I put my head back against his chest and listened to the soft rhythm of a heart that didn’t need to beat.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I reached for it, squinting, hoping it was Lena. I had tried to talk her into taking some time off from work, but she was scared to lose her job after the no-show incident.
Lena:Made it to work. Just sleepy. Still weirded out. Text you after lunch?
I smiled.
Me:Okay good. I love you. Just… let me know you’re okay every few hours?
Cristian was watching me, elbow propped on the pillow. “You care for her like a sister.”
“She is my sister,” I said. “Not biologically, but—you know. She’s my person.”
He gave a small, almost nostalgic nod. “I understand more than you know.”
He kissed my temple, then sat up with that quiet sense of purpose he carried everywhere.
“I wish to court you properly.”
My mouth fell open. “You what now?”
“Court you,” he repeated, as if the term was perfectly normal in the year twenty-twenty-something. “An evening dedicated to your joy. With food. Ambiance. Perhaps… hand-holding.”
I stared at him. “Are you asking me out?”
“Yes.”
“You mean, like a date?”
“Yes.”
I was screaming internally. “Okay,” I said, too quickly. “Yeah. Sure. A date. Tonight.”
He nodded solemnly, apparently satisfied with this contractual arrangement. “We shall dine. Perhaps there is music? Dancing?”
“Mmhm… that all sounds great.”
As he stood, completely naked, the morning light slid over him like some kind of Renaissance art exhibit designed to ruin my composure.
I watched him move across the room, lean and calm, like this was a perfectly ordinary day.
He looked back at me once, and for a second I let myself hope.
Maybe this wasn’t temporary. Maybe this wasn’t a mistake. Maybe this—he—was real.
When he disappeared into the bathroom, I opened my Notes app and added a new line to my summer bucket list:Go on a date with a literal vampire lord. Check.
I grinned. Maybe I didn’t need to ask what we were.
He was already showing me.
I was on outfit number five, and the floor looked like a fashion crime scene. Dresses everywhere. A graveyard of bad decisions and pit stains.
The first dress was too sexy. “He’ll think I’m trying too hard,” I said, flinging it onto the bed.
The second one too casual. “He’ll think I’m not trying hard enough.”
The third was floral. “I look like a teacher on spring break,” I groaned. “And not in a good way.”
