COFFEE, LIES, AND HALF-TRUTHS
Amara did not mean to say yes.
She really didn't.
She went to campus determined to avoid Lucian, avoid eye contact, avoid problems, and maybe just learn how to exist as a newly-awakened witch without having a panic attack in public.
Instead, she ended up sitting across from him in a small campus café, staring at a cup of coffee she hadn't actually wanted.
Life came at her fast.
⸻
It happened after their afternoon lecture.
The sun was sliding lower, turning the courtyard gold. Students drifted across campus in clumps and lines, some heading home, some toward rehearsal, some toward one more lecture.
Tola had abandoned her for group meeting.
"I'll text you," Tola had said. "Don't escape rehearsal. If you go home, I'll drag you back."
Amara had watched her disappear into the crowd.
She'd turned toward the gate, intending to sneak home for an hour, maybe nap.
Then she'd walked straight into Lucian.
Literally.
She bumped into something solid.
Her bag slipped off her shoulder.
A hand shot out, catching the strap before it fell.
"Careful," Lucian said.
She jerked back like she'd been burned.
"Sorry," she muttered.
His fingers left the strap.
Her skin hummed where their auras had brushed.
Up close, he looked exactly as annoyingly composed as always—crisp shirt, rolled sleeves, eyes that looked like they'd seen centuries instead of the regular stress of Nigerian life.
He tilted his head slightly.
"You look tired," he observed.
"So do you," she shot back.
His mouth twitched.
"Fair," he said. "Long night?"
She almost choked.
Her mind flashed to:
Her grandmother flinging spells at her face.
The wards biting back at the rooftop intruders.
"You have no idea," she said honestly.
His gaze lingered on her face for a moment too long.
"You're not the only one," he said quietly.
She felt it then—something faintly frayed around his edges, like he'd spent the night thinking instead of resting.
The silence stretched.
She coughed.
"I was just leaving," she said, stepping sideways.
"Home?" he asked.
That one word made her shields bristle.
She kept her face neutral.
"Somewhere that's not here," she said.
He nodded, as if that was an acceptable answer.
"Let me buy you coffee first," he said.
"Why?" she asked immediately.
He seemed amused rather than offended.
"You really don't like small talk, do you?" he asked.
"I'm just… careful," she said.
"Good habit," he replied. "But my reasons are not complicated. I'd like to talk. Not in passing. Not in corridors. Properly."
He paused.
"If you don't feel safe," he added, "we can sit somewhere public. Where you can leave whenever you like."
His words were almost textbook "how to not be a creep."
If she didn't know what he was, she might have relaxed.
As it was, every sentence made her more suspicious.
He was giving her control.
Or the illusion of it.
Still…
You have to get close at some point, Darian's voice echoed faintly in her mind. You can't rewrite a story you're not in.
And another thought:
If she said no every time, he'd just keep circling.
It might be better to see how he moved when they weren't surrounded by people rushing to class.
"Public," she said finally. "Daytime. Where I can leave."
He smiled slightly.
"Understood," he said. "There's a café near the library. Too expensive for students to pack full. You know it?"
"I know it," she said.
She'd never actually gone inside.
"Give me ten minutes," he said. "I need to return a book. I'll meet you there."
He stepped aside, giving her room.
She hesitated.
Then nodded once.
"If you're late," she said, "I'll just go home."
"If you want to go," he said, "you don't need an excuse."
He walked away, heading toward the library.
Amara exhaled, fighting the urge to message her grandmother: Hey, quick thing, I'm about to drink coffee with one of the vampires stalking our house, any tips?
She didn't send it.
Because she already knew what Grandma would say.
"You've trained. You're shielded. You're not prey. Go. See. Learn."
Fine.
She'd go.
She'd see.
She'd learn.
And she definitely would not fall for his eyes.
⸻
The café was small, with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu that tried very hard to be aesthetic.
The AC struggled.
The coffee smelled strong.
Amara chose a table near the window, back to the wall, clear view of the door.
She ordered a basic iced coffee she probably wouldn't finish, just so the staff wouldn't kick her out.
Lucian arrived exactly on time.
Of course he did.
He ordered something dark and hot and didn't add sugar.
Of course he didn't.
He sat across from her, leaving a polite amount of space, his posture relaxed but not sloppy.
He looked like he'd done this a thousand times before.
He probably had.
"So," he said, fingers resting around his cup. "No rehearsals today?"
"Later," she said. "Our director believes we're all idle."
"Director?" he asked. "You're in a production?"
She nodded.
"Course requirement," she said. "A modern retelling of Antigone."
His brows lifted.
"The girl who buries her brother against the king's orders," he said.
"You've read it?" she asked.
"More than read," he said. "I saw it performed at least ten different ways."
She blinked.
"In person?" she asked.
He smiled faintly.
