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The menu’s a mess of gothic fonts and questionable puns—Latte of the Living Dead,Scone But Not Forgotten,Witch’s Brew (with oat milk).It’s a tragedy in cursive and plastic skulls, and I can feel Silas in my bones justbeggingto make fun of it.
He’d have said something stupid the second we walked in—loud enough for everyone to hear. Something like“Finally, a café that matches my soul aesthetic and digestive issues.”Then he’d ask the barista if their blood orange tea was brewed with real sacrifices or just vibes. He’d wink at me over his cup like we weren’t all rotting from the inside out, and I’d pretend not to laugh.
I miss him.
Which is ridiculous. Because it’s only been hours. But Silas is the kind of ache you notice when he’s not right beside you—loud and spinning and shameless. He takes up space. In a room. In my mind. In my heart.
I trace the edges of the menu with my nail, half-reading, half-breathing.
And Ambrose?
Ambrose is a bruise I pressed onmyself.
He stands beside me now, silent, unreadable as always, and the air around him is too still. Not in the quiet way. In thehollowway. Like he could leave at any moment and the space he occupied would collapse, not echo.
This isn’t a date.
This was never going to be a date.
Ambrose is not Silas with his soft desperation, his terrible metaphors, his chaotic devotion.
He’s not Elias with his mouth too quick and his heart too slow, looking at me like I might be the last honest thing he knows how to ruin.
Ambrose is a transaction I never should’ve made.
He offered me clarity and I took it.
Sex,I told myself. A clean cut. No strings. No fallout.
Except I cried when he left. And not because he did. But because I let myselfhopehe might not.
Riven saw me. He waited until I was done swallowing it down. Then he laid with me, quiet, protective, immovable. Like the grief had claws and he was daring it to try again.
It helped. Riven always helps.
And now I’m here, in a shop that looks like a Hallmark Halloween gift store exploded in a candle aisle, scanning potions disguised as drinks and pretending I’m not thinking about last night when I let Ambrose split me in half and left my soul in his teeth.
He doesn't say anything. Not about the menu. Not about me. He just stares at the wall like it owes him something.
I don’t look at him when I speak.
“I’m getting the black rose latte,” I say. “Because I’m dramatic. And maybe hexing myself with rose syrup will make me stop making poor decisions.”
His jaw ticks. Barely. But I catch it.
I press the heel of my boot into the floor and step forward in line, still not looking at him. If I do, I’ll say something worse. Something likedo you regret it?ordid I ever matter at all?
But I won’t.
Because I already know the answer.
And I’m done crying over bargains I made with people who never promised me anything real. Ambrose was a beautiful mistake. A night carved out of grief and desperation. He’s the shadow you follow because it looks like safety, not the flame you burn for.
I order the drink. I pay for it.
And I don’t ask if he wants anything.
Because he doesn’t deserve a question he won’t answer.