Meanwhile, across the diner, June's straw made a hollow slurp against the glass. She blinked down at the pale pink milkshake. Almost gone. Grace noticed instantly.
"Want another one? Ooh, I want another one too. And fries. Can we get more fries?" Grace grinned like it was the best idea she'd had all week.
June laughed softly. "You're going to burst if you eat any more fries."
"Better to burst happy," Grace declared. "C'mon, let's just order at the counter. Ms. D looks busy, but she won't mind."
They slid out of the booth. Grace kept talking, words spilling fast and light, her gestures animated as she recounted some ridiculous story about a squirrel stealing her lunch at school. June listened, but only half. She was thinking about how surreal it was—being here, in this little town, with this new cousin who seemed determined to make her feel like she belonged.
As they made their way toward the counter, Grace was still facing June, walking backward now, arms moving as she emphasized every dramatic point in her story.
"…and then, June, I swear, the squirrel looked me dead in the eyes! Like it was challenging me. Like, 'yeah, I took your sandwich, what are you gonna do about it?'"
June shook her head, laughing softly, but because Grace was in her space, she turned slightly, stepping back as well—
—and that was when it happened.
Damien had just turned away from the counter, Logan falling into step beside him. He was shrugging his leather jacket back into place, sleek and dark, the kind of jacket that screamed money without trying. The faintest curl of irritation still clung to his smirk from the conversation.
June pivoted, her hand still holding the milkshake glass—half-full, thick with melted sweetness—
And collided straight into him.
The cold, sticky contents splattered across his chest, dripping down the smooth line of his leather jacket. Thick streaks of strawberry-pink against black. The sharp, sugary smell of milkshake hit the air instantly.
Everything froze.
June gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She hadn't even looked up yet, hadn't even seen who it was, only the disaster she'd caused. The glass slipped slightly in her trembling hand, and her heart hammered as though the world had just stopped.
Damien looked down slowly at the mess spreading across his jacket. His smirk was gone, replaced by a look of incredulous silence—like the universe had personally offended him. He loathed milkshakes. The sweetness, the stickiness, the smell. And now it was all over him.
Logan winced, dragging a hand down his face.
Grace froze mid-word, her eyes widening as the reality of the scene sank in. Her mouth fell open in horror.
"Oh no," Grace whispered, grabbing June's arm like she'd just watched someone step into traffic. Her wide eyes darted to the milkshake dripping in pink rivulets down Damien Cross's leather jacket.
Her mind raced. Damien Cross. Damien Cross! Of all people in this stupid town—why him?
Grace knew him. Everyone did. Blackstone High's cool, untouchable king who didn't bow to anyone. The one who carried that last name like a crown and a weapon. Lucien's heir. Untouchable. Impossible. Magnetic.
And now… sticky with strawberry milkshake.
This isn't going to go down well. Oh God, this is not going to go down well.
June, oblivious to the weight of Grace's panic, stood frozen, her milkshake glass trembling in her hand. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly. Words refused to form. She needed to apologize, to say something—anything—but her tongue felt like stone.
Then she made the mistake of looking up.
And the world tilted.
His face.
Sharp lines, carved as if the universe had paused to admire its own creation. Dark hair falling just right, eyes that looked like they could see straight through her skin. Too handsome to be real, too magnetic to ignore.
But June wasn't caught by his beauty. Not entirely. No—what made her blood run cold was the way recognition struck her like lightning.
That night. The alley. The glowing eyes in the dark. She hadn't been sure, had told herself she was imagining things. Fear had made her vision blur, she'd convinced herself of that. But now… in broad daylight…
It was him.
This face. This impossible face.
Her heart hammered. The milkshake glass slipped from her grip, clattering against the floor with a dull thud, forgotten.
"June!" Grace hissed, nudging her hard.
But June couldn't move. Couldn't speak. She just stared.
Damien's smirk returned slowly, curling at the edge of his lips like this was nothing more than a private joke between them. He tilted his head, studying her with that cool, detached amusement that somehow cut sharper than anger ever could.
"Well," he drawled, his voice rich with sarcasm, "usually people just ask for my autograph. Throwing a milkshake on me? That's new."
