"Very cute," Fred muttered as he continued walking with measured steps. He made sure Emelie remained behind him. The woman said nothing, but the sound of her heels clicking in rhythm with Fred’s leather shoes echoed through the corridor.

Fred pressed the elevator button and stepped inside first, followed by Emelie, who still refused to meet his eyes.

“Forgive my cowardice. I wasn’t strong enough back then—I’m sure you hated that,” Fred said softly as the elevator doors closed.

“Um… Sergio—” Emelie began, but stopped mid-sentence, startled when the man suddenly moved to stand behind her. Their reflections in the elevator mirror showed a nervous woman and a calm, intense man—stealing glances through the mirrored glass.

Fred closed his eyes briefly. He regretted giving the name Sergio. It didn’t suit him. He disliked hearing people refer to his work under the name Franz, and hearing Sergio especially from this woman—only worsened that distaste. It felt distant, foreign, unworthy.

“I need to tell you something…” Emelie turned slightly just as Fred stopped the elevator. She hesitated, but spoke anyway. “Please… keep your distance from me. You’re Mr. Franz’s secretary. I’m sure you know the professional boundaries here. I don’t want any misunderstandings, and I don’t want either of us getting into trouble.”

She finished her sentence in one breath, her gaze sharp and steady.

“You’re very thoughtful,” Fred replied calmly. “I usually know what I’m doing, but I’ll respect your wishes, Miss Emelie. It’s late—may I at least offer to drive you home?”

Without waiting for a reply, he gently took her bag and walked ahead toward the car waiting in the basement.

Emelie hesitated. He already had her bag and now stood by the open car door, polite and composed—yet something about him still made her uneasy.

“Please,” Fred said behind her. “Mr. Franz won’t even know I used his car tonight.”

He leaned slightly to speak near her ear. His voice was low and calm, and his closeness made Emelie tense. She could feel his presence—not threatening, but still overwhelming.

Fred gave a faint smile as he started the engine. He drove slower than usual, composed and quiet, though something behind his eyes hinted at thoughts far less peaceful.

He glanced at her briefly. “You haven’t told me where you live.”

Emelie replied, “Just a small flat.”

Fred chuckled lightly. “Miss Emelie, I didn’t ask how big it is. I asked for the address. Do I look that spoiled? I used to live in a small place too—bare walls, no sunlight. It wasn’t luxury, but I survived.”

His voice had an edge of truth. He wasn’t just reminiscing. That place had once been his prison. A place where he had to bury parts of himself.

Emelie looked ahead, then murmured, “Riverside Avenue. Number 14. Block B.”

Fred nodded. “Block B… that’s near the city park, right?” He didn’t wait for a response—her slight surprise was enough to confirm.

“I’ve passed through that area,” he added casually, though his mind was spinning with reasons to stay in her presence longer.

They sat in silence, the low hum of the car and soft music the only sounds. Emelie kept fidgeting with her sleeves, while Fred occasionally glanced her way with a gaze that was hard to read.

“Emelie,” he said gently.

She turned a little, listening.

“Do you regret it?” he asked quietly, his voice like a shadow.

Emelie blinked. “What do you mean? I told you—I don’t want to talk about that.”

“But I remember it… every day,” Fred replied softly. “I remember it clearly. And it didn’t feel like a mistake. At least not to me.”

She turned her face away quickly, looking out the window. “Please… I don’t want to talk about it.”

Fred nodded, his tone calmer now. “Of course. I’ll respect that. But just so you know… I still remember it. Not because I want to hold on to the past, but because that night meant something to me.”

His words made Emelie’s posture stiffen. There was something about the sincerity in his tone that made it hard to completely reject.

The car slowed in front of her flat. The quiet of the neighborhood added a strange weight to the moment. Fred parked and stepped out to open the door for her. Emelie took a moment before stepping out.

“Thank you… for the ride,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.

Fred nodded.

She reached for her bag, but Fred gently placed his hand on hers—not forceful, just a light touch. “I know you may still have doubts about me. And I can’t blame you. But tonight, I only wanted to make sure you got home safely. Goodnight, Emelie.”

“Goodbye,” she whispered faintly.

Fred’s expression shifted slightly at that word. Before she could react, he stepped forward and pressed his forehead gently against hers. There was no kiss. Just stillness. A silent moment heavy with everything unsaid.

“Go inside,” he said quietly. “Take care of yourself.”

Without waiting for a response, Fred returned to the car and drove away.

Emelie stood frozen by her door, heart racing. The air around her felt different. He hadn’t crossed the line—but he had come very close.

And as the car disappeared into the night, Emelie realized something else what lingered wasn’t fear alone. It was memory, tension, and a quiet, confusing pull toward a man she didn’t fully understand.

A man who remained, undeniably, a mystery.

***

Emelie stood at the door of her apartment for a long moment before finally turning the key and stepping inside. The living room light glowed dimly, casting a warm hue that did little to calm her restless mind. She closed the door gently, leaning her back against it as if trying to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to overwhelm her.

Her hand rose to touch her lips—still cold from the night breeze, and burning with the weight of Fred’s words echoing in her mind.

She set her bag down on the sofa and walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside. From the third floor, she could see the street where Fred had driven off just minutes ago. Empty. Silent.

“Why did you come back?” she whispered, her eyes fixed on the stillness outside.

She took a deep breath, then walked to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of water. Her hands trembled slightly as she drank. Not from fear—or at least, not just fear.

In the living room, on a small side table, sat an old photograph. She was seated next to a man in a black coat, his face only partially visible. A blurry image, taken spontaneously. Emelie picked it up slowly.

“I’ve already forgotten this,” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure who she was speaking to.

Emilie really doesn't want to meet that man again. She doesn't want to be involved in feelings that will eventually destroy her even more, Emilie has lost faith in love and she just want to live in peace.