I had no idea where I was, but at least this time I wasn’t clawing my way out of a vampire pit, covered in dirt and surrounded by corpses. Progress, right?

I closed my eyes and tried to center myself, taking a slow breath. In. Out. I could almost hear Father Ben’s voice in my head, offering some cryptic reassurance like, “Patience is a virtue,” or whatever priests like to say when they don’t have an immediate solution.

This time, though, I wasn’t completely in the dark -well, metaphorically speaking. I’d done this before. It was about letting go, feeling the world around me, and letting my senses guide me. I relaxed, extending my awareness outward. The city buzzed faintly in the distance, a symphony of urban life. Engines rumbled, honks blared, and snippets of conversation drifted through the night. The stink of civilization wrapped around me -exhaust fumes, stale fast food grease, and the acrid scent of too many people packed too close together. It wasn’t exactly comforting, but it was familiar.

Beneath all that noise, I felt it again -the pull. That strange gravity that tugged at me like an invisible thread tied around my chest. It wasn’t forceful or demanding, but it was insistent. Wherever it was leading me, it wasn’t going to stop until I got there.

I let my mind wander, focusing just enough to follow the pull but not so much that it slipped away. That’s the trick: don’t overthink it. Like trying to remember the name of an actor in some old movie -you only get it when you stop trying. My feet moved on their own, carrying me through the quiet streets as the world slowly came to life around me.

The night stretched on, and I walked. Father Ben had been right about one thing -the sun didn’t hurt me. When it rose, bathing the desert in its merciless glare, I braced myself for agony. Nothing. I was fine. No sizzling flesh, no spontaneous combustion. Just heat. Oppressive, sweat-dripping heat. But that, I could handle. After all, this was the desert. It felt appropriate, like the universe had decided to make things difficult but not impossible.

By the time noon rolled around, I was drenched in sweat and parched. The pull guiding me finally began to ease. I stopped in front of a rundown motel, the kind where the neon sign buzzes faintly, and the parking lot smells like spilled motor oil and regret. I took a deep breath, the overwhelming chlorine from the pool nearby nearly making me gag. The air felt heavy, saturated with heat and the faint whiff of stale beer from somewhere inside.

I tilted my head, focusing. Someone was moving inside one of the rooms. A shuffle, a muffled curse, the scrape of a chair. I followed the sound, my hand brushing against the rough texture of the motel door as I found it. I knocked, firm enough to get their attention but not so hard as to seem threatening.

Everything inside the room went still. The noises stopped, replaced by a faint tension in the air. Whoever was inside approached cautiously; I could hear the hesitant shuffle of bare feet on cheap carpet. A soft click of a chain being undone reached my ears, followed by the scrape of a latch. The door opened a crack, and a voice called out, sharp and wary.

“Who’s there?”

The second I heard her voice, recognition hit me like a freight train. I knew that voice. Relief and something else -something warmer- bubbled up unexpectedly. I grinned, shrugging slightly even though she couldn’t see me.

“I thought you might need some help,” I said, layering my voice with as much charm as I could muster. I had no idea what I looked like, but flannel and jeans are hard to mess up. Right?

There was a sharp intake of breath. “Oh my god, it’s you!” The door closed briefly, and I heard the chain slide free. Then the door swung open so fast I thought it might fly off its hinges.

Before I could say a word, she threw herself at me, arms wrapping around me with surprising strength. The hug caught me completely off guard. She wasn’t just hugging me -she was clinging to me, holding on like I was a lifeline.

For a second, I stood there, stiff and uncertain. But I’m nothing if not adaptable. My arms came up, and I returned the embrace, awkward at first but quickly finding a rhythm. Her body shook slightly against mine, and it took me a moment to realize she was crying.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” I said softly, my voice barely above a whisper. I wasn’t sure what to say -words had never been my strong suit in moments like this- but I figured quiet reassurance was a safe bet.

Her sobs were muffled against my chest, her shoulders trembling. She was small, but the intensity of her grip made up for her size. She was hanging on for dear life, and I had no intention of letting go until she was ready.

Minutes passed, or maybe just moments. Time felt slippery. Finally, she pulled back, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “I thought…” she began, her voice breaking. She wiped at her face, her hands trembling. “I thought you were dead.”

“Well,” I said, forcing a grin, “you’re half-right. Technically, I guess I am. But hey, you look great.”

