She couldn't sleep the night after prom.
Not because of the noise. Not because of the aching in her ribs or the faint fog still clouding her thoughts.
But because of him.
The man. Not boy.
She turned the memory over like a river stone in her mind.
He hadn't looked like anyone from school. He didn't move like anyone from school. No clumsy shuffling, no nervous glances or awkward laughs. He had moved with the quiet assurance of someone who knew he had power and didn't need to show it.
Damon.
His name slid against her thoughts like silk soaked in secrets.
He was tall. Not just tall, commanding. His posture was immaculate—shoulders squared, chin tilted just enough to look down without appearing condescending. And his eyes… she couldn't shake the memory of those eyes. They weren't brown or blue or green. They were something else. A smoky silver-gray that flickered like candlelight in the dark.
His face was elegant. High cheekbones. A sharp jawline dusted with the kind of stubble that seemed to grow with purpose, not laziness. His nose was straight, slightly Roman. His lips—
She turned in bed and pressed her fingers to her mouth.
Why do I remember his lips?
They were pale, like the rest of him, but not cold. There was warmth when he spoke. When he leaned in. But there was also danger—something in the way he didn't blink when he spoke to her. As though he already knew what she was going to say.
His voice—old, refined. Like he'd read every book ever written and found most of them dull.
And that suit. God, that suit. It wasn't prom-fashion; it wasn't modern. It looked custom, tailored from some century past. Midnight-black, with a whisper of crimson at the cuffs and collar. Not flashy, but memorable. Like the clothes wore him, rather than the other way around.
"You're not special," he had said.
And it should have hurt. It had hurt.
But the way he said it… it sounded like a warning. Like he knew the world wanted her to believe she could be, and he was trying to save her from the pain of hoping.
For the past week, she had replayed it over and over.
It was becoming an obsession.
Even when she worked her new shift at the small café on the corner of Pine and Easton, weaving between full tables and clattering mugs, she caught herself scanning the crowd for silver eyes.
"Lyra?"
Elias's voice snapped her out of it.
She looked up from his dining table, her fork hovering above her plate.
He frowned.
"You've been like this all week. You okay?"
She forced a smile. "Just tired."
But it wasn't just tired.
It was distraction. It was this growing itch at the back of her thoughts. It was the way she dreamed now—not about the car accident. Not about the storm. But about him.
Damon.
In her dreams, he didn't smile. He watched.
In her dreams, he didn't touch her. He circled her like a flame around a match.
And in one dream, she was in that black dress again. In a room of mirrors. And he was behind her, breathing against her neck, whispering:
"Don't lie to yourself, little ghost. You liked being seen."
She woke up gasping.
She told no one.
Not Elias, who had started to notice. Who touched her wrist more often now, like he needed to keep her grounded.
Not his sisters, who'd started calling her one of their own.
Not even herself.
She busied her days with coffee and crumbs, navigating a new world of customers, late nights, sore feet, and stolen glances at the dark windows when the café closed.
She worked. She studied. She stayed silent.
But the dreams kept coming.
And so did he.
In shadows. In thoughts. In the ache behind her ribs she couldn't name.
By the seventh night, she stopped fighting it.
Stopped pretending she didn't want to see him again.
Because even though he had said she wasn't special…
He had seen her.
And no one else ever had.