The café was quieter than usual.

No customers, no sound — just the hum of the old refrigerator and the soft clink of ceramic as Devansh set his cup down.

Liora sat opposite him this time. She rarely did that. Her usual place was behind the counter — distance, always distance. But tonight she seemed tired of pretending the world couldn’t touch her.

He noticed the faint lines under her eyes. “Did you sleep?” he asked softly.

She shook her head. “I don’t… sleep like you do.”

He smiled faintly. “Then how do you rest?”

Her gaze lifted, calm but unreadable. “I don’t.”

Silence. A heavy one.

Devansh leaned back. “You know, you could at least try lying.”

She smirked — faintly. “You’d see through it.”

“Exactly.”

Another pause. The clock ticked somewhere behind them.

Then, as if breaking an invisible wall, she said quietly —

“You asked me once what I was.”

He didn’t answer. He just waited.

Liora looked down at her hands. Pale. Almost too pale.

“My kind doesn’t live — not the way humans do. We’re kept alive through what we take. Blood, mostly. Not out of hunger. Out of need.”

Devansh didn’t flinch.

She glanced at him — maybe expecting disgust. But there was none. Just a deep, curious calm.

“So that night,” he said slowly, “when your eyes changed…”

She nodded. “I was losing control. I haven’t fed in weeks. I didn’t want you to see that side.”

He leaned forward, voice softer now.

“You saved me, Liora. You didn’t hurt me.”

She looked up, eyes flickering with something fragile — guilt, maybe.

“But I wanted to,” she whispered. “Every instinct screamed for it. You have no idea what it’s like to fight your own nature every single night.”

“Maybe not,” he said, “but I know what it’s like to be scared of what’s inside you.”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

He smiled faintly. “I write for a living. Every story is a mirror. Some parts of me aren’t beautiful either.”

Her lips parted slightly — caught between surprise and understanding.

He reached out, very slowly, placing his hand near hers on the table but not touching.

“I don’t care what you are,” he said softly. “I only care who you are when you look at me.”

Her breath hitched.

No one had ever said it like that before. Not without fear. Not without trying to fix her.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she murmured.

“Why not?”

“Because people who do… end up regretting it.”

He smiled. “Then let me be the first who doesn’t.”

The clock ticked again.

She finally placed her hand over his — light as a whisper. Cold, but trembling.

And when she did, something changed.

Not in the air. Not in the world.

But in her.

For the first time in centuries, she didn’t feel like a creature wearing a mask.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” she said quietly.

He shook his head. “Then promise me you won’t be afraid of yourself either.”

The rain started again outside, faint and rhythmic — not the kind that destroyed, but the kind that cleansed.

And in that moment, she smiled — small, tired, but real.

A promise was made that night.

Not of love. Not yet.

But of not running anymore.