Lilac Ambrose woke before dawn.
The city outside her apartment window was still half-asleep, fog pressed low between the buildings like a ghost reluctant to leave. She stood in the kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, watching her reflection blur against the glass. Her face looked pale in the dim light, her eyes carrying the weight of nights that refused to loosen their grip.
She had dreamt of him again.
Not the alley, not the fists or the shadows — but Tristan Caine's eyes. That strange storm-grey that unsettled her, as if he could see through every layer of defense she built. She hated that he lived in her dreams now. Hated that she woke up with her pulse racing not from fear, but from some unspoken longing she didn't dare name.
The knock on her door was soft. Almost hesitant.
Her heart stuttered anyway.
She opened it to find him standing there, dressed in black again, coat collar turned up against the morning chill. He looked as though he hadn't slept, though exhaustion only sharpened his features, carving shadows under his cheekbones.
"Morning," he said simply.
She arched a brow. "You don't strike me as the drop-by-for-coffee type."
"I'm not," he admitted. "But I needed to see you."
Something in his voice carried weight — not desperation, but inevitability.
She stepped aside. "Come in before my neighbors think I'm harboring a criminal."
He gave the faintest smile as he entered. The air between them shifted, the way it always did when he was too close — charged, restless. He moved like a shadow that had learned how to wear skin, careful and deliberate, as though the world might crack if he pressed too hard.
"You had another dream," he said, his eyes scanning her face.
She stiffened. "What makes you think that?"
"Because you look like someone who's still inside it."
Lilac set her mug down a little too sharply. "I don't like being read like that."
"Then stop being readable," he replied, though his voice lacked any cruelty. It was observation, not judgment.
She turned her back to him, staring out the window again. The glass caught both their reflections — her small frame tense, his taller one looming behind, always close but never quite touching.
"What do you want, Tristan?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked to her bookshelf, scanning the titles with the same calm precision he carried into fights. His fingers brushed the spines but never lingered. Finally, he said:
"There are things you need to know. About why the Syndicate wants you. About why… I can't walk away."
Lilac's pulse quickened. She hated that she wanted his truth. Hated that his presence filled the silence in ways no one else could.
"Then tell me," she whispered.
Tristan turned, leaning against the shelf, arms crossed. "The prophecy doesn't speak only of me. It speaks of a mirror — someone who doesn't belong in this world of blood and power, but who can bend it. Change its course."
Her chest tightened. "You think that's me?"
"I don't think," he said, eyes locking with hers. "I know."
Lilac laughed, sharp and incredulous. "I'm a girl who works double shifts and eats too much takeout. I'm not—"
"You're not ordinary," he cut in, his voice low but unyielding. "You never were."
The conviction in his tone shook her more than the words themselves.
She wanted to argue, to deny it, but her reflection in the glass betrayed her — the way her hands trembled, the way her breath hitched when he stepped closer.
"You're wrong," she whispered, though it sounded weak even to her own ears.
Tristan didn't press. He only studied her for a moment, then said quietly:
"Whether you believe it or not, you're part of this now. And that makes you my responsibility."
Her throat tightened. "That's all I am to you? A responsibility?"
For the first time, his composure faltered. Just slightly. His jaw clenched, his gaze flickered — and in that flicker, she saw it. The thing he never said. The thing he fought against harder than any enemy.
"No," he said finally, voice rougher than before. "Not just that."
The silence that followed was unbearable. The fog outside pressed against the glass, turning the city into a blurred canvas. Inside, the tension curled tighter and tighter, until Lilac thought she might shatter from it.
She wanted to reach for him. God, she wanted to. But she stayed rooted, afraid that touching him would rewrite the entire map of her life.
Instead, she said: "Then what am I?"
Tristan stepped closer. Close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, close enough that the scent of leather and smoke wrapped around her. His eyes searched hers, storm-grey and endless.
"You're the only thing that makes me hesitate," he murmured.
Her heart stopped.
And then — before she could speak, before the weight of it could crash down — he pulled back. Walls snapping into place again.
"We don't have time for this," he said, tone suddenly clipped, controlled. "The Syndicate won't stop. They'll come for you again, and next time, I might not be there first."
The words should have scared her. Instead, they only deepened the ache in her chest.
Lilac turned back to the window, hiding the storm on her face. Outside, the fog was thinning, the first rays of sunlight breaking through.
Shadows in the glass. That was what they were. Two people caught between reflection and reality, between fate and choice.
And whether she admitted it or not, Lilac knew: the closer Tristan Caine stood, the harder it was to remember which side of the glass she belonged to.