"I'm not a creep." He smiled. "It's on my way. I'm just two stops past your place."
I hesitated.
"Come on," he said, already walking toward the parking lot. "It's late. Safety first."
That night, he drove me to the entrance of my apartment complex. He didn't ask for my number, didn't send me a friend request on social media. He just said, "See you tomorrow," and drove off.
I watched his taillights disappear around the corner. I stood there for a moment, then turned and went upstairs.
In early October, he added me on social media.
He'd found me through the work group chat. His display name just read "Valentine James."
I accepted.
His first message: "That night I drove you home—I didn't freak you out, did I?"
"No."
"Good. If you're ever working late, just let me know. I'm usually around."
I replied with a simple "Okay" and left it at that.
After that, whenever I stayed late, he'd occasionally text: "You done yet? I'm downstairs."
At first I turned him down. Then it became routine.
His car always smelled faintly of lemon, and he played music from bands I'd never heard of. We barely talked on the drive. When we arrived, he'd say, "Get some sleep," and pull away.