The exhaustion weighed on her shoulders as if she had spent the day hauling sacks of flour instead of trays of bread. Lorena walked slowly, her handbag looped over her arm, her mind still trapped in the bakery: what had been left to clean, the delivery that never arrived, that dull ache that had been shadowing her for weeks and tonight insisted on reminding her that something wasn’t right.

  She counted the days in her head. Only a few pills left. She would have to stop by the pharmacy tomorrow, if she remembered. She always forgot something.

  A man collided with her.

  “Sorry,” she said at once, out of sheer reflex, stepping back.

  He staggered, dragging his feet. His clothes were dirty and his face was pale. Lorena assumed he was drunk. Or worse—sick. She edged aside carefully, avoiding looking at him for too long.

  “Excuse me,” she murmured.

  She turned to continue on her way. She had taken only a few steps when suddenly the man was standing in front of her.

  Lorena froze. It took her a second to register that it made no sense: he hadn’t had time to circle around her or overtake her. He was simply… there.

  She lifted her gaze... and saw the fangs.

  They weren’t exaggerated or grotesquely long. Just real. Peeking between cracked lips stained with something dark.

  “Blood…” he whispered, voice frayed.

  A knot tightened instantly in her throat. Not a drunk. A vampire.

  She had heard about demon attacks. They showed up in the news, in warnings, in those stories that always happened to someone else.

  Never to her.

  Fear lashed through her body. She didn’t scream. She didn’t think. She ran.

  At first her legs obeyed, driven by raw terror, but within seconds the air began to thin. Her chest burned. Her heart slammed violently against her ribs. She knew she couldn’t keep this up. She knew it—and still she forced herself to push harder.

  “Wait…” she heard behind her. “Don’t run…”

  The voice was weak. Pleading. That terrified her even more.

  She stumbled. Caught herself against a wall, gasping, dizzy. Each breath required deliberate effort.

  Then she felt the man’s hand close around her arm. The grip was cold and unyielding.

  Lorena squeezed her eyes shut. She thought she didn’t want to die there, on some random street at night, unnoticed by anyone.

  She felt the vampire’s breath against her neck.

  And then… nothing. No pain. No bite.

  She opened her eyes slowly, still trembling.

  The vampire stood perfectly still. His hand still held her arm, but there was no tension in his fingers. His face hovered inches from hers, mouth slightly open, fangs exposed. He didn’t blink. He didn’t move at all.

  She remained frozen for a second, unable to process it. Then instinct took over. She wrenched her arm back with the last of her strength. The grip gave way without resistance, and she fell to the ground.

  She scrambled away as best she could—crawling first, then forcing herself upright—never taking her eyes off him. The vampire hadn’t moved. Not even slightly.

  She reached home with trembling hands and a dry throat. She closed the door carefully, leaned her back against the wood, and let her body slide down to the floor. It took several minutes before her breathing evened out.

  When she finally stood, she saw it: on the small table by the window lay a flower. A forget-me-not. Beside it, a folded note.

  She opened it slowly and read.

  “I have decided you may continue living.”

  —Ekchron

  Lorena read the sentence once. Then again. Her gaze dropped to the signature.

  Ekchron.

  She shook her head. No. That made no sense. It had to be a joke. Someone using a name that wasn’t theirs.

  Ekchron didn’t leave notes with flowers. Ekchron didn’t save lives.

  Ekchron was a monster from the news. One of the Seven. The most unstable. The most dangerous. The one who toyed with human lives out of sheer boredom.

  She let the note fall onto the table, unable to stop staring at the signature.

  Had it really been him? Had Ekchron… saved her?

  A chill traveled down her spine. She couldn’t tell whether it was a miracle or a sentence. She had caught a monster’s attention.

  The next morning arrived like any other. Lorena stood behind the counter, counting the coins for the second time without realizing she had already done so. Her body felt heavy. Her legs ached more than usual, and her chest still tightened when she drew a deep breath. I didn’t run that much, she told herself. A lie.

  The note lingered in her mind. The signature most of all.