She let out a laugh -part disbelief, part relief. It was the kind of laugh that comes when you’re still trying to figure out if you’re dreaming or not. “Declan, what the hell happened to you?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to find a way to sum up the past few days without sounding like a lunatic. “Oh, you know. Got mixed up in some weird stuff. Vampires. Blood moons. The usual Vegas shenanigans.”

Her eyes widened, and for a moment, I thought she might faint. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” I said. “Though I guess my heart doesn’t technically beat anymore, so…”

She stared at me, her expression a mix of shock and something I couldn’t quite place. Fear? No, not quite. It was more like… understanding. Like she knew more than she was letting on.

“You saved me,” she said suddenly, her voice quiet but firm. “That night at the club. You-” Her words caught in her throat, and she looked away, blinking rapidly.

“Hey,” I said gently, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “You don’t owe me anything. I’m just glad you’re okay.”

She looked back at me, her eyes glistening. “But you… you didn’t have to. You risked your life. Why?”

I hesitated. There were a lot of reasons, most of which I didn’t fully understand myself. But in the end, it boiled down to one thing. “Because it was the right thing to do.”

Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

Her lip quivered, and she nodded, as if that answer was enough. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?”

I smirked. “Yeah, well, I’m still working on it.”

She stepped aside, gesturing for me to come in. “You should sit down. You look… well, you look like you’ve been through hell.”

I laughed as I stepped into the room, the door clicking shut behind me. “You’re not wrong.”

The room was small and smelled faintly of cleaning chemicals and cheap air freshener. I could hear the faint hum of an air conditioner struggling against the desert heat. She motioned to a chair by the small table, and I sat down, the old wood creaking under my weight.

She sat across from me, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “What happens now?” she asked.

I leaned back, running a hand through my hair. “Honestly? I don’t know. I’m kind of making this up as I go.”

Her brow furrowed. “You don’t have a plan?”

“Not exactly,” I admitted.

I heard her move towards me and before I knew it, she was sitting in my lap, the chair threatening to collapse under our combined weight, as she buried her head in my shoulder and just held me. She was shivering slightly, and I just sat there in silence at the unexpected follow-up show of affection.

It was such a difference compared to how she treated me back in the club. But who could blame her, you know? What with being chased by psycho vampire goons and all.

Eventually, she pulled away, stepping back and wiping at her face with a shaky hand. “I’m so sorry about that,” she said, her voice tinged with embarrassment. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay,” I said, offering a small smile. “I’m happy to see you too. But… we need to talk.”

She paused and I could practically hear her blink. “Oh, of course!” she said, nodding quickly. But then, just as fast, she hesitated. “Actually, I was just heading out. Do you want to grab a bite, maybe? I know a great place.”

“Sure,” I said, matching her casual tone. “Sounds good to me.”

“Perfect,” she said, her enthusiasm returning. “There’s this little diner nearby. They have the best blueberry French toast. We’ll talk over breakfast.”

She stepped into her bathroom briefly to grab her bag. The sound of zippers and rustling fabric reached me before she emerged again, the door clicking shut behind her. “Follow me,” she said. “I have a rental downstairs.”

I turned toward her voice, hesitating. It wasn’t the idea of following her that gave me pause -it was the practical logistics of walking without face-planting on the way. My hesitation must’ve shown because she slowed, her footsteps stopping a short distance ahead of me.

“What’s the matter?” she asked, her voice suddenly tinged with concern.

I pulled off my sunglasses, revealing the scars that crisscrossed my face, each line a reminder of that night. “I haven’t fully recovered from the last time we met,” I admitted, keeping my tone light despite the weight of the truth.

She gasped softly, the sound sharp and quick. Before I could say anything else, she was at my side, her hand brushing lightly against my cheek. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?” Her fingers were gentle, hesitant, as if afraid touching me might make things worse.

“It’s fine,” I said, resisting the urge to lean into the kindness. “It’s just a little… tricky to get around right now.”

Her hand lingered for a moment before she pulled it back. “Of course,” she said, her voice resolute. “Here, let me help.” She slipped her bag into my hands and took my other hand in hers. Her grip was warm, firm but unsure, like someone determined to do the right thing but not entirely sure how. “Let’s take it slow.”

