Vancouver's sky was slipping into deep blue when the message arrived.
The air smelled of wet earth and the faint smoke of distant chimneys; traffic noise ebbed like a collective sigh as the city prepared to sleep. Streetlamps kindled their amber halos like urban fireflies, and the world hung, briefly, between what had been and what was about to begin.
Reclining beside the warm glow of a lamp, Alessia stared absently through her window at the street below.
Her phone vibrated on the table. She glanced at the sender.
Liam.
Would you like to do something different tonight?
The smile that touched her lips was slight—but real.
Her pulse quickened in spite of herself.
Sometimes the desire to appear human was stronger than the fear of being discovered. Her fingers moved without hesitation.
I'm off tonight. Give me two hours.
You're going to be surprised—I've got something in mind, his reply came almost at once.
Alessia set the phone down and walked to the wardrobe.
She paused before the mirror which, as always, offered nothing back.
Her fingertips traced the frame with quiet tenderness, as if hoping it might, just once, return a silhouette.
"One night… just one night as any other woman," she whispered.
…
Two hours later, Alessia descended the stairs.
Her dress was black—simple, elegant—cinched at the waist, a side slit revealing the serene rhythm of her stride.
Her hair fell loose, dark silk over her shoulders.
Liam waited by the car with a small box in his hand.
When he saw her, his face lit as if he'd just found something long lost.
"I didn't know your favorite flowers… but these reminded me of you," he said, offering a cluster of deep burgundy roses that seemed to drink the last light from the dusk.
Alessia accepted them, lowering her gaze with a gratitude too fragile to voice.
She held them to her chest for a few seconds, breathing their rich, heavy perfume. The dark scent woke an old echo—Prague, centuries ago, a human man offering black flowers after a violin recital, unaware she could not reflect even in his eyes.
No one had struck so true since then.
Perhaps that was why her voice barely formed a "thank you," while a part of her wondered if coincidence could also be fate.
"Thank you," she murmured, the words a contained breath.
As they drove, the city receded by degrees.
Urban lights surrendered to country dimness as the road curved toward the hills. Conversation flowed warm and unforced, a gentle current that needed no pushing.
They spoke of books, of films neither had yet seen, of strange flavors and days they'd rather forget.
"I never imagined I'd be driving out of the city with someone I met by chance," Liam said, laughing softly, honestly.
"Maybe it wasn't chance," she answered, not looking at him.
They arrived at a place that looked dreamed into being.
Pale wood walls, great windows opening to a valley; hanging lanterns lit the path to the door; a violin's hush slipped from somewhere inside.
Everything smelled of fresh herbs, red wine, and time held still.
They were led to a table by a wide pane of glass.
From there, the moon's reflection began to etch itself over a distant lake.
Alessia picked up the menu though she knew she wouldn't eat much.
She let her eyes drift over the names of dishes as if contemplating them, and released an imperceptible sigh.
Pretending at human hunger was part of the charm—part of the effort to seem like anyone else, though her body craved none of those flavors.
Still, she allowed herself a faint smile, remembering what it was to pretend before she became what she is.
Pretending was part of the spell.
"Do you like it?" Liam asked, breaking the quiet of contemplation.
"It's beautiful—as if the world paused, just for a breath, to admire itself. Liam… thank you for bringing me here."
He smiled. "That's how I've felt since I met you. As if everything else went on hold."
She didn't answer at once.
Her fingers touched the stem of her wineglass without lifting it.
She was looking at him—but not with her eyes. With something older. Deeper.
Liam extended his hand across the table and brushed her fingers—no pressure, only a gentle touch.
She answered in kind, tracing the bones of his hand as if recognizing an old melody.
"I don't usually do this," she said, honest.
"Do what?"
"Feel this comfortable."
The confession hovered among candles and reflections.
Alessia lowered her gaze for a heartbeat. The candlelight trembled; her eyes sank into the color of the wine.
That's when the memory struck—
without permission,
without mercy.
…
An old hall—stone walls, candelabras blazing.
Her voice, ragged, shouting at a figure who walked away without looking back.
Her husband—noble blood, vampire lineage—had promised eternity… but never love.
She had tried to conceive.
Dreamed of a life that might defy her nature, but an immortal body is barren without the deeper bond that gives blood meaning.
And he, knowing this, spared himself the effort and chose another—the leader of a Volkov cell then, a woman of power and cruelty.
"I don't want a kingdom—I want a child, a life, a truth," she'd said, before the glass shattered against the wall.
The echo of that cry still lived in her chest, cold as unreturned love.
…
"Are you okay?" Liam asked, catching the sudden shadow in her eyes.
She looked at him—not with sorrow, but with a tenderness that seemed to hold centuries.
"I am… more than I thought possible," she said, and a small smile rose.
He lifted a hand, tucking back a strand of hair that had slipped along her cheek.
His fingers grazed her skin with a delicacy that stole her breath.
She held his wrist for a moment, eyes lowered with untouched shyness. In that pause—where the world said nothing—everything seemed to be said.
…
The drive back was quiet, but full of words unspoken.
Liam held the wheel with a new, unusual calm, as if shared silence could heal something he had no name for.
While the city lights flickered ahead, he realized he couldn't remember the last time someone made him feel this way—present, wanted without demands.
Sometimes the deepest bonds are born wordlessly, he thought, and the thought made him smile without knowing why. The radio played low, as if aware that the moment was sacred.
Liam didn't ask.
Alessia didn't explain.
But something between them had changed.
At her building, he got out first, came around, and opened the door.
She stepped down with her usual grace, but this time her eyes held no shadow. They held fire.
They paused at the entrance. No kiss.
They didn't need it.
Liam lifted a hand, brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and held her gaze.
She met him, unwavering.
"Thank you… for making me feel special," she whispered, a knot in her throat that wasn't quite sadness—something like contained longing.
He said nothing.
He simply watched her go.
He kept her in his memory.
Back in her apartment, Alessia set the roses in a vase, filled it with water, and watched them in silence.
She sat on the edge of the bed without undressing.
Her hands, guided by something stronger than will, came to rest over her abdomen—again, that simple, human gesture containing her deepest ache: redemption, a break from the echo of an empty eternity, the brief, fierce belief that she might still belong to a story that didn't end in blood.
"Will it be different this time?" she murmured.
Far away, the moon broke through the clouds.
And on her face—
for the first time in centuries—
hope flickered beside fear.