Sunlight cuts across my room, burning hot against my face. I jolt awake, heart pounding like I've been chased.
For a second, I don't move. My sheets lie smooth, my pillow cool beneath my cheek. My body feels wrung out, heavy as stone.
The alley slams back into my mind—screams, fangs, tearing pain in my throat, and the stranger's fire-lit eyes. I bolt upright, hands clutching at my neck.
Nothing. My skin is smooth.
I glance down and freeze. I'm in an oversized T-shirt and pajama shorts—mine. The cotton hangs loose, softened by too many washes, the shorts riding low on my hips.
I tug at the fabric, scanning my arms, my legs, my bare feet for any trace of blood. Nothing. Not a drop.
My stomach twists tight.
I stumble into the bathroom and flick the light on. My reflection stares back—pale, shaky, hair stuck wild from sleep. My fingers hover over the place where his teeth sank in, where my blood spilled hot down my chest. I press hard, bracing for pain, for scars, for something.
There's nothing.
No proof.
I grip the sink until my knuckles burn white.
"It was a dream," I whisper. The words taste hollow.
I don't think I drank that much at work last night. Two shots, tops. So why can't I remember getting home?
I shake the thought off. Maybe I drank more than I realized.
I leave the bathroom and grab my phone off the nightstand. Two missed calls from Sasha.
I hit redial. The line rings once. Twice.
"Hey! Cass! Are we still on for lunch?" Sasha's voice is bright, like glass about to crack.
"Yeah…" I rub my neck, fingertips brushing the phantom bite. A shiver runs straight down my spine.
"What, having second thoughts?" Sasha sounds disappointed. "He's a great guy, and I'll be there with Tony, too."
"I hate blind dates," I mutter, dropping onto the edge of my bed, fingers fiddling with the hem of my shirt.
"You'll be fine! He's really hot," she says, like she's trying to convince me.
I take in my bedroom, the sun light from my one window spilling across its muted gray walls. A single poster, faded at the edges, hangs above the headboard—a relic of a younger self. My desk is tucked neatly in the corner, stacked with leather-bound notebooks and scattered pens, a dark mug from yesterday still clinging to the scent of coffee. The dresser is orderly, each piece of clothing folded with careful precision.
My bed, the one I had slept in minutes ago, is rumpled, the pillow still carrying the faint impression of my head. The sheets are soft, but the lingering scent of detergent mixes with something colder, sharper—like iron on stone—and it prickles at the back of my mind.
Everything is familiar, safe.
"Cass? Are you okay?" she asks, a thread of concern weaving through her voice.
"Yeah," I mumble, trying to sound more convincing than I feel. "I'll be there. The little café by work, right?"
"Yeah, at noon," she says, and I can hear her smile through the phone. "Don't be late."
"I won't," I mutter, rolling my eyes, though she can't see it.
"Alright, bye."
"Bye," I echo, pressing the phone to my ear a moment longer before finally hanging up.
Noon comes and goes. Or rather, it's already gone. I sit at a corner table in the little café, sipping at a coffee I don't really taste, fingers drumming against the cup. My phone glows with the time: 12:06. Of course. Sasha tells me not to be late… and then she's the one who's late. Typical.
I shift in my seat, smoothing down the folds of my dress. Black, fitted at the waist, flowing just past my knees. Paired with platform boots that make a confident stomp against the floor when I move, I feel… deliberate. Like I could be waiting for anyone—or no one at all.
And then I see them. Sasha, radiant and breezy as ever, with Tony trailing a step behind. And then him—my blind date.
He's attractive, no denying it. Dark hair neatly combed, eyes that scan the café with a calm, measured focus. A dark blue button-down tucked into black pants, almost corporate, but there's an ease in the way he carries himself that keeps it from feeling stiff. My chest tightens, a small thrill skittering beneath my ribs.
I glance down at my hands, twisting a ring around my finger, and force myself to breathe. Just a blind date. Just… a man. Nothing more.
I hear the chair scrape against the floor before they reach my table. Sasha plops down with her usual cheer, Tony sliding into the seat beside her, and then… him.
He stops just short of the table, hand extended.
"Hi," His voice is low, measured, and smooth, like he's testing the air before stepping fully into it.
I take his hand, our fingers brushing as we shake briefly. His grip is firm, confident.
"Cass, this is David. David, Cass," Tony says, pointing at us as he announces our names.
"Sorry we're late," Sasha chirps, completely unaware of the tiny storm brewing in my chest. "Traffic was a nightmare."
"I see," I murmur, keeping my voice neutral, though I can feel my heartbeat speeding.
He smiles politely, sliding into the empty seat across from me. "I hope I didn't keep you waiting."
"You're… right on time," I say, though my gaze lingers on the dark blue of his shirt, the calm precision in his movements.
I hadn't been on a date in six years. Six long, quiet years of work, routines, and avoiding… whatever this was supposed to be. The memory of those awkward dinners, fumbling conversations, the forced smiles—it all comes rushing back like a tide I thought I'd learned to ignore.
And now here I am, sitting at a corner table in a dress that makes me feel almost unrecognizable, boots shuffling softly against the floor every time I shift. Sasha's chatter and Tony's easy laughter float over me, but my attention keeps drifting back to him. The dark blue shirt, the calm way he moves, the faint lift of a smile that hints he knows exactly what effect he's having.
I sip my coffee, trying to steady my pulse.
The date stretches on, unhurried, easier than I expected. David's humor is dry, clever in small doses, and he makes me laugh more than I have in months. I catch myself leaning back in my chair, hair tumbling over my shoulders, feeling something I haven't in years—light.
