"Tristan's POV"
Three hundred years had passed since Zhilara's death, and I'd spent every one of them feeling nothing.
I got good at it. Perfected the art of existing without living, moving through centuries like a ghost in expensive clothes.
The supernatural community learned quickly. Don't approach Tristan unless you have business. Don't mention his past. Don't try to befriend him.
I preferred it that way.
The modern world made isolation easier. Cities were big enough to disappear in.
Technology advanced enough that I could conduct most business remotely.
Movement kept the memories at bay.
That's how I ended up in a bar called Luminous on a random Thursday in October.
The place was nothing special. Dim lighting, decent music, and young professionals trying to forget their mundane lives.
I sat in the back corner, nursing whiskey I couldn't get drunk on, scanning the crowd out of habit.
That's when I saw her.
She was behind the bar, laughing at something a customer said.
Her smile was genuine, reaching her eyes in a way that seemed impossible.
Bartenders learned to fake warmth. This girl wasn't faking anything.
I watched her work. She moved with easy grace, mixing drinks while maintaining three conversations, remembering orders without writing them down.
Tips piled up in her jar. People gravitated toward her.
She was beautiful, but that wasn't what caught my attention. I'd seen beautiful women for a thousand years.
No, it was something else. The way she tilted her head when she listened.
The way she touched an older man's hand gently when he looked sad.
The way she existed, like the world hadn't beaten the kindness out of her yet.
She reminded me of Zhilara.
I should have left immediately. Instead, I stayed. Ordered another drink just to have an excuse to remain.
Then a drunk patron got aggressive. Grabbed her wrist when she tried to collect his glass.
"Let go," she said firmly.
Come on, sweetheart. The drunk slurred his words. Just one drink with me.
That's my job. Now let go, or I'll call security.
I was moving before I decided to. My hand closed on the drunk's shoulder.
"She asked you to let go," I said quietly.
The drunk met my eyes. Whatever he saw there sobered him instantly. His hand released her wrist.
"Sorry," he mumbled. I was just leaving.
I made sure he did, compelling him to go home. When I returned, she was watching me.
"Thank you," she called. You didn't have to do that.
I shrugged. He was bothering you.
Happens more than you'd think. She smiled, and something in my chest tightened. But you moved fast.
Light crowd.
She grabbed a bottle of top-shelf whiskey and walked over. This one's on me. What's your name?
I should have lied. Instead, I told the truth.
Tristan.
Aurora. She extended her hand.
I hesitated before taking it. Her skin was warm. Living. I released her quickly.
"You're not from around here," she said.
I travel a lot.
Mysterious. She grinned. You've got the brooding loner aesthetic down perfectly. Very dramatic.
Is that right?
Absolutely. Dark corner, expensive whiskey, saving damsels. You're one leather jacket away from being a walking cliché.
I don't own any leather jackets.
Shame. I think you could pull it off.
A customer called her name. Duty calls. But don't be a stranger, mysterious Tristan.
She walked away. I sat there for another hour, watching her work. She glanced my way a few times. Each time she smiled.
I left before closing. Walked the city streets until dawn, trying to process what I was feeling. Nothing. I was supposed to feel nothing.
But Aurora's smile kept flashing through my mind.
I didn't return for two weeks. Stayed away, focusing on business, maintaining the cold distance I'd perfected.
It didn't work. She'd gotten under my skin somehow.
On the fifteenth night, I found myself outside Luminous again. Told myself I'd keep walking.
Then I walked inside.
"Aurora's POV"
I noticed him the moment he walked back in.
Two weeks. He'd been gone two weeks, and I'd convinced myself he wasn't coming back.
That maybe I'd been too forward, too pushy with the teasing.
But there he was. Same dark corner, same expensive whiskey, same careful way of watching everything without seeming to.
My heart did something stupid in my chest.
"You came back," I called over the noise. Thought maybe I scared you off.
I don't scare easily.
Good. I finished with another customer, then moved to his table. I looked at him and told him that I had a question.
What's that? He asked.
My shift ends in an hour. There's a diner three blocks from here that makes incredible pancakes. She paused. Do you care to join me?
No pressure, he answered.
His expression shifted. Something vulnerable flickered across his face before he locked it down again.
What kind of pancakes? he asked.
The kind that makes you forget you ever worried about anything.
That sounds impossible.
Only one way to find out.
The hour crawled by. I kept glancing at his corner, half-expecting him to disappear. But he stayed, nursing that same drink, waiting.
When my shift ended, I changed quickly and found him still there.
Ready? I asked.
"Yes," he said, but his eyes told a different story. They said he was terrified.
We walked in comfortable silence. I didn't push. Some people needed space to breathe, to exist without constant conversation filling the air.
The diner was nearly empty. We slid into a corner booth, and I ordered pancakes while he got coffee.
You're not eating?
Not hungry.
Your loss. The pancakes arrived, and I ate while asking questions.
Where he'd traveled, what he did. He answered carefully, like every word was measured.
"Your turn," he said finally. Tell me about Aurora.
Not much to tell. Moved here three years ago. Bartending pays the bills while I figure out what I want to do.
What do you think you want?
Something that helps people. I met his eyes. The world's full of lonely people, Tristan. Might as well try to make it a little less lonely.
He looked away, focusing on his untouched coffee.
"You're lonely," I said softly. It wasn't a question.
I've been alone a long time.
That's not the same thing.
Someone told me that once.
Were they right?
He was quiet for a long moment. Yes. They were right.
I reached across the table, covering his hand with mine. The contact felt natural and easy. Well, maybe you don't have to be quite so lonely anymore.
His eyes met mine, and I saw everything he'd been hiding. Loss. Grief. Fear. Like he'd been hurt so badly he'd forgotten how to heal.
Then he turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine.
"Maybe," he said quietly.
We sat there, hands clasped across the sticky table, and something shifted. Something fragile and new and terrifying.
I didn't know his story yet. Didn't
know what had hurt him or why he looked at me like I might disappear. But I knew loneliness when I saw it.
And I knew that sometimes the bravest thing you could do was reach out anyway.
His thumb traced circles against my palm, and he smiled. Small, barely there, but real.
It was a start.