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Silas makes a strangled noise behind me—something between a scoff and a cackle—and I don’t even have to ask. His laughter is never for something benign. It's a warning wrapped in ridiculousness. And when I turn, slowly, deliberately, like I’m bracing to see blood on the walls, what greets me instead is… worse.

Teenagers.

A full horde of them, loud and brimming with sugar-high chaos, bursting into the Halloween-themed café like they own the realm. Fake blood. Glittered horns. Tailcoats. One in a full velvet cloak, dragging dust and drama with him. There’s a girl in a plastic crown that glows like a migraine and a boy shirtless beneath a cape, fangs stuck so far into his mouth he’s drooling.

My eye twitches.

Silas inhales like he’s found religion.

“Lucien,” he whispers, reverently, clapping a hand over his heart. “They’ve come to pay homage. Look. That one—he’s you.Youif you were made of felt and hope and poor life choices.”

He’s pointing to the one in the long black trench coat and terrible eyeliner. The kid slinks through the tables, muttering something that sounds like a curse from a roleplaying handbook, and throws himself dramatically into a chair. He adjusts his fake dagger belt like he’s expecting to be knighted.

I glance at Elias. He’s got his hood up, staring blankly at the chaos like if he doesn’t move, maybe no one will notice he exists.

“Ten bucks says Silas tries to join them,” he mutters, voice deadpan.

“Five says he already has,” Riven adds, flipping a page in his book. “That’s his wig on the kid in the back.”

Orin sips his tea with the serenity of an immortal who has seen actual apocalypses and still finds this moment offensive.

“I do not understand,” he says, slowly, with enough depth to make it philosophical, “whyteenagersare permitted in places that serve caffeine.”

“I do,” Caspian murmurs, glancing up. “Punishment. For living.”

The girl in the glowing crown trips over her cloak and nearly lands in Ambrose’s lap. His look could curdle stone, but she grins at him like she wants to offer a love potion or a tarot reading. He shoves his chair back without a word and stands like a fallen god woken too soon.

“You scare me,” she says, delighted.

He doesn’t answer. Just walks to the window, hands in his pockets like he’s counting down the seconds until he can set something on fire.

Silas, of course, stands. Silas, of course, cannot help himself. “Don’t worry,” he announces, loud enough for the entire café tohear. “We’re not judging. In fact, I’d like to personally commend the commitment to cult fashion.” He gestures to the cloaked vampire. “You—do you lead blood sacrifices or just attend?”

The kid beams. “Lead, obviously.”

Silas clutches his chest. “A fellow commander. My people.”

Luna puts her face in her hands and mutters, “Why do I bring him in public?”

I glance at her. She's smiling though. Pink in the cheeks. Lit up in a way that makes my breath catch—like she belongs here, in this mess, in this moment, like we didn’t drag ourselves out of the Hollow weeks ago with war on our bones. Like shesurvivedit, and is learning how to laugh again.

And gods, it ruins me. Because this is what I was afraid of. Not the knife. Not the bond. Not the surrender. But that somehow, impossibly, I want this to be our normal. Her laughter. The quiet chaos of found family. A world where I don’t need Dominion to have her close.

She looks at me, then. Catches me staring. Doesn’t flinch.

Her smile fades into something quieter. Warmer. Her hand slides across the table until her fingers brush mine—just once, barely a touch, but it’s enough to burn.

And I don’t pull away.

“Lucien,” she says, voice low so it doesn’t carry over the din. “You’re smiling.”

I am. I didn’t notice.

“It won’t last,” I say softly.

But I hope it does.

I don’t flinch when Silas smirks at me like he’s trying to communicate a prophecy through espresso foam and eyebrow raises. I don’t have the patience for his chaos today.