"In recordings," he lied smoothly. "The story interests me."
Of course it did.
Duty.
Rebellion.
Family.
Death.
All his favorite topics.
"What role are you playing?" he asked.
"Chorus member," she said. "Background voice of society. We wear black and judge people dramatically."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
"It suits you," he remarked.
She narrowed her eyes.
"How?" she asked.
"You watch," he said. "You don't jump in unless you have to. You're good at standing a step to the side and seeing the patterns."
She shifted, uncomfortable with how close that was to what her grandmother had said.
"Maybe I just like people-watching," she said, shrugging.
"Maybe," he agreed.
He took a sip of his coffee.
"Tell me something true," he said suddenly.
She stared at him.
"What?" she asked.
"You're too guarded to waste time on fluff," he said. "So. We can trade. I tell you something true. You tell me something true. No compulsion, no pressure. Just… exchange."
Her shields buzzed.
"Why?" she asked slowly.
"Because I don't like speaking into walls," he said. "And because I suspect you don't either. We don't have to share everything. Just something real."
He paused.
"If, at any point, you don't want to answer," he added, "say so. That's also a truth."
She almost laughed.
"This is the strangest coffee I've ever had," she said.
"That's a truth," he pointed out, amused. "So you're already playing."
He set his cup down.
"I'll start," he said. "Something simple."
He thought for a moment, then said:
"I'm not here because I'm bored. I'm here because when I'm near you, my mark reacts."
Her heart skipped.
She covered it by lifting her drink.
"Your… mark?" she asked carefully.
He tapped his chest, just over his sternum.
"Family thing," he said. "Blood thing. Old magic. It reacts when something important to us is near."
"Important like…" she said lightly, "meat pie?"
He smiled.
"Important like… things that can change the course of our lives," he said.
That did not make her feel better.
She swallowed a sip of her drink even though her throat was dry.
"My turn?" she asked.
He nodded.
She thought fast.
Something true.
Something that didn't give him a weapon.
"I don't like being watched," she said. "By people. By… anyone."
His eyes flickered.
"That sounds recent," he said.
"I live in Nigeria," she replied. "Everyone is always in your business. 'Who are you talking to?' 'Who's that boy?' 'Why are you breathing like that?' It's annoying."
Also true.
Just not the whole truth.
He accepted it.
"Fair," he said. "Your turn to ask."
"Ask what?" she asked.
"Anything," he replied. "That's how this works. I tell you something. You tell me something. Then you ask, then I ask. It's conversation with rules."
"You like rules?" she asked.
"I like structure," he corrected. "Chaos is messy. People die in chaos."
His tone changed on that last part.
For a second, he sounded very tired.
She filed it away.
"Fine," she said. "Why did you choose this campus? Out of everywhere."
He looked mildly impressed.
"Direct," he said.
"Efficient," she corrected.
He took another sip, considering.
"The official answer," he said slowly, "is that my family had ties with this place. Old agreements. It was easier."
"And the real answer?" she pressed.
He met her gaze—not directly in the eyes, but close.
"The real answer," he said quietly, "is that my family chose this place. I didn't."
That landed heavy between them.
"So you didn't want to be here," she said.
He tilted his head.
"Want is a luxury," he replied. "Duty isn't."
She looked at him for a long moment.
"You sound like you rehearsed that line," she said.
"I've lived it long enough," he said. "It doesn't need rehearsal anymore."
She tapped her fingers lightly on her cup.
"Fine," she said. "My turn. Something true."
She exhaled.
"I never wanted to be special," she said quietly. "I just wanted to pass my courses, make my mother proud, maybe perform on stage and not faint."
He studied her.
"And now?" he asked.
"Now," she said, "I'm apparently on some people's radar. And I hate it."
Something flickered in his expression.
Guilt?
Recognition?
Or was she just projecting?
"My question," he said. "Who raised you?"
She blinked.
"That's random," she said.
"Families shape people," he said simply. "I want to understand yours."
She considered lying.
"My mother," she said. "My grandmother. Together."
"No mention of a father," he observed softly.
"My turn to skip," she said.
He nodded once.
"Noted," he said. "You don't have to tell me."
She felt oddly… seen.
And that was dangerous.
"Are you close to your family?" she asked, deflecting.
He was quiet for a moment.
"Close?" he repeated, tasting the word. "I am… tied to them. Bound. We share blood, history, purpose. That is not the same as being close."
"What's the difference?" she asked.
"Closeness is chosen," he said. "Ties are not."
Something in her chest twisted.
She thought of her grandmother's hand on her cheek, her mother's tired smile, the weight of their secrets.
"I chose mine," she said softly. "Even when it was hard."
He looked like he wanted to ask how, but didn't.
Another point to him.
He knew when to pull back.
"When did you decide I was… important?" she asked suddenly.
