about reaching for you. Your pulse skipped. “You know,” you started lightly, “for fake dating, you’re very convincing.”
The corner of his mouth curved, but his eyes stayed on you. “Wasn’t that hard to fake.”
You inhaled slowly, your heart stuttering in your chest. The air between you seemed to narrow, like the whole street had shrunk to just the space between your shoulders.
When you reached your door, you fished for your keys, acutely aware of him standing just half a step closer than usual.
His voice was quieter now, rougher. “If you ever need me to do that again… you don’t have to wait for some creep to show up.”
Your fingers stilled on the keys. He was watching you — not like he had at the café, protective and assessing, but like he was trying to decide if you’d pull away or lean in.
You didn’t pull away.
Something shifted in his expression. Not a smile exactly — more like a decision. Marc stepped in, closing that last sliver of space, one hand braced against the wall beside your head. The other found your hip, fingers curling lightly, anchoring you in place.
“Just… gonna make something clear,” he murmured, his voice low enough you could feel it against your skin.
Your breath caught, but you managed, “What’s that?”
He didn’t answer in words. His mouth found yours, slow at first — testing, giving you the chance to push him back. But you didn’t. You tilted into him instead, the kiss deepening as his hand tightened at your hip.
It wasn’t the practiced, showy kind of kiss you might expect from someone pretending to be a boyfriend. This was real — deliberate and certain, threaded through with the heat he’d been holding back. The hand at your jaw slides to the back of your neck, anchoring you there, like he’s wanted this for longer than he’s willing to admit.
When he finally broke away, just far enough to look at you, his eyes searched yours like he was committing the moment to memory.
“Now you know,” he said, voice rough.
Your pulse was thrumming so hard you were sure he could hear it. “Yeah,” you breathed. “I think I got the message.”
His mouth quirked, not quite a grin. “Good. I’m not big on mixed signals.”
You swallowed, still feeling the press of him, the faint taste of espresso and adrenaline. “Neither am I.”
For a heartbeat, it felt like he might kiss you again. But instead, he stepped back just enough to let you unlock the door, his hand brushing yours as you did. The contact was fleeting, but the message was clear — this wasn’t over.