Sunlight spills through the wall of glass windows, casting everything in a wash of soft gold and pinks as the sun begins to set. My eyes land on the figure curled up against the side wall, sketchbook balanced in her lap as her pencil moves in steady strokes. Her face is soft with singular-focus, so different from the grit and sass I’ve come to know.
I’m thrilled to see her, but now that I’ve found her, it feels like I’m intruding on a safe haven.
The room itself looks like a collision of art and music. Canvases propped in uneven stacks. Charcoal dust smudging the tables. In the corner, a guitar leans against a case and a piano is tucked along one wall like it’s been forgotten here for centuries, collecting dust.
She’s curled into herself, leggings covering her bent legs and an oversized shirt hanging loosely from her shoulders. It’s crumpled with creases, like she pulled it on without caring how it looked. Stray threads of hair tumble from the messy bun on her head to frame her face, half-shadowing it.
The sight wrecks me, because almost every memory I have of her is of her in pain…as a captive. Metal cuffs, blood, and her voice breaking against stone walls. Seeing her like this bathed in sunlight, finding pieces of who she was before all of that haunts me in a way I can’t name.
My stomach twists. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t watch her like this, not when she finally looks untouched by everything we’ve been a part of.
I hover in the doorway for a moment before turning, and the sole of my boot squeaks against the stone floor. Her head whips toward me, eyes flashing wide with surprise. The sketchbook dips in her lap as she stiffens.
I freeze like a kid caught sneaking into rooms to find presents, my shoulders hunching a little under her gaze. Heat creeps up my neck and I can feel the sheepish look tugging at my face before I can stop it.
“Uh, hey.” My hand lifts in a weak half-wave. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”
Her eyes narrow at first, sharp as ever, but then to my shock, they ease. The tension in her shoulders unwinds just a little and she blinks at me like she’s weighing a thought before lowering her gaze back to the sketchbook.
When she looks up again, it’s with soft curiosity.
“How have you been these past few days?” she asks, her voice far more casual than anything I anticipated.
For a second, I just stare at her with a parted mouth. Of all the things I expected from her–sassy words, cold silence, ormaybe a cutting remark–casual conversation wasn’t even on the list.
My lips twitch into a half-smile, the kind of grin I used to toss around without thinking, easy and practiced as my default mechanism to not let anyone in. “Oh, I can’t complain. Each day I seem to freak out less about a vampire popping out to kill me. So, that’s progress?”
The words come out smooth, but inside they taste bitter. This isn’t the night we met at NYU anymore, when I could just smirk and pretend the world wasn’t already crumbling. Back then, I thought I could flirt and charm my way into knowing her.
Now? Now I know what she’s endured. I know her strength and the love for those she deems worthy in her heart. I know just how far she’s been knocked down, just to get back up and fight again.
Standing here and seeing her now, I feel the truth of it down to my bones–Briar Van Helsing is so far out of my league and I don’t have the slightest clue how to talk to her anymore. Beneath that false bravado, nerves tangle my stomach and mind into a jumbled mess.
I will never deserve her, and yet here I am, desperate just to stay in the room with her.
Briar tilts her head, giving me a puzzled look as a soft hum slips from her as if she can’t decide whether to roll her eyes or simply ignore me. She turns her focus back to her sketchbook, pencil scratching faintly against paper, and for a moment I stand there useless in the doorway.
The fake smirk fades off my face, leaving only the truth sitting heavy in my chest.
I let out a sigh and scrub a hand over my jaw. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s just a defensive mechanism I slip into, to make light of everything.” My voice dips. “The truth is, I’ve been spiraling with my own thoughts.”
My gaze falls to the instruments in the corner. “Usually when I get stuck in my head like this, I create music. It helps me decipher my feelings and get it out.”
That makes her pause. Her pencil stills and slowly she lifts her eyes to me again.
“Yeah,” she admits quietly, glancing down at her sketch, fingers brushing the edge of the page. “That’s how it is for me with drawing.”
The music continues to hum low around us, and in the warmth of the setting sun, her hazel eyes catch the light in a way that makes the green and gold appear to spark.
For the first time, I’m not looking at her bloodied or burning with rage–I’m just looking ather.
It’s a beautiful sight.
She flicks her gaze toward the instruments scattered across the room, then back to me. “Have at it then,” she says softly. “I can give you a piece of paper and a pencil if you want to write down lyrics.”
The offer stuns me and my chest tightens, because this–her inviting me in, giving me space in a sanctuary that clearly belongs to her–feels like more grace than I deserve.
I blink, fumbling for words. “I, uh.” My hand drags through my hair, nerves sparking as I finally force myself to step inside the room fully. Every movement feels too loud, too heavy, like I’m breaking the peaceful bubble she’s built.
