And I, in turn, couldn’t stop watching him. This immortal man standing in a crowd of tourists, eyes bright with curiosity, hair ruffled by the wind off the sea. He’d missed this—missedallof it. And now he was here, trying to understand a world that had kept turning without him.
I couldn’t tell if my chest was tight because of the tether or because seeing him so mesmerized made me fall a little harder.
He noticed me staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said softly. “You’re just… really into this.”
He looked back at the harbor, the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You fight differently than we did. Less blood. More costumes.”
“Yeah,” I said. “We evolved.”
He hummed in approval, still watching the water. “Perhaps I shall attend again next year. There is… spirit in it.”
I laughed. “Careful. Next thing you know, you’ll be wearing a wig and tossing Lipton boxes into the sea.”
He gave me a look that was half scandalized, half intrigued. “Do not tempt me, Nadia.”
We walked along the waterfront after the show, the harbor glowing pink and gold. I gave him a crash course in human history, condensed to my ADHD version: “Okay,” I said, “so after the tea incident, there was the Revolution, then a few centuriesof trial and error. We figured out electricity, democracy, and how to write pop songs about both.”
Cristian tilted his head. “Your people rebelled against a crown for powdered drink leaves and the promise of voting?”
“That’s… shockingly accurate.”
He gave a quiet hum, the kind that meant he was filing away information for later. “You must be a remarkable teacher,” he said.
And just like that, I forgot how to function.
By the time we reached the restaurant, the sun had melted into the harbor, and the sky was soft with gold fading into blue.
Cristian held the door for me, posture regal, his hand a brief, steady pressure at the small of my back. For someone who could terrify an army, he had impeccable manners. The hostess flirted shamelessly. Cristian didn’t seem to notice, but I did. I noticed everything—the slight curve of his mouth, the way light found his jaw, the impossible calm he carried.
String lights crisscrossed the rooftop, glowing like captured stars. The air smelled faintly of salt and roasted garlic. A low hum of conversation floated around us, broken now and then by clinking glasses and laughter that sounded like it belonged in another world.
He pulled out my chair and brushed my shoulder as I sat. My stomach somersaulted. His scent—cedar and smoke—was everywhere, and I was suddenly aware of every inch of skin the evening breeze could reach.
When the menus came, he frowned as if deciphering a secret code. “What,” he asked, “is a buffalo cauliflower?”
“It’s not buffalo,” I said, leaning in. “It’s cauliflower with hot sauce.”
He looked scandalized. “Then why name it after beasts?”
I grinned. “To keep things interesting. It’s kind of our national pastime. We earned our freedom and immediatelystarted naming things wrong out of spite. Buffalo wings? No buffalo. Hot dogs? No dogs. French fries? Not French. America’s a linguistic disaster, and we’re proud of it.”
Something in his expression softened. “Completely unbothered. I think I might like it here.”
The server arrived. Cristian ordered steak, rare, of course. I went for pasta. When the food came, the chatter around us faded until it felt like there were only two heartbeats left on the rooftop—mine and his.
He watched me twirl noodles on my fork, not staring, just… seeing. It wasn’t lust or curiosity. It was something deeper. Like he was trying to memorize what being human looked like.
“Is this what a date was like back then?” I asked.
A slow smile curved his mouth. “No. This is far better. Then, courtship was performance. Deceit. A play of power. Tonight, I sit with you. No masks.”
His hand reached across the table and brushed a strand of hair from my face. The touch was barely there, but it felt electric.
“You’re radiant,” he said. “This world is chaotic, but you are constant.”
My pulse stuttered. “You’re not so bad yourself, Dracula.”