  “If you keep staring into space like that, I’m going to start thinking there’s another invisible customer and you’re ignoring me on purpose.”

  The voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

  Lorena looked up. Ekchron was leaning against the counter, bent slightly forward with that familiar expression hovering between amused and shameless. One eyebrow was faintly raised, as though he had been watching her for some time.

  “Ah. Azul. Sorry,” she murmured. “I was… distracted.”

  “So I noticed,” he replied with a grin. “What’s wrong, baker?”

  She hesitated.

  “Nothing. I’m just tired.”

  Ekchron studied her in silence.

  He knew exactly what had happened the night before. The alley. The vampire. The moment he decided to stop it and give her precisely enough time to escape.

  And once she could no longer see him—once her breathing disappeared down the street—time resumed. The vampire died before understanding why. No one touched what was his and continued to exist.

  But there was something he didn’t understand.

  Meat didn’t deteriorate like that from running a few minutes. It shook. It panicked. It tore a little. But by the next day it functioned again. Returned to its original shape as though nothing had happened.

  She didn’t.

  His gaze dropped to the corner of the counter. The blue cup with the forget-me-not. And beside it, the small bottle of pills he now recognized.

  Is that what keeps her functioning?

  He frowned.

  He didn’t like seeing her like this. He didn’t like the way his favorite thing seemed to be cracking, little by little.

  Lorena noticed his expression.

  “Azul,” she said softly.

  Rising onto her toes, she reached across the counter. Her fingers slipped into his hair with easy familiarity, gently ruffling it again.

  “Don’t make that face,” she added. “Really, it’s nothing.”

  He went completely still.

  Heat rushed to his cheeks. Again. She seemed to enjoy doing that. And he was never prepared for the contact. For her touching him as if he were… close. Important.

  “I just…” he began, then cleared his throat. “Fine.”

  She withdrew her hand, smiling as though nothing unusual had happened.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  “Do you want anything?” she asked. “It’s on me.”

  Ekchron smiled, regaining his composure.

  “Sure,” he said. “A kiss.”

  He said it as casually as if he were ordering bread.

  Lorena went quiet for a few seconds, processing. Then she laughed. It was clear and genuine, and it caught him completely off guard.

  “A kiss?” she repeated, amused.

  He looked at her, confused.

  “…Yes.”

  By every possible calculation, she should have been eager to kiss him.

  “You’re such a kid,” Lorena said, still smiling. “And I’m far too old for you.”

  That stung.

  “Age doesn’t matter,” he protested instantly. “It’s just a number. Arbitrary. Completely subjective. Besides, I mature quickly. Very quickly. You have no idea.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “I could give you a list of reasons,” he continued. “I’m responsible. Persistent. Protective. Extremely protective.”

  Protective was a generous description. Especially for someone who mistook safeguarding for annihilation.

  She shook her head, amused.

  “And besides,” she added, “I’m married.”

  Ekchron fell silent. The smile faded slowly, as though someone had dimmed a light. He had almost forgotten that detail.

  He didn’t care about human rules. But it bothered him—deeply—that someone else had already claimed her as property.

  Without another word, he went to sit at one of the tables in the back. He dropped into the chair dramatically, crossed his arms, and fixed his gaze on some undefined point in the bakery, visibly offended.

  “You’ll come to me eventually,” he muttered. “Begging for it.”

  Lorena heard him and laughed, covering her mouth with one hand.

  The bell above the door rang at that moment.

  “Good morning,” she said automatically, looking up.

  Ekchron watched her as she attended to the customer.

  The smile came to her effortlessly. Simple. Bright. The kind that made everything seem… right.

  He liked it. He liked it far too much.

  There was something in the way her lips curved, in the way her eyes softened, that created a strange sensation in his chest. Not unpleasant, but warm.

  He kept watching her, chin propped on his hand, thoughtful.

  Then something felt wrong.

  Why was she smiling at him?

  How strange. That customer had no right to it.

  What a pity. He would have to kill him.

  Lyciah was at home.

