Hazel stepped into the café just after noon, the bell above the door chiming softly. The smell hit her immediately—roasted beans, caramel syrup, cinnamon... and behind it all, faint but unmistakable, the undercurrent of warm bodies and coursing blood.

  She ignored it.

  The pce was cozy but not cramped—brick walls lined with bookshelves, small wooden tables, soft jazz humming in the background.

  People looked up when she walked in. They always did now. A young man at the window seat dropped his pen. The barista blinked twice before remembering to smile.

  "Hi there—what can I get started for you?"

  Hazel gnced at the chalkboard menu, then offered a faint smile. "Chamomile tea. With honey, please."

  It was the safest thing on the menu. She didn’t trust herself with heat anymore—not since her st attempt to drink coffee had ended with her nearly gagging from the bitterness. It hadn’t tasted wrong, exactly. Just… irrelevant.

  She moved to an empty corner table, lowering herself into the chair with the kind of elegance that made people think she was older than she looked. Her bck hair fell smoothly over her shoulder as she pulled out a book, trying to focus.

  But the smells persisted.

  So did the pulse of the room.

  A girl at the counter unwrapped a bandage from her finger—papercut, maybe. The scent of blood was no stronger than a whisper, but to Hazel, it sliced through the sugar and spice like a bde.

  Her hands tensed around her teacup. Amber-gold eyes flicked up.

  Her throat ached—not with thirst, but need.

  She swallowed. Hard. And smiled.

  Because if anyone in the café noticed the shimmer of hunger in her gaze, they might start to realize:

  She wasn’t here for the tea.

  The moment stretched on, and Hazel’s gaze wandered, though her mind remained locked on the steady pulse of life around her.

  She could hear the low murmur of conversations, the clinking of ceramic mugs, the hiss of the steam wand from the coffee machine.

  It was all a rhythm she had once understood, but now it felt distant—like music she no longer knew how to dance to.

  Her eyes lingered on the girl at the counter, still nursing her paper-cut, the warm smell of blood tugging at her, coaxing her instincts to rise. Hazel’s fingers tightened around the edge of her cup, the porcein cold against her skin.

  But just as quickly, she let the tension slip away—she could control this, she told herself. The hunger could wait. It had to.

  A movement at the corner of her vision caught her attention. A figure approached, uncertainty flickering in his eyes as his gaze met hers. She didn’t need to look up to know what it was.

  The scent of cologne—strong, youthful, mixed with the faintest trace of nervousness—drifted toward her. A man. Looking for something.

  A shadow moved across the tabletop.

  Hazel didn’t look up at first—she felt his approach before she saw it. The subtle increase in heart rate, the shift in breathing, the distinct scent of nervous sweat under cologne. She turned a page in her book slowly, eyes tracking the words she wasn’t really reading.

  "Sorry to bother you," a voice said—young, earnest. "But I… noticed you sitting here, and, well… I thought maybe I’d be even sorrier if I didn’t say anything."

  She looked up.

  He was attractive in that typical, college-boy way. Tousled hair. Broad shoulders. Jacket slung casually over one arm. He smiled, not cocky, but confident enough to believe his attention would be welcome.

  "It’s just—I don’t usually do this," he added, rubbing the back of his neck. "But you seem like someone who should never have to sit alone."

  Hazel closed the book. Her fingers brushed the cover once, neatly aligning it with the edge of the table.

  She smiled—just enough to be polite. "And yet here I am. Alone. Voluntarily."

  He blinked. "Oh. Right. I just thought—"

  "You thought wrong," she interrupted gently, her voice like dark velvet. "But it was sweet. Brave, even."

  He chuckled awkwardly, unsure if he’d just been complimented or eviscerated. "So, uh… no chance I could buy you a refill?"

  Hazel tilted her head, eyes cool and golden.

  "I don’t drink anything from strangers," she said, then added, "Especially not ones still figuring out how to hide their nerves."

  He went pale—embarrassed, clearly—but nodded, stepping back. "Right. Got it. Sorry to bother you."

  Hazel offered him a small nod as he retreated, then reopened her book.

  She hadn’t read a single sentence.

  The man lingered for a moment, as if waiting for a hint that maybe he hadn’t completely failed. When Hazel didn’t give him one, he shuffled away.

  She watched him retreat, then returned her gaze to the open book in front of her. The pages blurred for a moment as her mind rewound, pulling the words she’d read moments ago into perfect crity.

