She glances at me.
“The best things rarely are,” I say quietly. “Planned, I mean.”
The words emerge before I can consider them. Too honest. Too revealing. But Poppy’s expression shifts—surprise giving way to something softer—and I find I don’t regret them.
Then the realization hits me. Not like lightning, more like snow—soft, inevitable, covering everything in its quiet way. I’ve been falling for weeks. Since she handed me that laminated cheat sheet and looked at me like I might be worth knowing.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
I don’t check it. I already know what it says. Some new taunt. Some reminder that Damien is watching. Some threat, veiled or direct, that’s meant to make me pull away again.
I won’t.
Not tonight. Tonight, I’m going to sit here and listen to Poppy tell embarrassing stories about herself. I’m going to hold her hand under the table. I’m going to pretend—just for a few hours—that I’m a man who deserves to be here.
Even if I’m not.
Even if the monster outside the window is only waiting for the right moment to remind me what happens when I let myself care.
The dinner ends around eleven.
Poppy is slightly tipsy from the champagne toasts—three glasses, which is one more than her usual limit. She leans into me as we walk back toward our building, her arm looped through mine, her head occasionally resting against my shoulder.
“That went better than I expected,” she says.
“Your family is less terrifying than advertised.”
“You haven’t seen them at Thanksgiving.” She laughs. “Last year, my mother and aunt had a thirty-minute argument about whether it’s acceptable to put marshmallows on sweet potatoes. Violet cried. My uncle left early to ‘check on the dogs,’ which we all know means drink whiskey in the garage.”
“Sounds eventful.”
“It was a bloodbath. Metaphorically.” She glances up at me. “Do you have family? I’ve never asked.”
The question is casual. The answer isn’t.
“Yes,” I say. “A few brothers.”
“I’d love to meet them.”
“I’d like that.” I squeeze her arm gently. “I’d like that very much.”
She considers this. Thinking. I can almost hear the questions forming—what’s their names, how old are they, are you close to them—but she doesn’t ask them.
Instead, she says: “What about friends?”
I think of Marcus. Of Celeste. Of the handful of immortals I’ve known long enough to trust—and the much larger number I’ve known long enough to fear.
“Marcus,” I say. “My driver. He’s been with me for quite some time. He knows more about me than almost anyone.”
“Does he know about this? About me?”
“He knows I’m here with you. He knows—” I hesitate. “He knows I’m being careful.”
“Careful of what?”
Of you. Of myself. Of what happens when I forget that this is temporary.
“Of making mistakes,” I say instead. “I have a history of... miscalculating when emotions are involved.”