She led me down the walkway, her movements careful but awkward. It was clear she wasn’t used to guiding someone who couldn’t see, and more than once, she stopped abruptly, muttering quick apologies before adjusting her steps. Unlike Father Ben, who moved with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this before, her assistance was clumsy but heartfelt. That made it better, somehow.

“Thanks,” I said once we’d made it to her car. It wasn’t much, but I felt the need to acknowledge her effort.

“No problem,” she said. I could hear the small smile in her voice even if I couldn’t see it.

The car was warm, the seats radiating heat absorbed from hours under the sun. I settled in as she started the engine, the hum of the air conditioning kicking in to battle the oppressive desert air. But as the car pulled out onto the road, silence fell between us. Not the comfortable kind, but the heavy, awkward kind that makes you hyper-aware of every little sound -the hum of tires on asphalt, the faint rattle of something loose in the console, the hitch in her breath when she started to speak and then thought better of it.

I didn’t push. After everything we’d been through, I figured she deserved the time to process. Truth be told, I wasn’t exactly sure what to say either. We didn’t really know each other, not in any meaningful way, but we’d shared an experience that few people ever could. That kind of connection defied logic and familiarity.

The silence stretched all the way to the diner. When she finally parked, the engine let out a soft pinging as it cooled, the sound oddly loud in the quiet.

“We’re here,” she said softly, breaking the silence.

“Lead on,” I said, attempting a bit of swagger. It probably came off more corny than anything, but it was worth a shot.

The diner smelled like nostalgia -bacon grease, burnt coffee, and just a hint of something sweet like cinnamon. She led me inside, her pace slower this time, more thoughtful.

“Here, let me help you sit,” she said when we reached a booth.

I waved her off with a small smile. “I’m not that much of an invalid,” I said lightly. “Don’t worry, I can seat myself.”

The words hung awkwardly for a moment, but I smiled to take the sting out of them. I slid into the booth, my hand brushing against the cool pleather of the seat.

The scent of fake maple syrup hit me hard, mixing with the saccharine smell of overly sweet fruit spreads. My fingers brushed the edge of the metal condiments holder on the table, sticky from who-knows-how-many pancake syrup bottles. Curious, I touched my fingers to my tongue.

Boom. Nailed it. Syrup.

Across from me, I heard her sit down. The shuffle of fabric and the faint clink of her bag hitting the seat told me she was fidgeting. She hadn’t spoken since we walked in, and the tension was beginning to feel like another person at the table.

“You’re fidgeting,” I said casually, leaning back against the seat. “What’s up?”

She let out a soft laugh, the sound short and uncertain. “Sorry. I just… I guess I’m still processing everything.”

“Take your time,” I said, giving her an out. “This isn’t exactly a normal Tuesday for me either.”

She laughed again, this time a little more freely. “That’s an understatement.”

The waitress came by, her shoes squeaking slightly on the linoleum. “What can I get you folks?” she asked, her voice bright and chipper, the kind of tone you hear from someone who’s been up since dawn and is fueled entirely by caffeine and customer service training.

“I’ll take the blueberry French toast,” Charlie said quickly. “And a coffee, black.”

“And for you?” the waitress asked.

“Same,” I said. “Though if you’ve got something with caffeine that tastes less like dirt, I’m open to suggestions.”

She chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

When the waitress left, Charlie leaned forward. I could hear the slight creak of the table under her weight. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“What happened to you? I mean… after the club.”

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. How much could I tell her without sending her running for the hills? “It’s a long story,” I said finally. “Let’s just say things got messy.”

Her silence encouraged me to continue, so I did, giving her a carefully edited version of events -enough to satisfy her curiosity without diving into the full horror show. When I was done, she sat back, letting out a slow breath.

“That’s… a lot,” she said finally.

“Tell me about it,” I said, trying to inject some levity. “And that’s the PG version.”

The food arrived then, and for a while, we just ate in companionable silence. The French toast was as good as she promised -sweet, sticky, and loaded with blueberries that burst like little explosions of flavor.

“So,” I said between bites, “what about you? How’ve you been holding up?”

She hesitated, then began to talk. Slowly at first, but as the words came, they tumbled out in a rush. She told me about leaving the club that night, about the strange pull she’d felt afterward that had led her here, to the motel. It sounded eerily familiar.

By the time she finished, the plates were empty, and the coffee cups were half-drained. For the first time in what felt like forever, I felt… grounded. Not safe, exactly, but steady. And that was enough.