I didn't sleep that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him. Those endless dark eyes. That sharp, knowing smile like I was a book he had already read cover to cover, my every secret laid bare.
And worst of all, I felt it again.
The silence.
My curse had never abandoned me before. From childhood to now, people's thoughts had flooded into me whether I wanted them or not. It was like breathing I couldn't stop it, couldn't hold it back.
But with him…
Nothing.
The void had swallowed me whole, leaving me shaken. Breathless. Trembling like a child lost in the dark.
By the time the sun bled over the horizon, I'd given up on rest entirely. My nerves were frayed raw, my head pounding from the strain of trying to understand something I couldn't.
So I told myself lies.
That it was a trick of the storm. That I'd been too exhausted, too drained to control my power. That it wasn't failing, it was only faltering.
And that the man in the bookstore was just a stranger.
A stranger I would never see again.
But fate is cruel.
The next evening, I dragged myself into the café near my apartment, desperate for caffeine to keep me upright.
The warm air hit me first thick with the scent of roasted beans and sugar.
The chatter of customers followed, spilling into me before I could brace myself.
Should I order the caramel latte?
I hope he texts back this time.
God, I hate my boss.
Their voices layered over one another, clawing at my skull. I winced, pressing my fingers to my temples. Too loud. Always too loud.
I shuffled toward the counter, eyes down. Just one cup of coffee, I told myself. One drink to carry me through the evening. Then I'd go home, shut the world out, and.
"Little dove."
The cup slipped in my hands. I barely caught it before it shattered on the floor.
That voice.
Slow. Smooth. Impossible to mistake.
I turned.
And froze.
He was there.
The stranger from the bookstore.
Damien.
I didn't know his name yet, but somehow it lingered at the tip of my tongue, waiting, aching to be spoken.
He sat at a corner table as if he belonged there. A half-smile curved his lips, casual and dangerous all at once.
His presence was the same as before commanding, magnetic. Pulling the air out of the room.
For a heartbeat, I thought I was hallucinating.
But then he tilted his head, eyes glinting, and I knew this was no dream.
"You" My pulse spiked. Words stumbled out, raw and sharp. "What are you doing here?"
He leaned back in his chair, utterly at ease. "Having coffee. Obviously."
"This isn't funny."
His grin widened. "Who said I was joking?"
I wanted to storm out. To slam the door behind me and never look back.
But my feet betrayed me.
Step by step, I moved closer, drawn like a moth toward flame.
By the time I realized it, I was standing across from his table, staring at him like a fool.
"You shouldn't be here," I whispered.
"Why not?" He gestured lazily to the empty seat across from him. "Sit."
"I don't want to"
"Sit."
His voice deepened not loud, not commanding, but resonant. It threaded into me with a weight I couldn't ignore.
Before I knew it, I was lowering myself into the chair.
My hands shook. My heart hammered against my ribs.
The café noise buzzed around us, but strangely… it faded.
The voices dimmed. The flood of thoughts receded until I could barely hear them. My gift, so overwhelming a moment before, shrank back.
Leaving only him.
The silence pressed in again. Heavy. Suffocating.
I glared at him, my chest tight. "You're doing this. Aren't you?"
One brow lifted. "Doing what?"
"The silence. The… void. Around you. People's thoughts don't just vanish. Not for me."
At that, his smile sharpened. "So it's true. You really can hear them."
The blood in my veins went cold. "…What did you say?"
His eyes gleamed, dark fire flickering in their depths. "I was wondering. Watching you last night, the way you strained… I thought perhaps it was a trick of the storm. But no. It's you. You can read them, can't you? Every little secret. Every ugly truth."
My breath caught. My throat was dry, desert-dry. "How do you know that?"
"Because," he said softly, leaning forward, his gaze pinning me to the spot, "I know what you are."
The words cracked through me.
No one knew. Not fully.
Not my parents they thought I was strange, too sensitive, too moody. Not my friends, I never told them. Not anyone.
I carried it alone. Always.
And yet this man, this stranger, looked at me as if he could see straight into the marrow of my bones.
"What am I?" I whispered.
He didn't answer immediately. He only watched me, letting the silence stretch, pulling it taut until my skin prickled.
Finally, his lips curved.
"Dangerous."
The word struck like lightning.
I pushed back from the table, the chair screeching against the floor. "Stay away from me."
He didn't move. Didn't rise.
Just watched. Calm. Unhurried.
My fear didn't disturb him it entertained him.
"Run if you like, little dove," he said softly. "But you can't run from what you are."
The words followed me as I stumbled out of the café, the bell above the door chiming like mockery.
The night air slapped me in the face, sharp and cold.
I gulped in breaths, chest heaving, heart pounding like a drum desperate to break free of its cage.
But no matter how many steps I took, no matter how many blocks I put between us, I felt him.
Watching.
Waiting.
And smiling.
He knew my secret.
And if he knew… then maybe, just maybe, he wasn't the dangerous one.
Maybe I was.
[Damien's POV]
I watched her flee into the night, rain plastering her hair to her face, her shoulders trembling beneath the weight of truths she didn't yet understand.
She thought she was running from me.
She wasn't.
She was running from herself.
The corners of my mouth curved as I leaned back in my chair, savoring the lingering trace of her fear, her confusion… and that spark buried beneath both.
Curiosity.
She was already caught, whether she realized it or not.
And little dove?
Soon, she would learn that silence was the least dangerous thing about me.