  With an almost imperceptible tilt of her head, she gnced at the text. A fleeting, silent pause, and the words she hadn’t actually seen—or cared to—flooded back into focus, almost too easily.

  'The moon rises from the horizon as a symbol of cyclical renewal—its phases a constant reminder that we, too, move between dark and light, fleeting in our own right…'

  She could recite the entire paragraph without needing to read it again. The moment lingered, a reminder of her abilities. It was effortless, almost boring.

  But that wasn’t what kept her focused. Her attention flicked to the door—the faint echo of a car honking outside, the uneven footsteps of someone passing by. And then, there was the faintest trace of something… off.

  The door had barely closed behind the admirer, but another presence lingered at the edge of her senses. Someone watching her from outside. She could feel it, even with the café bustling with noise. Hazel’s eyes narrowed slightly. Was it him? No, something else.

  But for now, it was all she needed to ignore. She gnced down at the book again—no longer interested in the words, but in the soft hum of the world around her.

  The café door chimed softly, and a woman stepped inside, her presence almost magnetic. She wore a bck leather jacket over a simple t-shirt, her dark hair falling in waves around her shoulders, a few loose strands catching the soft glow of the café's lighting.

  Her features were sharp, yet strikingly symmetrical, with high cheekbones and a straight nose that gave her an almost ethereal, statuesque quality.

  As she moved through the room, there was an effortless grace in her stride, each step fluid and calcuted, as though she was fully aware of the way she commanded attention.

  Her eyes, dark as night, swept across the café, scanning the room with the kind of quiet observation that made it clear she wasn’t just another customer.

  She paused when her gaze nded on Hazel, a brief flicker of recognition in her eyes, though neither woman made a move to acknowledge it yet.

  The air between them hummed with unspoken understanding, like two people who didn’t need to speak the same nguage to know exactly what the other was.

  With a casual, almost predatory confidence, she made her way over to Hazel's table. She didn’t rush—there was no need. She was in control, and that was evident in the calm precision of her movements.

  When she reached the table, she gave a small, almost amused smile, as if she’d expected to find Hazel there all along.

  "Mind if I join you?" The woman asked, her voice smooth, almost melodic, a stark contrast to the way she moved—quiet, deliberate, but with the unmistakable presence of someone who wasn’t used to being ignored.

  Hazel didn’t hesitate. She nodded and gestured to the empty seat across from her. "Be my guest."

  The woman slid into the chair without waiting for any further invitation, her posture rexed but confident, leaning slightly forward as she folded her hands on the table.

  "I’m Alex, by the way," she said casually, eyes glinting with a knowing light. "I couldn’t help but notice you from across the room. I thought we might have something in common."

  Hazel’s lips quirked into a slight smile, but she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she took a moment to study Alex, as if weighing how much to reveal or whether to engage further.

  It wasn’t like she hadn’t noticed the other woman’s presence the moment she stepped into the café.

  "Something in common?" Hazel repeated, arching an eyebrow. She hadn’t missed the subtle tension in Alex’s posture. They were both familiar with the situation, no need to put it into words.

  Alex’s smile widened just a fraction. "Yeah, I think you probably know what I mean." She didn’t eborate further, but the look in her eyes—the quiet understanding—spoke volumes.

  "I’m not usually this... forward. But you looked like someone who could use a conversation that didn’t involve the usual small talk."

  Hazel studied her for a moment longer before responding, her tone dry. "I’m not one for small talk either."

  "Good," Alex said with a small ugh. "You’re my kind of person, then."

  The two sat in silence for a moment, the air between them charged with a kind of unspoken awareness.

  Hazel could sense Alex’s presence more acutely now—there was no need for a conversation to reveal the obvious. The way Alex’s scent lingered faintly in the air, the slower pace of her breathing.

  They were both... different. And yet, somehow, neither of them seemed particurly phased by it anymore.

  After a beat, Alex leaned back slightly in her chair, her gaze still fixed on Hazel.

  "So, what’s your story? You don’t exactly look like you’re here for coffee and pastries. At least not in the usual sense."

  She took a slow sip from her cup, eyes never leaving Hazel’s.

  Hazel let out a quiet breath, leaning back in her own chair. "I could say the same for you."

  Alex chuckled softly, a knowing glint in her eye. "Fair enough. I guess we’re both just... trying to make sense of things."

  There it was again—that understanding. It was so easy to settle into the silence that followed, both women knowing exactly what the other meant without needing to spell it out.