The bus arrived just in time to prevent me from thinking about throwing myself in front of it.

The February rain was depressing on its own; not romantic like spring and summer rain, to look at or be in. Especially the former, on a foggy Wednesday evening, standing at a drafty bus stop, cursing myself for possessing the kind of hubris that had me walking out of my apartment in just a leather jacket instead of my weather-appropriate coat this morning.

Stepping onto the bus and leaving the wind behind me, I felt the self-hatred slowly shrink. It wouldn't be long before I was back at my place, and this whole experience faded into a lesson to remember before I left for class tomorrow. In a sweater and a coat. And an extra sweater in my backpack.

And preferably an umbrella, my slightly damp hair reminded me.

I grabbed the handle above my head, opting against sitting for the next four stations, the decision giving me the illusion that I'd get home faster. I didn't know what it was about bad choices, but they absolutely slowed time down, and I was fighting to get the time lords to stop punishing me for my outfit choice crimes.

"Hey!" There was chatter among other students on the bus, but the one male voice behind me almost felt directed at me. "Hey, Evelyn!"

Okay, that was definitely directed at me.

Before I could look over my shoulder, a guy about my age pushed his way through the others to stand in front of me, his eyes and smile both a bit too wide to look natural. My face remained completely still as my view became a tall frame clad in a much more weather-appropriate brown corduroy jacket, my brain and eyes trying to figure out if they'd ever seen the blonde hair and blue eyes before- and then before I knew it, he was giving me a hug.

A mugger wouldn't mug someone on a full bus, right?

"You stopped at that convenience store," He began in a rushed tone, voice muffled by my hair, "And a guy watched you from the window, watched you walk out, followed you to the bus, and is now sitting a couple of feet from us. Just pretend you know me. I'm Harry."

Harry leaned away from me, that same wide smile back on his face, and at this point, I knew that the extra ingredient in his friendly face was panic. "How have you been?"

"Great!" I finally croaked out, "Just great. You know, I just got some wonderful news that I'm really happy about, and I just could not be happier. How are you, Henry?"

"I am also spectacular," He replied, calmer this time—realizing he was talking to an idiot who had forgotten his name point five seconds after he introduced himself is probably helpful. How difficult is it to remember the word Harry? "Trying to figure out if you called me Henry in panic, or if I told you Henry but thought I said Harry. Maybe I'm having a stroke."

My hand was beginning to slip from the handle above my head, as sweaty hands were yet another unfortunate side effect of my anxiety, but there was something comical about sharing that situation with a guy I'd never met before that was distracting me from the terror. "Nope, that's on me. You would know your own name."

"My name is Henry, I just go by Harry."

"Oh, like Prince Harry? Then I'm psychic. Not stupid."

"I thought you remembered me from class, but psychic was my next guess."

"We're in a class together?" I asked, genuinely surprised and for a moment forgetting about why he had approached me in the first place.

"Yeah, you're a Journalism major, right?" He said, and for a brief second, I was taken aback that he would know that. "I'm minoring in it, and we have Professor Shepherd together."

"There're over a hundred students in that class." I narrowed my eyes at him, "how do I know you're not a stalker?"

We stared at each other for a second longer than necessary, and then he licked his lips as if only then registering my question. Without breaking eye contact, he reached for something in the inner pocket of his jacket, struggling to get it out with just one hand as his other gripped the handle next to mine; when he lowered his head to look at what he was doing, a single lock of wavy hair fell over his forehead and I was left wondering, how someone with such strong surfer-dude genes could end up being from the Midwest. Maybe even the West, but I couldn't really make a conclusion based on his accent yet. I was getting strong Wyoming vibes.

"Here you go. You can text anyone you know-"

"Hm?" I blinked, and with unexpected difficulty unglued my eyes from his face, to see what he was holding. His student ID.

"-and tell them you're with Henry Moran. If I do anything dishonorable you'll have your people on my ass. Go on."

I took the card from his hand, my eyes darting from his card to his face and back to his card a few times; he definitely had the same one from the same university that I went to, and it was definitely him in the photo. And his name was Henry Moran. And it was wild that he wasn't Australian.

"Okay," I chirped, pulling my phone out and before I could even register what I was doing, I was texting my roommate. Given that I was probably the most boring person to live with ever, Violet was going to have a field day with my message. "I am... with a guy from uni... named Henry Moran. Just in case... I go missing. There. Sent."

"Good."

"Great," I replied, handing him his ID back, "I wish more people presented themselves as potential danger. I feel really safe now."

This time, he actually laughed at my words instead of one-upping me; I gave him a tight smile, enjoying the fact that I had made someone other than my roommate laugh. Just as my perception of Henry began to wander in the direction of cute, his eyes fixated on something behind me, and his face kind of faltered. Before I could follow his gaze, his hand was on my arm and he was moving us both a bit to the right so a person could pass by us—a shabby middle-aged man, very distinct in comparison to the rest of the twenty-something students that were on the bus.

"Is that-"

"Mhm," Henry hummed before I could finish my question; I glanced at him and he was looking up at the ceiling like he was waiting for a more appropriate time to say something. I looked back at the man who had walked by me and was now in my sight, and my heart just about jumped in my throat when I saw him standing by the door, looking directly at me. Henry saw the look on my face and turned his head to look at him as well, but as soon as he did so, the man looked at the door in front of him, hiding his unshaven face and the dark circles under his eyes.

"Is it someone you might know, like... a neighbor or something?"

"No," I answered, clearing my suddenly extremely dry throat, "definitely not. Shit."

"Well, the good news is that it looks like the next stop is his."

"The bad news is that it's also my stop."

Our eyes met again, and it was the first time since my mother a couple of years prior when I'd excitedly presented her with my incredibly cheap apartment—granted, it came with an older goth roommate who appeared kind of sketchy regardless of her job in medicine—that someone had looked so disappointed in my choice of area of the town to live in. I couldn't lie, even though it was distracting me from the fact that I was freezing in my leather jacket and the raindrops in my hair were definitely going to give me a cold for the next couple of days, I was getting a little nervous myself.

On the bright side, it had taken two whole years of university for me to experience that type of fright. Could've happened a lot sooner, could've happened multiple times. A win was a win.

And 'Evelyn was kidnapped' was just a sentence in the passive voice.

"Would you... like me to walk you to your place?"

"You don't have to."

"Okay, I'll walk you to your place."

"Thank you. Wait." A tingle of a headache flashed across my forehead and I closed my eyes, taking a second to gather myself, "You're- I mean you're a complete stranger, I can't ask you to-"

"Nope," He cut me off, rather confidently, "I'm Henry Moran, Sports Analytics major, born in Aspen, Colorado to mother Ellie and father Dustin, and they'd be very disappointed in me if I knew someone was in danger and I didn't act on it."

Colorado. I was right.

"Do your parents really want you risking your life for just anybody?"

"We die on every hill. Like men."

And then I was the one laughing with no witty comeback; if it wasn't for the text I'd sent to my roommate, that last sentence would've been almost enough to sell me. The blonde hair, blue eyes, tall frame, and dry humor were obviously not enough to sell me up until then. Obviously.