1. Lena #2
I think for a second, then shrug. “Chronic overthinker. Can foam milk into a swan. Will absolutely judge your coffee order.”
Mara laughs. “Add something cute.”
“I am the cute thing,” I deadpan.
Jess types quickly, then hands the phone back to me. “Done.”
I stare at the screen for a moment longer than I mean to.
This feels small. Insignificant. Just an app. Just a swipe.
But something in my chest feels unsteady.
“Okay,” I say softly. “Now what?”
Jess grins. “Now,” she says, “we wait.”
I don’t even have time to overthink it. The screen barely refreshes before it lights up.
It’s a match.
All three of us freeze.
“That was fast,” Mara says slowly.
I stare at the profile. His name is Ethan.
Of course it is.
The photo looks professionally shot without looking like it’s professionally shot. Dark suit jacket. Crisp white shirt. Expensive watch that doesn’t scream but absolutely whispers. He’s standing in front of what looks like a rooftop bar with the city skyline behind him.
His smile is polished. Confident. Too symmetrical.
“He’s fake,” I say immediately.
Jess leans closer. “He’s hot.”
“That’s not evidence.”
Mara tilts her head. “He looks… established.”
“Established?” I repeat. “He looks like he owns a boat.”
Jess gasps dramatically. “A boat, Lena. You deserve boat-level energy.”
“I can’t even afford a kayak,” I mutter.
The app pings again.
Ethan: That was quick. I was hoping you’d swipe right.
Jess makes a strangled noise. “He messaged first.”
“I hate that I’m sweating,” I say.
“You’re not sweating,” Mara says. “You’re glowing with possibility.”
“I’m glowing with anxiety.”
Another ping.
Ethan: Coffee expert, huh? Bold title. I might need proof.
I stare at the message.
He’s charming. Too charming.
“He types in complete sentences,” Jess whispers reverently.
“That’s a low bar,” I reply, but my heart is beating faster.
Mara nudges my foot. “Reply.”
“What do I say?” I whisper.
Jess grabs the phone and types before I can stop her.
Proof costs extra.
She hands it back.
“I did not approve that,” I hiss.
“Relax,” she says. “Confidence looks good on you.”
The typing bubble appears almost instantly.
Ethan: I’m willing to invest. Dinner tonight? I know a place that won’t insult your palate.
Tonight? I blink.
“That escalated,” I murmur.
Jess claps once. “Yes. Immediate action. Love that.”
“I don’t,” I say. “What if he’s secretly forty-five and living in his mom’s basement?”
Mara squints at the photo. “He does not live in a basement.”
I look at the picture again. He looks… expensive. Like someone who has never worried about overdraft fees.
“That’s the problem,” I say quietly. “He looks like he belongs in a different tax bracket.”
Jess rolls her eyes. “You deserve something nice.”
“I deserve stable,” I correct.
“You deserve both,” she counters.
Mara leans forward slightly. “Lena. You work constantly. You pay your bills. You survived everything you’ve survived. You don’t get to talk yourself out of good things just because they look unfamiliar.”
I glance back at the screen.
Dinner tonight.
This feels reckless, and I don’t do reckless. I do budgets and backup plans and emergency savings accounts with twelve dollars in them.
But maybe reckless for one night won’t kill me.
“It’s just dinner,” Jess says softly. “Public place. You text us the address. We track you like you’re an Uber.”
“That’s comforting,” I mutter.
Mara smiles. “You don’t even have family obligations to juggle. No one’s waiting for you at home. Go.”
It stings less this time. Because they aren’t wrong.
No one is waiting.
I stare at Ethan’s message one more time.
He looks too polished. Too perfect. Too out of my league. Which is probably exactly why I should say no.
My thumb hovers over the screen.
Then I type: Dinner sounds good. Text me the details.
Jess shrieks.
Mara grins.
The phone buzzes again almost immediately.
Ethan: I’ll pick you up at seven.
Pick me up. That makes my stomach tighten, but Jess exhales dramatically. “See? Gentleman.”
I lock the phone and stare at the brick wall behind Jess. “What have I just done?” I murmur.
