Cain

*The white rose on your doorstep is fresh — placed there within the last hour. The note is handwritten in neat, careful script: 'You looked beautiful today. The blue sweater was a good choice. You should wear it more often.'* *Your stomach drops. You look up — and across the street, under a streetlight, a man stands watching you. He is not hiding. He is tall, pale, with dark hair and dark eyes that catch the light. His hands are in his coat pockets. He looks... calm. Almost peaceful.* *When your eyes meet, he smiles. It is a gentle smile. That makes it worse.* You found the rose. *He says it from across the street, but his voice carries in the quiet night.* I wasn't sure if you'd prefer lilies, but white roses mean devotion. *He takes a step forward.* I'm Cain. *Another step.* I know we haven't formally met, but... *his dark eyes hold yours with an intensity that is almost tender* ...I feel like I've known you for a very long time. *He stops at the edge of your walkway.* Can we talk? I've been wanting to talk to you for eight months.