Logan snorted under his breath, trying not to laugh. Grace turned pale, gripping June's arm harder, silently screaming at her to apologize already!
Finally, June snapped out of her trance, heat flooding her face. "I—I'm so sorry! I didn't—I wasn't looking—"
Words tumbled out in a panicked rush as she dug into her pocket for napkins, grabbing handfuls from the counter instead. Without thinking, she began blotting furiously at his jacket, trying to mop up the sticky mess.
Damien raised a brow, watching her make it worse with every swipe. "You're just… making a bigger mess." His voice was cool, unimpressed, but there was the faintest flicker in his eyes. Recognition.
Because he remembered her, too. The girl in the alley. The one he'd pulled back from the edge of death just nights ago. He hadn't expected to see her again. Not like this.
June's hand froze mid-motion, realizing she was smearing the milkshake deeper into the leather. She pulled back, flustered. "I—I didn't mean—"
Damien's lips parted to reply—but then it hit him.
Not the sour-sweet stickiness of strawberry milkshake. Not the sugar he hated with every fiber of his being.
Her.
Beneath the chaos, beneath the embarrassment, there was a scent—subtle, maddening. Like wildflowers crushed under rain, delicate yet stubborn. It cut straight through the cloying sweetness, replacing it.
For a moment, Damien's sarcasm faltered. His jaw tightened, his lips parted, and he inhaled again, as if to be sure.
Strange. Too strange.
Beneath the sticky sweetness of strawberry milkshake, something else lingered—faint but stubborn, delicate yet sharp.
Flowers. Wild, untamed, and maddening.
It wasn't possible, and yet there it was, cutting through everything else, nestling beneath his skin like it belonged there.
Weirdly—annoyingly—he kind of liked it.
Damien Cross was silent, still. Fixated.
That alone was enough to raise alarms.
Logan noticed first. His eyes darted from the mess on Damien's jacket to the way his best friend hadn't said a single biting word yet. No smug remark, no annoyed lash of sarcasm. Just… staring.
"Uh…" Logan stepped in quickly, his tone lighter, easy. He looked at June, who was still fumbling with napkins, "Hey, it's fine. Really. It was an accident, right? Don't worry about it."
June froze, guilt painting her face. "I'm so, so sorry," she rushed out, her voice cracking slightly. She glanced between them, her stomach churning. "I didn't mean to—I just—"
"It's fine," Logan repeated, giving her a half-smile that was meant to soothe, though his glance at Damien was sharp with curiosity.
Damien still hadn't moved.
June, flustered and confused, dipped her head in apology again. "I'm sorry. To both of you." Her voice lowered at the last part, embarrassed, desperate to retreat from the stares she felt digging into her.
That was all Grace needed to yank her back into safety. "Come on," she hissed, dragging June by the wrist. They hurried back to their booth, sliding into their seats in a rush, both avoiding looking back. Grace shot June a wide-eyed you have no idea what you just did stare, but June was too rattled to even process it.
At the counter, Logan crossed his arms, his gaze narrowing on Damien. His voice dropped low, meant for him alone. "Okay… what the hell is wrong with you?"
Damien's jaw flexed. He still looked half-lost, staring at the faint milkshake stains soaking into his leather jacket. Finally, he muttered, "Did you smell that?"
Logan blinked. "Smell what?"
"Flowers," Damien said flatly. His tone was clipped, but his eyes still flickered with something unsettled. "I'm telling you. Flowers. Strong."
Logan let out a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. "We're in a diner, man. Fries, grease, cheap coffee, burnt toast—those are the only scents here. Flowers? No. Definitely not."
But Damien's brows drew together. He looked like he wanted to argue, wanted to press—but then he shut his mouth, smirked faintly, and shrugged as if brushing it off. "You are right. Forget it."
Logan gave him a long look, unconvinced, before glancing at the milkshake mess again. "Guessing you're not gonna forget that, though."
Damien scowled down at his ruined jacket. "This jacket cost more than this entire diner. And now it smells like sugar." His lip curled. "I hate sugar."
