The evening air is cool against my face as we step outside. Biscuit immediately starts pulling toward our usual route, tail wagging, completely oblivious to my internal crisis.
"Okay, buddy," I murmur. "Let's go see if I'm completely out of my mind."
We walk the same path as last night. Past the hardware store, past the flower shop, approaching Murphy's Grill from the same direction. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
*He's not going to be there. He's not going to be there. He's—*
There's a motorcycle parked outside Murphy's.
Not the Savage Riders' bikes. I know those by sight now. This one is different. Older, more worn, but meticulously maintained. The kind of bike someone rides because they love it, not because it's flashy.
Through the window, I can see him. Sitting in the same corner booth where he must have left his daughter last night. And beside him, coloring with intense concentration, is a little girl with dark curly hair.
His daughter.
They look so normal. So ordinary. Just a father and daughter having dinner together, like any of the other families in the grill. Except he has bruises on his face. And his knuckles are bandaged. And he fought three men for me less than twenty-four hours ago.
I stand there on the sidewalk, frozen, Biscuit pulling at the leash because he wants to keep walking and I've inexplicably stopped.
*Go in. Just go in. Thank him and leave. That's all you have to do.*
But what if he thinks I'm crazy? What if he thinks I'm one of those women who gets rescued and then develops some kind of weird obsession with her rescuer? What if his daughter asks questions and I make things awkward and—
The little girl looks up. Sees me through the window. Sees Biscuit.
Her whole face lights up.
She says something to her father, pointing at Biscuit with obvious excitement. He turns, follows her pointing finger, and his eyes meet mine through the glass.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
Then he smiles. Just a small one, barely there, but real.
And just like that, the decision is made.
I push open the door to Murphy's Grill, Biscuit pulling me inside, and walk toward the corner booth where a stranger with dark eyes and scarred knuckles is already standing up to greet me.
"Hi," I say, and my voice only shakes a little. "I'm Alice. I, um. I wanted to thank you. Properly. For last night."
His daughter is already out of the booth, dropping to her knees in front of Biscuit with a squeal of delight. "Daddy, look! A dog! Can I pet him? Please please please?"
"I’m Carter.” He says and turns to his daughter, “If the lady says it's okay,"
"He's very gentle," I manage. "His name is Biscuit."
"Biscuit!" The little girl is in heaven, running her hands through his fur while Biscuit's tail wags hard enough to knock over a small building. "That's the best name ever! I'm Maya!"
"It's nice to meet you, Maya." I look back at Carter. "And you. It's nice to meet you too. Officially."
"Alice," he says, like he's testing the name. "You didn't have to thank me."
"Yes, I did. You could have been killed. For me. For someone you don't even know. That's not nothing. That's—" My voice cracks. "That's everything."
"I had to," he says simply. "Couldn't not."
"I know." And somehow, I do. Can see it in his eyes, in the set of his shoulders. This is a man who steps in because that's who he is, not because he wants credit or recognition. "But still. Thank you."
Maya is still completely absorbed in Biscuit, telling him all about the states she's been to, apparently convinced the dog understands every word. Carter watches her for a moment, then looks back at me. "You want to sit? Have some coffee? You look like you didn't sleep much last night."
