Daniel stands. Smooth. Controlled. He crosses to the man's table in two strides.
"Excuse me." Daniel's voice carries that polite edge I've learned to recognize. "Could you keep it down?"
The guy glances up, waves a dismissive hand, keeps talking. "Yeah, hold on a sec. Some guy's—no, it's nothing."
Daniel returns to our table. Picks up his fork. But his knuckles are white around it.
"So anyway, the robbery," I start, desperate to redirect. "The police said they'd call if—"
"I KNOW, RIGHT?" The man's laugh booms across the restaurant.
Daniel's chair scrapes back.
This time he doesn't ask.
“Listen,” Daniel leans over him, speaking in low, measured tones. “I asked you nicely.” Then, without a flicker of hesitation, he snatches the mobile from the man's hand.
The guy's mouth drops open. "What the—"
Daniel turns and walks to the aquarium. Drops the phone in.
It hits the water with a splash. Goldfish scatter.
"What the fuck!" The man jumps up.
Daniel's on him in a heartbeat, fist wrapped in his collar, yanking him close. "I asked politely."
The waitress backs toward the kitchen, eyes wide.
My heart hammers. I've seen Daniel angry, but this—
"You can't just—" the man sputters.
"I can." Daniel's voice drops to something deadly quiet. He releases the collar, pulls a fifty from his wallet, tosses it on the table. "Get the fuck out."
The man grabs his briefcase and practically runs.
Daniel smooths his shirt. Returns to our table. Sits.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he says, picking up his fork. “Rude people really annoy the fuck out of me.”
I nod, murmuring acknowledgment as I push the remaining food around my plate, unsettled. I stare at him, fork frozen halfway to my mouth.
"He was being rude," Daniel continues, forking a piece of chicken. "Some people need to learn manners."
The BMW glides through the streets, smooth and silent as a predator. Daniel's hands rest at ten and two on the steering wheel, perfectly positioned. Classical music hums from the speakers—something baroque and precise.
I stare out the window, watching my town slide past in a blur of streetlights.
I remember the first time I really saw him. Not just the landlord who collected rent checks, butsawhim. He'd been coming out of his unit in sleek trousers and a fitted grey shirt, hair damp from a shower. Those blue eyes had locked onto mine, and my stomach had done this ridiculous flip.
Silver fox. That's what Jenna called him when I'd shown her a photo. The greying temples, the sharp jaw, the way he dressed like he'd stepped out of a catalogue. Six feet of controlled sophistication. The kind of man who had his life sorted—retirement accounts, property portfolios, meal prep on Sundays.
I'd catch glimpses of him in the hallway. In the lobby. Each sighting felt like winning some small lottery.
Then came the packing knife. My palm split open like a fault line, and what should've been a simple cut turned angry and infected. The hospital stay was short, but the bills weren't. My shitty bar insurance covered almost nothing.
I finally worked up the nerve to tell the beautiful landlord I'd be late on rent. I'd rehearsed the conversation a dozen times. Practiced my apology in the mirror.