"Yeah, yeah, tragedy," Logan muttered with a crooked grin, clapping Damien's shoulder. "You'll live."
Damien only scowled, flicking his ruined jacket like it had personally insulted him, before stalking toward the door. Logan followed with that lazy stride of his, ever the shadow to Damien's storm.
At the booth, June sat frozen, her back still facing the counter. Her heart hammered so loudly she swore the entire diner could hear it. She dared not look, dared not breathe. Her fingers twisted the napkin in her lap until it nearly tore.
"…Grace," she whispered out the corner of her mouth. "Are they gone?"
Grace, of course, had her chin tilted ever so slightly, eyes darting past June's shoulder to the two figures at the door. "Not yet," she murmured, lips barely moving. "Wait—no, don't move—"
"Are they leaving?" June hissed softly.
"Almost." Grace's eyes widened suddenly. "Oh, oh my God, he's looking. He's looking."
June stiffened. "What?!"
"Don't turn!" Grace hissed, clutching her cousin's wrist under the table. "He'll see—"
As if that made sense. June sat ramrod straight, every muscle screaming to turn around. Grace, on the other hand, ducked low, like that would make her invisible. The absurdity of it—their awkward fidgeting, the half-duck under the table—drew the faintest quirk of amusement to Damien's lips as he reached the door.
For just a heartbeat, his storm-grey eyes lingered on the girls' booth. His gaze was sharp, unreadable, and yet… oddly entertained.
Then, with a push of the door and a soft jingle of the diner bell, he and Logan stepped out into the bright Blackstone morning.
Gone.
The booth fell into silence.
Grace popped up first, dragging in a deep breath. "Holy crap," she muttered, clutching her chest in exaggerated relief. "Do you even know what you just did?"
June blinked at her. "I—I spilled a milkshake—"
"On Damien Cross." Grace leaned across the table as if delivering a state secret. "Damien freaking Cross!"
Grace continued, eyes wide, voice low and dramatic. "He's… he's like—ugh, how do I even put it? He's that guy. The cool, impossible one. The guy you don't touch, don't mess with, don't even spill milkshakes on. His last name's Cross, and you don't cross him. Ever."
June swallowed hard, her palms clammy. She could still see the brief flicker of his stare, the sharp jawline, the almost magnetic presence he carried with such effortless arrogance.
Grace wasn't done. "And get this—he's not just anybody. He's Lucien Cross's… well, I don't know if he's his actual son or something else, but same surname, same everything. So either way, he's untouchable. People don't question the Cross family. They're… rich. Powerful. Basically the kings of Blackstone."
June frowned, chewing on her lip. "And he goes to Blackstone High?"
Grace let out a humorless laugh. "Oh, yeah. Same class. Senior year. Lucky us." She rolled her eyes, though a tiny smile tugged at her lips. "And as if Damien himself isn't enough, he's always with Logan Collins. You saw him—the one with the charming grin? That's Logan. Everyone likes Logan. He's the friendly one, But Damien…"
Grace paused, leaning back with a sigh. "Damien doesn't need to be liked. He just… is. And the scary part? People can't help but watch him anyway."
June stared down at the half-empty milkshake glass between them, her pulse still unsteady. She had no idea what she'd stumbled into with this town—but one thing was clear: Damien Cross wasn't someone you just "bumped into" and walked away from.
Her thoughts spiraled, unbidden. That night. The one she tried so hard to push to the back of her mind.
The eyes. Gold. Burning like fire in the dark.
The speed. Too fast. No human could move like that.
The fight. Bodies colliding with inhuman force, so violent, so impossible.
She pressed her palms against her knees under the table, grounding herself, but the questions refused to leave. What was he? Human? A ghost? Some… thing I can't explain?
A chill raced down her spine. The pieces didn't fit, not in any way her mind wanted them to. And now here he was, flesh and blood, magnetic and arrogant, standing in front of her like he hadn't just shattered the natural order of everything she knew a few nights ago.
She almost blurted it out—almost turned to Grace and said I've seen him before. That night. He's not normal. His eyes glowed. He fought like a monster in the dark.