  Night fell slowly. Seliane moved around the room with easy familiarity, talking about trivial things while Lyciah smiled as she listened. She felt good. Calm. Happy.

  “By the way,” Seliane said casually, “while I was playing with Elric, I heard Caelan shout in that way that makes you think he’s about to execute someone on the spot.”

  Lyciah’s smile froze.

  “I… see,” she replied simply.

  Seliane watched her more closely, intrigued.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Of course. It’s just that…” Lyciah intertwined her fingers. “Nothing.”

  Seliane raised an eyebrow. Waited.

  “It’s nothing,” Lyciah repeated, rushing to fill the silence. “I was at his place for a moment and it was normal. Truly normal. I tripped, he caught me, it was awkward, but normal. Very normal. And that’s it. It’s... nothing.”

  She fell quiet, uncomfortable.

  “I haven’t thought about it again,” she added after a few seconds. “Not about how close he was. Not about his hand. Not about anything related to Caelan.”

  Seliane still said nothing.

  It took Lyciah a second to realize everything she had just admitted. She covered her face, completely flushed.

  “Please,” she muttered. “Pretend I didn’t say any of that.”

  “Lyciah,” Seliane said gently, “you just described the exact opposite of ‘nothing.’”

  Lyciah whimpered and collapsed onto the sofa, burying her face in a cushion.

  “I want to disappear.”

  Seliane laughed, grabbed a bag of cookies, and sat beside her.

  Lyciah pressed the cushion harder against her face.

  Every time she remembered that unexpected closeness—that brief but impossible-to-ignore contact—her heart sped up… and she didn’t know what to do with that.

  “I don’t know,” Seliane said, mouth half full. “Sounds a little like you’re in love.”

  Silence. A dangerous silence.

  Lyciah didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

  One second passed. Then another. Then another.

  Color crept from her neck to her cheeks, to her ears, to the tip of her nose.

  “I-I-In love?!” she burst upright. “No!”

  Seliane glanced at her with the serenity of the universe and took another bite.

  “Mm-hm.”

  “No,” Lyciah insisted, gesturing wildly. “I mean, it’s not that… it’s not that I like him or anything. It was just a weird moment.”

  She began pacing aimlessly around the room.

  Seliane typed something on her phone.

  “Sure.”

  From the kitchen, Momoru stirred something in a pan. Smiling. Definitely not listening. Definitely.

  “And it’s not like I noticed strange things,” Lyciah continued, redder by the second. “Like his voice. Or how he smells. Or how… Or how he held me. That was just because I was about to fall. Anyone would’ve done that.”

  Seliane set her phone down.

  “Elric says Caelan is terrifying when he’s angry,” she commented. “Gave him chills.”

  “He doesn’t scare me,” Lyciah said far too quickly. “I mean, yes, he’s intimidating, but in a… calm way. Like safe.”

  Momoru cleared his throat lightly.

  “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes,” he announced innocently from the kitchen.

  Lyciah collapsed back onto the couch, utterly defeated.

  “I’m not in love,” she murmured.

  Then she cracked one eye open.

  “Wait,” she said. “Why do you have Elric’s number?”

  “It was practical,” Seliane replied casually. “For online games, scheduling, that sort of thing.”

  “Oh.”

  She chewed, swallowed, then smiled dangerously.

  “What?” Seliane tilted her head. “Do you want Caelan’s number?”

  “NO!” Lyciah shouted immediately. “No no no no!”

  Seliane hummed.

  “I don’t need it!” Lyciah insisted. “There’s no reason. None. I don’t need to talk to him. Or text him. Or—anything.”

  Seliane watched her with the calm of someone who had already won.

  “Alright,” she conceded. “Then we’ll devise a plan for Caelan to give you his number voluntarily.”

  “What?!”

  “Relax,” she smiled. “Trust me.”

  Lyciah felt, with absolute certainty, that her dignity was about to be ruined in ways not yet imaginable.

  That same night, as he wiped blood from someone whose only mistake had been provoking a smile that did not belong to him, Ekchron thought about Lorena’s hand in his hair.

  He closed his eyes, and the present unraveled.