When the check arrives, he insists on paying, brushing off my protests with a crooked grin that lands too easily.
"Next time, it's on you," he teases, and I'm startled to hear myself laugh—bright, unrestrained, foreign in my own mouth.
Outside, sunlight cuts sharp against the sidewalk. I don't mind. We walk a few blocks together, talking books, music, and the countless little absurdities of daily life. There's an ease between us that makes my chest lift, a rare warmth I've forgotten I could feel.
As we reach the corner where we part ways, he pauses, brushing a stray strand of hair from his face.
"I had a really great time, Cass," he says, his eyes meet mine, steady and earnest. "If you ever want to see me again…"
He slides a card into my hand. His number, neat as the press of his shirt. I tuck it away, my smile slipping out before I realize it's there.
"I'd like that," I say, voice low.
He grins, and for a moment, the world feels simple, normal. Just two people laughing at jokes over coffee.
Later, in front of my mirror, I'm tugging on black tank and shorts for my bar shift. Sneakers laced tight, hair tied back with a few strands left loose. The reflection smiling faintly at me doesn't look like the ghost that woke up this morning. It looks like someone waiting for tomorrow to hurry up, someone still turning over the sound of his laugh.
I grab my keys and bag, slipping my phone into my pocket, and head out. The later afternoon light spills across the city, warm and ordinary, and I feel… light. Excited. A little giddy even, thinking about seeing him again. Tonight, it'll be just me, the bar, and the familiar rhythm of clinking glasses and spilled drinks—but tomorrow, maybe, it could be something more.
At the bar, familiar noise and scent swallow me—beer, citrus, antiseptic spray. Sasha waves me in, grin wide. The rhythm of work pulls me along—pouring, shaking, sliding glasses across wood. I set my bag down behind the counter and pull a rag from the shelf, wiping down the sticky spots on the bar top.
"Cass!" Sasha calls from the other end, stacking glasses with effortless precision. Her smile is bright, contagious.
"Hey," I reply, sliding into rhythm, pulling bottles and shakers like second nature. But I keep drifting. David. His number folded in my bag. His eyes locked steady on mine. That laugh, like it belonged there, like it belonged with me. I shake my head, trying not to look too far gone. Sasha clocks it anyway.
Customers start filtering in, a mix of regulars and the occasional late riser nursing a hangover. I pour drinks, slide glasses across the counter, and joke with a few familiar faces. Laughter echoes, orders clatter, but my thoughts keep returning to him. I should call him tomorrow. Or maybe tonight after my shift.
"Lost in your own world again?" she sing-songs as she passes.
"Maybe," I admit with a half-smile. "But it's a good one."
She leans her elbows against the bar, eyes practically glowing. "Told you. You like him."
Heat creeps up my neck. "You were right."
"Damn right. Six years of no one, and now this guy's got you grinning like you don't know how to stop," she says, passing me a glass.
I laugh, shaking my head, letting the thought sit warm in my chest. For once, this all feels—steady. Maybe even safe.
"Maybe a little," I admit, letting the warmth of the thought settle in.
Sasha claps me on the shoulder. "Good. About time someone got through that 'no dates for six years' streak of yours."
I smile, letting myself savor it. For once, it feels like something… normal.
I turn back to the bar, shaking my head slightly, letting the familiar chaos ground me. The work is steady, the rhythm comforting, yet I can't help letting my mind drift back to David every time I catch a flash of movement or hear a laugh that reminds me of him.
The sun dips lower, streaking the bar in warm, fading light. By the time the evening crowd rolls in, the golden glow outside has given way to shadows stretching across the room.
And then it hits. Hard.
A rush floods my body, electric, coiling low in my stomach and racing up my spine. My pulse slams in my ears, every nerve a raw wire. My skin tingles as though unseen hands trace it.
I stumble, gripping the bar to stay upright. Customers chatter, glasses clink, voices overlap—but they sound distant, warped, muffled under the roar inside me.
I force myself to smile at the patrons, sliding drinks across the counter, my hands shaking slightly despite my effort at control. My thoughts scatter—David, the warmth of human touch, the thrill of desire—but even that feels muted against this fire burning through me.
I blink rapidly, trying to focus on the rhythm of the bar, but the sensation doesn't fade. It's hunger, longing, awareness of something deep and raw inside me. Every movement becomes sharper, every sound more vivid, every touch of my own skin almost unbearable.
The rest of my shift passes in a blur, each second dragged sharp across my senses, each breath scraping fire through my veins. By the time I lock the door and step outside, night has swallowed the street whole. The city hums around me, but I barely feel it—my pulse is still thunder, the heat inside me relentless, alive.
Back in my apartment, I collapse onto the bed, chest rising too fast, the air too thin. Should I call him? David. Should I let him come over? The thought sends a shiver cascading down my ribs, nervous and electric, something darker thrumming beneath. My body aches for release, every fiber screaming, and the idea of him—warm, steady—nearly overwhelms me.
My hand hovers over the phone when a sharp knock rattles my door. I freeze. Pulse spikes higher, slicing sharp through the haze. I move quietly to the door, pressing my eye to the peephole.
He's there.
The stranger. The one from the alley, from what I told myself was a dream. Pale, sharp-featured, eyes glinting in the dim hallway light. Calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
I stumble back, heart hammering, my lungs tight. My body screams to run, but my legs won't move. The air itself feels charged, as if the shadows are alive, humming with his presence just beyond the door.