Wishing I could erase tonight's event, I feel the tears falling from my eyes as I pull over in front of my building.

My hands clutch the steering wheel as I try to pull myself together, but the sobs that leave my throat are stronger.

After what feels like an eternity, my eyes are finally dry, but my heart remains heavy, burdened by the memory of that terrifying encounter.

It's been forever since I cried this hard, and all I want right now is to get inside my apartment, crawl under my covers, and shut out the world. But my little brother texted me earlier, saying he would be over, and the last thing I need is for him to worry about me.

Fortunately, I have a bottle of water in my bag, a small lifeline to help me regain my composure. I splash some on my face, the cool liquid a soothing balm against my heated skin. With trembling hands, I retrieve some paper tissues from my bag to dry myself.

This makeshift remedy will have to do for now. I've endured a grueling double shift today, so if my brother asks, I can always chalk up my appearance to sheer exhaustion.

Stepping inside my place, I see my little brother sprawled on the couch. "Hey, what are you doing up so late?" I ask.

He's engrossed in a shooting game on his phone but stops when he sees me. "I cooked you dinner," he answers, ignoring my question.

"I thought you were staying with our father this weekend? Did your friends cancel the game tomorrow?" I ask, deliberately avoiding the fact that it's way past his bedtime. I can feel his presence as I walk towards the kitchen, his footsteps padding softly behind me.

"Dad was drunk again, and I was tired of listening to his shit," he says, making me pause.

"Did he do something to you?" I go to him, looking for bruises under his hood or something. The last time he mentioned our father drinking, I noticed he was walking funny. He had brushed it off, claiming he'd fallen while playing basketball with his friends, but since then, I've been watching him closely.

If there were an award for the worst father of the year, ours would undoubtedly win it every single time. The day our mother died ten years ago marked the beginning of his descent into alcoholism. Not a single day goes by when he's not either drunk after work or on his way to becoming so.

I was fifteen and Marcus was only five when she passed away, and I still can't get over her death. It happened in the blink of an eye – one moment I was a carefree teenager, and the next, I was a mom with a little boy of my own.

Don't ask me how I survived finishing school because the truth is that I have no clue. I just know I have worked my ass off so Marcus can have a better life.

As a waitress first and now a bartender, my wallet isn't exactly overflowing with cash. But thanks to the generous help of my best friend's grandparents, I managed to rent a small place when I turned eighteen, allowing Marcus and me to have some much-needed peace and stability.

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to have my little brother living with me since I moved out. Our father had somehow managed to clean up his act just enough for the judge to grant him full custody.

It's been seven years since I left my father's place, and I've hated every single day when Marcus is there and not here with me.

Because even though my little brother swears our father has never laid a finger on him and pretty much ignores him when he's at his place, I can't help but worry.

Like right now, for example, when he's trying to evade my questions.

"You'll tell me if he ever does anything to you, right?" I ask, my voice filled with concern as I gently touch his face, urging him to look at me. "Marcus?" I press both hands to his cheeks, silently pleading for him to open up.

"Andie." He rolls his eyes, trying to deflect the conversation.

"I'm serious," I insist, and he finally looks down, his vulnerability clear in his beautiful eyes.

"I just don't get him, you know? Why would he want me to stay with him if he just pretends I don't exist when I'm there?" He sighs, revealing the inner turmoil of a fifteen-year-old boy craving his father's approval more than anything.

"Hey! There's nothing wrong with you. You're the most amazing boy in the world," I reassure him, but he just rolls his eyes again, seemingly unconvinced.

"Right, mom." He goes back to the couch, his attention now fully absorbed by his game.

"Did you eat?" I shout from the kitchen as I fix a plate and pour a glass of wine.

"Yep!" he shouts back, not taking his eyes off the screen.

"Thanks for cooking," I say as I sit by his side with my food and drink in hand.

"You know I don't mind." He playfully kicks my foot, still engrossed in his game.

Turning on the TV, I try to focus on the movie in front of me, but my mind keeps replaying tonight's unsettling event.

I can't help but wonder about what could've happened if that guy didn't stop by to help me. What would those guys do? What did they want? Would I be able to get out of that situation safely?

What if that guy hadn't shown up?

I can still recall the exact moment his expression shifted from solemn concern to subtle amusement when I asked about his age. And then there was him offering me that flyer, coupled with the irritation on his face when I confessed my aversion to violence.

He said that self-defense is about being vigilant, about recognizing potential threats, and, if possible, avoiding situations like the one I had found myself in earlier.

And if you think about it, this is something great, right?

But there's just something about being around a group of people who enjoy fighting so much that they make money out of it that doesn't sit right with me.

Ever since my mom passed away, I've spent pretty much every minute of my life trying to avoid violent situations. And I have a feeling that's exactly what I'll come across at an MMA gym.

I have to confess, though, that guy knew what he was doing. He was ready to fight those guys to protect me.

Maybe I should have at least asked his name and introduced myself. After all, he appeared to be genuinely worried, going out of his way to help a stranger in distress.

Then there were those captivating brown eyes... His brown eyes were steady and sharp and completely focused on the men in front of me.

And don't get me started on the stood up straight with his shoulders rolled back and head up.

Everything about him screamed confidence and power. So much so, those guys simply took the hint and left just after just a few words from him.

Damn... I've never met someone so self-assured and confident in his own skin.

"Andie, what's wrong with you?" Marcus nudges my foot, pulling me away from my thoughts.

"What?" I look at him, startled.

"You haven't touched your food and keep staring at my feet." He raises his brows.

"Oh." I stuff my mouth with pasta, trying to bring my attention back to the present. "Wow! This is great. Did you try that recipe you sent me the other day?"

"Nice try." He rolls his eyes, going back to his game.

"Can't I just be happy you're here?"

"I'm here all the time," he murmurs, his voice filled with affection.

"Watch your mouth."

"Come on." He gives me a pointed look, his tone teasing. "Is everything okay? You often talk my ears off whenever you have the chance."

"What can I say? I love you that much." I smile, and it's the cue he needs to roll his eyes.

"Right..." He goes back to his game, and I make an effort to focus on finishing my meal.

I wish I could say my reason for smiling without even realizing was my love for my little brother. The truth, though, is that it has nothing to do with him. Instead, it's intertwined with the enigmatic stranger with piercing brown eyes and enough confidence to shake the world.

_____

A/N: Well, she's about to meet that enigmatic stranger soon... hehe

To show your support, please remember to vote (press the little star at the bottom of the page) every time you hit a new chapter.

XOXO

Celeste