The rain outside thickened — not violent, just steady, like a quiet applause from the sky.

The café lights flickered once, dimmed, then steadied again.

Liora was still holding his hand. She hadn’t realized until she saw a drop of water slide down from her sleeve — it wasn’t rain. It was condensation, from the coldness of her skin meeting his warmth.

She pulled her hand back suddenly.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“For what?” Devansh asked.

“For forgetting what I am.”

He smiled. “Then keep forgetting. It suits you.”

Her eyes softened, but before she could say anything, he stood up and moved toward the back counter — looking for napkins. He was half-distracted, humming under his breath.

“Do you ever—”

She stopped mid-sentence.

The sound came first: a soft crack of glass.

Devansh had accidentally dropped a cup.

He bent quickly to pick up the shards —

and then a sharp hiss escaped him.

“Ah— damn,” he muttered.

Liora froze.

She didn’t have to see. She could smell it.

The metallic sweetness in the air.

The scent she had buried for decades.

Blood.

Her pupils dilated instantly — like ink spreading in clear water. Her hands trembled as she gripped the counter. Every instinct screamed at her.

Don’t look. Don’t breathe. Don’t move.

But she did all three.

“Liora?” His voice was casual, unaware. “It’s just a scratch—”

He turned.

And saw her.

Her chest rose and fell sharply, her fangs faintly visible as she struggled to contain herself. Her eyes shimmered faintly crimson under the light.

“Don’t— move,” she whispered, voice tight, breaking.

He froze. Not in fear, but in understanding.

She took a step back, then another, pressing herself against the wall.

“Please,” she said, her voice shaking. “Go. I told you. When I smell it, I’m not me.”

He looked down at his bleeding hand — just a thin line of red — then back at her.

“Then what are you?” he asked quietly.

Her eyes flicked up — pain in them. “Hungry.”

He should’ve been terrified. He wasn’t.

Instead, he reached for a napkin, wiping the blood slowly — and said, almost gently,

“Then at least let me help you not be.”

Her breath caught. “Don’t.”

He didn’t listen. He took a step closer — slow, steady, never forcing.

“Devansh, stop.”

“You said you hated what you were.”

“I do.”

“Then let me be the reason you don’t — just for a second.”

She shook her head, trembling harder now, her body fighting itself.

“You don’t understand,” she whispered, voice cracking. “If I start, I won’t stop.”

He smiled softly, a strange calm in his eyes.

“Then I’ll trust you to.”

That broke her.

She turned away sharply, gripping the edge of the counter until her knuckles turned white. Tears she didn’t know she could still make slid down her face.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered.

“Because you deserve to feel alive too.”

She didn’t drink that night. She ran — out into the rain, vanishing into the dark.

And Devansh stood there, hand still bleeding, staring at the door she disappeared through — the air still trembling with the scent of her restraint.

For the first time, he wasn’t writing about pain.

He was living it.