Kieran pushed away from the window. “We approach him. Tonight. Together.”
“And say what?” Dante challenged. “Hello, stranger, you’re our destinedmate, and we’ve been stalking you for a week?”
“We tell the truth.” Alaric moved toward the door, purpose in every line of his body. “We tell him he’s ours, and we’re his, and nothing in this world or the next will change that.”
Sam paused, fingers still on the keys. His chest felt tight - the good kind of tight that came from writing something that mattered, even if it was just silly paranormal romance no one would ever read.
“Too cheesy?” he asked Basil.
The purr continued, steady and content.
“Yeah. I think so too.”
He saved the document and finally ate another bite of cold pasta, already planning the next scene where his ordinary human protagonist would meet three vampires and discover he’d been fated all along. It was pure fantasy, but gods, Sam wished it were real.
/~/~/~/~/
And I’m done for the day.
Saving the document one more time, Sam watched the little spinning wheel confirm his words were safe. So far, twenty-three thousand words of romance that would never see the light of day.
Sighing, Sam closed the laptop and set his bowl aside as he stood up. Basil protested the movement with a meep but resettled, claiming the warm spot Sam’s thigh had left on the chair.
It’s such a lovely idea,he thought as he washed his few dishes and left them on the counter. Not necessarily three gorgeous immortals with mystical bonds and centuries of devotion - Sam wasn’t that far gone. But even just one person in his life would be nice. Someone who’d texted him during the day for no reason, someone who’d laugh at the stories Sam told about his shift at the Daily Bean, and who’d care that Mrs. Patterson had finally tried the lavender latte he’d been recommending for weeks.
Someone who’d chosen him. Sam pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. Twenty-seven felt young when he woke up in the morning, but it felt old at night when he sat alone at his kitchen table, writing romance for fictional characters because real romance seemed about as likely as vampires.
It’s not like Sam hadn’t tried. He’d downloaded the apps, filled out the profiles, and swiped right on guys who seemed decent. There had been a few conversations that had fizzled out quickly and one coffee date that had been reasonably pleasant until the guy checked his phone every five minutes and cut things short with a vague “I’ll text you.” He never did, of course.
Emma meant well with her comments -too nice, too soft -but Sam had already done the math. He wasn’t tall, he wasn’t built, and he worked at a coffee shop, not at some impressive office career. He wrote romance novels in his spare time that he’dnever publish because who’d want to read them anyway?
His freckles and wavy hair were cute when he was twelve. At twenty-seven, they just made him look younger than he was, and a lot less serious.
“It’s fine,” Sam said to the cat. “I’m fine. I have you. I have my cottage. I have my job.”
And he did have his stories where ordinary people got swept up in extraordinary love. Where fate existed, bonds formed effortlessly, and someone looked at the protagonist and saw amateinstead ofa nice guy who makes decent coffee.It was pure escapism, but it was still fun.
Drying his hands, Sam leaned against the counter, looking around his compact kitchen. Everything was exactly as he’d left it that morning, and it was likely it would be left the same tomorrow morning. He had no one to share space with, to negotiate cabinet organization, or argue aboutwhose turn it was to take out the trash. It was always his turn.
He’d accepted it, mostly. Some people found their person, some even got their grand romance. Sam had his quiet life, his cat, and his stories.
It could be a lot worse. Sam knew that. He wasn’t miserable. He had friends and regulars at the shop who brightened when they saw him. Between his home, work, and everything else, he had enough.
But gods, some nights Sam wondered what it would be like to have someone choose him. Not because of mystical bonds or destiny, just because they wanted to. Because they looked at Sam Brown with his rounded face, soft middle, and ordinary life, and thought,yes, him.
“Pathetic,” Sam muttered, but without any heat. Basil meowed, probably agreeing.
Flipping off the kitchen light, Sam headed for the living room, leaving his laptop closed on the table. Tomorrow he’d write the meetingscene, the moment where his protagonist discovered he was loved beyond reason.
Tonight, he’d read someone else’s happy ending and pretend that was enough.
Sam yawned as he headed down the narrow hallway to the bathroom, Basil trotting behind like a fuzzy shadow. The cat had a routine as strict as Sam’s - bathroom time meant perching on the sink counter and judging Sam’s nighttime ablutions with green-eyed intensity.
Sam squeezed toothpaste onto his brush and met Basil’s stare in the mirror. “Yeah, I know. I’ve definitely got a touch of the dramatics tonight.”
Basil’s tail swished once.
The minty foam filled Sam’s mouth as he scrubbed, thinking about the scene he’d written. The way Kieran had looked at his mate like the human hung the moon, like centuries of waiting had led to that one special person. Sam spat and rinsed, realitysettling back over him. No one looked at anyone like that, not in real life.
