(Aria's POV)
I blow out twenty-six candles with one breath, watching Thomas's face light up brighter than the flames ever did. The chocolate cake, his grandmother's recipe, sits between us on the small kitchen table, same as every year for the past five.
"Make a wish, kiddo," Thomas says, his wire-rimmed glasses reflecting the afternoon sunlight streaming through his apartment window.
"I did." I scoop frosting with my finger, savoring the rich sweetness. "Same one as always."
"Which is?"
"That you stop calling me kiddo. I'm twenty-six, Thomas."
He laughs, the sound rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. "You'll always be the scared girl I found in that alley to me."
My stomach tightens the way it always does when he mentions that night. We have an unspoken agreement not to dwell on my past, or lack thereof, but birthdays make him sentimental. "Thomas..."
"I know, I know. But it's true." He cuts himself another slice of cake, his movements careful and deliberate. "Five years, and you still get that same look in your eyes when you think no one's watching."
"What look?"
"Like you're waiting for the other shoe to drop."
I shift uncomfortably in my chair. "That's not..."
"I have something for you." He disappears into his bedroom before I can protest, returning with a small velvet box that looks ancient in his weathered hands. "Before you say no, just open it."
Inside is a silver locket, delicate chain pooling in my palm like liquid moonlight. The metal is warm, as if it's been sitting in sunshine. I press the clasp and it springs open to reveal a photo of us from last Christmas—him in his terrible reindeer sweater, me laughing at something he'd said. I look happy in the picture. Genuinely happy.
"Thomas, I can't accept this. It's too much."
"You saved my life as much as I saved yours, kiddo." His voice goes rough around the edges. "Gave this old man purpose again when I thought I was done helping people. Thirty years of social work, and I was ready to fade into nothing. Then you came along."
My throat tightens. "You saved me first."
"We saved each other." He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "That's what family does."
Family. The word still feels foreign, like clothes that don't quite fit. But with Thomas, it's the closest I've ever come to understanding what it means to belong somewhere.
I fasten the chain around my neck, the weight settling against my chest like an anchor. "I love it. Thank you."
"Good. Because I kept the receipt and it's non-returnable."
We eat cake in comfortable silence, the late afternoon sun painting everything golden. Thomas tells me about his neighbor's new puppy, I complain about my car making strange noises, and for a moment everything feels perfectly normal. Perfectly safe.
Then my phone buzzes against the table.
"Work?" Thomas asks, reading my expression.
I glance at the screen. Jamie, my colleague at the counseling center. "Emergency appointment. Last-minute thing."
"On your birthday? Can't someone else handle it?"
"I'm the only one certified for trauma cases involving..." I pause, not wanting to say 'supernatural' out loud.
He sighs, but there's pride in his eyes. "Go help someone. But dinner tomorrow, yes? I'm making my famous meatloaf."
"Your only meatloaf."
"Which makes it automatically famous."
I kiss his cheek, tasting chocolate and Old Spice. "Seven o'clock sharp."
"Wouldn't miss it."
The drive to the counseling center takes twenty minutes through Portland's afternoon traffic, past food trucks and coffee shops, through neighborhoods where humans and supernaturals coexist in careful balance. I park in my usual spot and hurry inside, still wearing the sundress I'd put on for birthday cake.
Jamie waves me over the moment I walk through the lobby. She's young, enthusiastic, and still believes she can save everyone who walks through our doors. I used to find her optimism exhausting. Now it's oddly comforting.
"Your four o'clock is here early," she says, lowering her voice and glancing around the empty waiting area. "Paid cash for a two-hour session. Up front."
"What's the case?"
"That's just it, barely any intake information. Says he specifically requested you after researching your credentials online." Jamie's brow furrows. "Mentioned your work with memory-related trauma specifically."
Something cold slithers down my spine. "Memory trauma?"
"His words, not mine. But there's something..." She trails off, biting her lip.
"What?"
"I don't know. Off about him. He's polite, well-dressed, obviously educated. But when he was filling out the forms, I caught him staring at your photo on the staff board. Not like a client looking at their therapist. Like..." She shakes her head. "Maybe I'm being paranoid."
"Like what, Jamie?"
"Like he was studying you. Memorizing details."
My hand instinctively moves to the locket at my throat, fingering the warm silver. "Where is he?"
"Conference room. Insisted on privacy instead of your usual office."
The hallway to the conference room feels longer than usual, my heels clicking against linoleum with each step. The building is quieter than normal—most of the staff have gone home for the day, leaving just essential personnel for emergency cases. My hand hovers over the door handle, and that cold feeling in my stomach intensifies.
It's not fear exactly, but something deeper. Recognition without memory, like hearing a song you know you've heard before but can't place.
I shake it off and check my watch. 4:15. Professional, I remind myself. Just another client with trauma to work through. That's what I do. That's who I am.
I knock once and enter.
The man sitting across from my usual chair could be anywhere from twenty-five to thirty-five, though something about his eyes suggests he's seen more than his years should allow. Dark hair swept back from a face that belongs on magazine covers, expensive suit that probably costs more than my monthly rent. His hands are folded carefully in his lap, and when he looks up, his eyes are the color of storm clouds before lightning strikes.
"Ms. Matthews," he says, standing with fluid grace. His voice is rich, cultured, with the faintest trace of an accent I can't place. "Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."
"Of course. Please, sit." I settle into my chair, pulling out my notebook and trying to ignore the way my pulse has quickened. "I understand you specifically requested me?"
"I did." He doesn't sit immediately, instead studying my face with an intensity that makes me want to look away. "My name is Dante Moretti."