  He returned to the village where he had lived five thousand years ago: low houses of dried adobe, roofs of reeds and cracked mud baked by the sun. The air smelled of stale smoke and hunger. Of lives cut too short.

  He remembered his home. A single room. Cracked walls. A roof that creaked when the wind blew hard. Inside, the world had been small… but safe.

  His body had hurt that day. More than usual. He had wanted to disappear into a corner and not be seen.

  Then someone had knelt before him. He no longer remembered the face. Nor the voice. Time had erased those.

  But the smile… the smile remained. Warm. Gentle. As if, for one second, the world had not been cruel.

  A hand had rested on his head. Slow, patient fingers stroking his hair with a tenderness that demanded nothing in return. It hadn’t tried to fix him. Or change him.

  He remembered being told about fire. That it did not always burn. That it could also guide.

  Ekchron opened his eyes and the present snapped back into place.

  He lifted a hand to his own hair. The sensation lingered.

  The baker.

  Her smile was the same: Warm and comforting.

  And when she ruffled his hair without thinking, without fear… it felt exactly the same. The same gesture. The same sensation.

  Ekchron frowned, irritated. He did not like recognizing what that stirred in him. He liked even less that his body reacted before his mind did.

  He went to see her. Not as a visitor—but as something that watches what it considers its own.

  She lived in a large and beautiful house. Too perfect.

  Ekchron stopped on the other side of the window.

  Lorena was in the living room with a man. Her husband.

  It was the first time he had seen him. Black hair styled perfectly. Tall. Well dressed. Confident posture. The kind of human who seemed convinced he occupied the correct place in the world. Ekchron felt the impulse immediately, clean and simple, to kill him. Split him in half. Remove him from the scene as though he had never existed.

  But he didn’t. He remained outside, still. He could hear everything from there.

  “I don’t understand why you insist on the bakery,” the man was saying, irritation thinly veiled. “It’s ridiculous.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “You were a teacher,” he continued. “You had an image. And now… this? It’s embarrassing.”

  Ekchron tilted his head, attentive.

  “I enjoy my work,” she said at last. “I like it.”

  “It’s not about what you like,” he replied sharply. “It’s about how it reflects on me. Do you have any idea how it looks that my wife is… selling bread?”

  Something thick and unpleasant settled in Ekchron’s chest. Not loud anger: the quiet kind. The kind that removes the cause.

  “Stay home. You don’t need to work. Stop humiliating me.”

  Lorena shook her head.

  “No.“

  Her voice was soft, firm... and tired.

  He exhaled in annoyance.

  “I won’t be back tonight,“ he said, grabbing his keys. “I have work.“

  A lie. Ekchron knew instantly.

  And with that certainty, the word husband lost its weight. It no longer meant protection, belonging, or right. That perfect marriage had never existed.

  The door closed and Lorena was alone.

  For a few seconds she didn’t move. Then she sank onto the couch slowly, as if her body could no longer hold itself upright. Her gaze unfocused. Shoulders slumped. She didn’t cry.

  The air in the room shifted. The curtain stirred and a soft breeze slipped inside. Lorena lifted her head and noticed the window was open. It hadn’t been.

  She rose carefully and approached it.

  She stopped short when she saw a folded note on the small table by the glass. Exactly like the night before.

  Her heart began pounding. She picked it up with trembling hands and unfolded it. The handwriting was the same.

  “You are mine.

  He has no right over you.

  If he tries to break you, I will break him first.”

  —Ekchron.

  Lorena read the note several times while her pulse thundered in her ears. Her chest ached.

  That was… possessive. Threatening. Terribly clear.

  Her breathing turned uneven. Her stomach tightened. The tremor climbed from her hands to her shoulders.

  She braced herself against the table to steady her balance.

  And yet…

  She folded the note carefully and placed it inside a small wooden box—where she had also kept the flower and the note from the night before.

  She knew it was wrong. Terribly wrong.

  But for the first time in years, she felt seen. And that was the worst part: she didn’t know whether she was trembling from fear... or because she liked it.