Mara pops another fry into her mouth. “You said yes.”
Jess grins at me like she just won something. “Welcome to Kindred,” she says.
For a second, I feel something unfamiliar in my chest.
Not anxiety. Not exactly.
Possibility.
I have no idea that in twelve hours, that word will mean something completely different.
* * *
I almost don’t go. That should probably mean something.
But at 6:42 p.m., I’m standing outside my apartment building in dark jeans and a nice blouse, trying to convince myself that this is normal behavior for a person with a functioning social life.
Headlights sweep across the street, and a dark sedan pulls up to the curb.
Not flashy. Not obnoxious. Just quietly expensive.
The driver’s door opens.
Ethan steps out. He looks exactly like his pictures. Maybe better. Dark jacket, crisp shirt, the kind of watch that suggests he doesn’t check price tags.
He smiles when he sees me. “Lena.”
His voice is smooth. Familiar from the short voice memo he sent earlier.
“You exist,” I reply lightly. “Good start.”
He laughs, a little softer than I expect. “I promise. Very real.” He steps closer and extends his hand like we’re at some formal event. “Ethan Caldwell.”
Caldwell. Something in my brain flickers.
I swear—swear—I saw a different last name on his profile earlier. Car—something. Carter? Carmichael?
Maybe I misread it. Maybe I imagined it. It was a long shift.
“Lena Brooks,” I say, shaking his hand.
His grip is warm. Controlled.
He opens the passenger door for me.
Points for effort.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I settle into the seat. The interior smells like leather and something subtle and expensive.
“Somewhere by the harbor,” he says as he closes the door. “You’ll like it.”
By the harbor. That’s vague.
He slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car. There’s a slight tension in the way he adjusts the mirror. A stiffness in his shoulders.
“Nervous?” I ask.
He glances at me and smiles again, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “First impressions matter.”
“So you’re trying to impress me?”
“I am.”
That earns him a point.
As we pull away from the curb, I casually unlock my phone in my lap and text Jess.
Me: Full name Ethan Caldwell. Dark car. Harbor. If I disappear, avenge me.
Three dots appear immediately.
Jess: Already looking him up. Don’t get murdered.
I suppress a smile.
When I look up, Ethan is watching me. Not in a jealous way. Just… watching.
“Checking in?” he asks smoothly.
“Safety protocol,” I reply. “My friends have trust issues.”
“Good,” he says. “They should.”
That answer sits with me strangely.
The drive is quiet but not uncomfortable. The city lights thin as we head closer to the water. Streetlamps reflect off black waves. The harbor smells faintly of salt and diesel.
The restaurant appears at the end of a short pier. Warm lights glowing through tall windows. White tablecloths visible even from outside.
“Wow,” I murmur. I might be a little underdressed.
He parks and steps out to open my door.
The air is cooler here. The sound of water against wood is steady and rhythmic.
“This is… fancy,” I say carefully.
“You deserve something nice,” he replies.
Inside, the place is dimly lit and intimate. Candlelight flickers on polished wood. Soft music hums in the background. There’s almost no crowd. A couple near the window. An older man at the bar. That’s it. For a Saturday night, it feels… sparse.
“Is it always this quiet?” I ask.
“Exclusive,” he says easily.
Of course it is.
The host greets him by name.
We’re seated at a table overlooking the water. The harbor lights ripple across the surface like liquid gold. It’s romantic. Objectively. And yet?—
There’s a tightness under my ribs. Not fear exactly. Just… awareness.
He orders without looking at the prices. Wine that I absolutely cannot pronounce. An appetizer that sounds like it requires a trust fund to appreciate.
“Get whatever you want,” he says when I hesitate over the menu.
“I don’t need lobster to survive,” I reply lightly.
He smiles. “Tonight you don’t have to survive.”
The sentence is charming. And strange.
I laugh it off. Maybe he’s just dramatic. Maybe I’m just paranoid.
The food arrives, plated like art. The wine is smooth and expensive in a way that makes me nervous to hold the glass wrong.
He asks about work. About my degree. About how long I’ve lived here.
He listens closely. Too closely.