But then she pictured Grace's wide eyes, her mouth hanging open, and the very next second her voice carrying across the diner loud enough for the whole of Blackstone to hear.
No. Not now. Maybe not ever.
"…and I'm telling you, June, he's a total douchebag," Grace's voice cut through her storm of thoughts, animated as always. She gestured with a fry like it was a microphone. "Like, yeah, he's cool, and yeah, every girl in school has drooled over him at least once, but Damien Cross? He does whatever he wants. No one tells him what to do. Ever. Teachers don't even bother anymore."
June blinked, dragging herself back into the present, trying to follow.
Grace leaned closer, lowering her voice in a mock-dramatic whisper. "He's that kind of guy who doesn't care what rules he bends, He's… he's Damien." She threw her hands up like that single word was explanation enough.
June forced a small smile, though her mind was miles away. Grace's words tumbled around her—loud, certain, exaggerated—but all June could hear was the memory of that other night. His eyes. That speed. That impossible strength.
Her stomach twisted. If he isn't human… then what is he?
And more importantly…
Why did fate drag me into his path twice?
**********************
The diner door swung shut behind them, muting the hum of voices and the clatter of dishes. The evening air hit sharp and cool, tinged with the faint scent of gasoline and asphalt. Their bikes waited at the curb like beasts of chrome and steel—sleek, gleaming, more power packed into them than anyone in Blackstone had business riding.
Logan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, giving Damien a sidelong glance as they crossed the lot. "Alright," he said, his tone casual but sharp underneath. "Spill. What was that back there?"
Damien tugged at the zipper of his jacket, expression unreadable. "What do you mean?"
"The waitress was practically melting on the spot and you didn't even throw a sarcastic jab her way. Instead, you stood there staring at milkshake girl like you'd forgotten how words work."
Damien's jaw tightened, but his smirk came slow, practiced, the kind he wore like armor. "Milkshake girl. Real creative, Logan."
Logan just arched a brow. "She's new...her face is unfamiliar. Have you two met before"
For a moment, Damien didn't answer. He leaned against his bike, fingers drumming lightly on the handlebar. Then, finally, he said, almost offhand, "Yeah. I've seen her before."
Logan straightened, interest flickering across his face. "What do you mean 'seen her before'?"
Damien's eyes narrowed slightly, golden in memory, not in reality. "The night we tracked that rogue vampire." His tone was quiet, thoughtful—rare for him. "She was there. Wrong place, wrong time. She would've been torn apart if I hadn't stepped in."
Logan frowned. "That night?" His brows knit. "Wait—you mean she was out there at that hour? Who the hell moves into town in the middle of the night?"
Damien gave a short shrug, pretending he didn't care, though the crease between his brows betrayed him. "I don't know. That's what it looked like. She had a bag slung over her shoulder. I figured she was just… arriving."
"Arriving at midnight, right into the arms of a rogue?" Logan muttered, shaking his head. "This town attracts weirdness like moths to a flame."
Damien didn't respond. He turned slightly, gaze drawn back through the wide diner windows. From where he stood, he could see her still—her profile bathed in the warm glow of the overhead lights. She was laughing at something Grace said, though it was small, unsure, like she hadn't laughed like that in a long time.
And again, that scent ghosted him. Not the cloying sweetness of the milkshake that still stained his jacket. Something else. Softer. Floral. Maddening.
For once, Damien Cross was quiet.
Logan noticed. He leaned against his own bike, arms crossed. "You're still staring," he said flatly. "Want me to get you a pair of binoculars? Or should I leave you to your first crush like a proud parent?"
Damien's head snapped toward him, glare sharp enough to cut. "Shut up, Logan."
But Logan only laughed, throwing a leg over his bike. "Uh-huh. Sure. Whatever you say."
Damien lingered just a moment longer, eyes tracing that side view through the glass. One last look. Then, with a sharp inhale, he slid onto his bike, the engine roaring to life beneath him.
The sound shattered the quiet of the lot, a low growl that turned heads even from inside the diner. Logan's bike followed suit, both machines vibrating with power, ready to tear down the road.
With a twist of the throttle, both hunters shot forward, twin blurs of steel and smoke disappearing into the view.