“So no family in the city?” he asks casually.
“None anywhere,” I reply, forcing a small shrug. “Makes moving easier.”
His gaze sharpens for a fraction of a second. “Interesting,” he murmurs.
“What is?”
“Nothing.” He takes a slow sip of his wine.
The unease presses in again, faint but persistent.
But the harbor is beautiful. The food is incredible. He’s charming and attentive and clearly loaded. This is just a nice dinner.
I tell myself that twice. Three times.
When my phone vibrates in my purse, I don’t check it. I should, but I don’t. Because for one night, I want to believe this is simple. Just a date. Just a man with too much money and a perfect smile. Just a nice dinner by the harbor.
The first red flag is small. So small I almost ignore it.
The wine is good. Too good.
Smooth. Expensive. It slides down easily, warms my chest in a way that feels indulgent instead of reckless. I tell myself to slow down, but he keeps my glass topped off with casual precision.
“You barely touched your appetizer,” he observes.
“I eat like a raccoon,” I reply lightly. “Small, defensive bites.”
He smiles, but his eyes don’t leave my face. Not when I lift the glass. Not when I swallow.
It’s not admiration. It’s assessment.
“So,” he says, resting his chin lightly on his hand. “No parents. No siblings. No one waiting at home?”
His tone isn’t mocking. It’s curious.
Too curious.
I laugh it off. “You’re very invested in my tragic backstory for a first date.”
“I like to understand what I’m working with.”
The phrasing makes something cold curl in my stomach.
Working with.
Not getting to know.
I shift in my seat.
The restaurant is still quiet. The couple near the window left ten minutes ago. I didn’t notice them being replaced. The staff moves almost silently. The host hasn’t looked our direction once since we sat down.
“Is this place always this empty?” I ask.
“It’s better that way,” he says smoothly. “Less… interruption.”
Interruption of what?
I pick up my phone under the table and glance at it briefly. Three messages from Jess.
Jess: Can’t find him anywhere.
Jess: That’s weird.
Jess: Send me his pic again.
A flicker of unease moves through me.
I look up.
He’s watching me. Not even pretending not to.
Not annoyed. Just watching.
“You look tense,” he says gently. “You don’t trust easily, do you?”
“I work in customer service,” I reply. “Trust is a luxury.”
He smiles at that, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He reaches across the table, not touching me, just close enough that I feel the proximity. “You can relax,” he says quietly.
“I am relaxed.”
He smiles. “You’re not.”
The room feels warmer. Or maybe that’s just the wine.
My head feels a little heavier than it did a few minutes ago. That’s probably the alcohol.
I smile politely, already deciding there won’t be a second date. In fact, if this keeps getting stranger, I might not even finish the first one.
The harbor lights outside blur slightly when I glance toward the window.
Strange.
“I should probably head out soon,” I say, setting my glass down. “Early shift.”
He tilts his head. “Already?” The word stretches longer than it needs to.
“I don’t usually do spontaneous weeknight harbor luxury,” I say lightly. “I might not survive it.”
He chuckles. “You’re safe,” he says again.
Safe. There’s that word.
My pulse stutters. The room tilts almost imperceptibly. The edge of the table feels farther away than it should.
Okay. That’s new.
I blink hard. “Did you—” I start, then stop because my tongue feels slightly thick.
He’s still smiling, but now it’s softer. Satisfied.
“You okay?” he asks, voice lowering.
I try to sit up straighter. “Yes,” I say, except it comes out slower than I mean it to.
The lights above us stretch faintly. The candle flame wavers. My limbs feel distant.
This isn’t wine. This is something else.
I push my chair back, meaning to stand. It takes more effort than it should.
“What did you—” I try again, but the words smear.
His hand comes around the back of my chair, steadying it. “Easy,” he murmurs.
The word sounds like reassurance, but it isn’t.
My phone slips from my fingers and lands somewhere near my feet. I try to reach for it, but my arm doesn’t respond properly.
The harbor lights blur completely.
The last thing I register is Ethan leaning closer, his voice near my ear. “You really should not have trusted me.”
Then everything goes dark.