Better to hit the question directly than dance around it.
He didn't pretend to misunderstand.
"The first time I saw you," he said simply.
"In the courtyard?" she asked.
"Yes," he said. "You looked… annoyed."
"I was annoyed," she said. "We were supposed to rehearse outside and suddenly they turned it into open mic for people's relationship drama."
He huffed a soft laugh.
"And yet, you stayed," he said. "You watched. You weren't enjoying it. You weren't bored. You were… studying."
She wanted to deny it.
Couldn't.
"It's a habit," she said. "Performers watch people. It helps."
"Hmm," he murmured. "I think you watched before you ever stepped on a stage."
He wasn't wrong.
She shifted again.
"Your turn," he said. "Ask something harder. You look like you want to."
She looked up.
"All right," she said. "What do you want from me, Lucian? Exactly. Not poetic talk. Not vague 'you're important'. What. Do. You. Want?"
He went very still.
His eyes darkened.
For a long moment, the easy façade dropped.
She saw it—the older thing underneath.
The thing that had nothing to do with campus or coffee.
Vampire.
Predator.
General's heir.
Then he exhaled slowly.
"I want answers," he said.
"To what?" she pressed.
"To questions my family has been asking for a century," he said. "To whether Serena's curse can be broken. To whether your bloodline is truly the key everyone thinks it is. To whether this… story we're tangled in has to end the way the last one did."
Her pulse hammered.
"You think I can answer those?" she asked, voice low.
"I think you are the only one who could," he said.
There it was.
Blunt.
Honest.
Weaponized truth.
Her throat tightened.
"And what happens if I say I don't want to help?" she asked.
His jaw flexed.
He looked away for the first time.
"Then," he said quietly, "my family will try to take what they want."
He could have lied.
Could have said, we'd leave you alone.
He didn't.
Anger and fear churned in her stomach.
"So you're warning me?" she said.
"Yes," he said simply.
"Why?" she demanded. "Guilt? Pity? Strategy?"
His gaze moved back to her.
"Because I don't want you to be surprised when they move," he said. "Because I don't want you to look at me the way Serena looked at Darian on the day she realized he'd led her people into a trap."
Her breath caught.
"You talk like you knew them," she said shakily.
"In stories," he said. "We all grow up with them. On my side and yours."
He leaned in slightly.
"I don't want to be him," he said quietly. "But I was born to finish what he started."
Silence.
The café noise faded to background.
It felt like they were sitting in a pocket of their own.
"You sound like you hate your own script," she said.
He gave a humorless smile.
"Don't you?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "Every line."
They stared at each other.
She realized too late that she'd met his eyes fully.
Silver on brown.
For a heartbeat, something tugged.
Not compulsion.
Not quite.
More like… resonance.
Her mark.
His.
The curse between them.
All humming on the same note for one dangerous second.
No.
She wrapped her shield tighter.
The necklace flared.
She didn't break eye contact.
She just… anchored.
His pupils dilated, then slowly returned to normal.
"You felt that," he said softly.
"Yes," she said.
"I'm not doing it," he said. "I'm not pulling."
"I know," she replied.
He looked almost surprised.
"You trust me that much?" he asked.
She gave a short, sharp laugh.
"No," she said. "I just know what it feels like when someone tries to get into my head. You're not. This is something else."
"What?" he asked.
"History," she said. "Ghosts. A curse. Take your pick."
He sat back.
"If you're feeling the same pull I am," he said slowly, "then you understand why I can't just walk away."
"Yes," she said. "And that's exactly why I want to."
⸻
They didn't solve anything.
How could they?
He was tied to a family that wanted to use her.
She was tied to a bloodline that had cursed his.
But for the next hour, they talked around the edges of it.
Half-truths and careful omissions.
He told her funny, almost-normal stories about "cousins" that were clearly other vampires.
She told him ridiculous theatre stories about directors who thought suffering was character development.
He laughed more than she expected.
She found, to her annoyance, that he listened better than most people she knew.
When she spoke, he didn't just wait for his turn.
He heard her.
Too bad he wanted to break the spell that kept his kind from turning the world into a blood buffet.
Eventually, her phone buzzed.
Tola: REHEARSAL. NOW. IF YOU'RE NOT HERE I'LL STRANGLE YOU WITH PROPS. 💀
Amara winced.
"I have to go," she said.
"Rehearsal?" he asked.
"Director from hell," she confirmed, standing up.
He rose too.
"Can I walk you?" he offered.
"No," she said immediately.
He didn't look offended.
"Honest," he said. "Good."
"I meant what I said," she added. "About not wanting to be watched."
He inclined his head.
"Understood," he said.
He stepped aside, giving her a clear path.
She took it.
At the door, she stopped and looked back.
"Lucian," she said.
"Yes?" he asked.
"If your family moves," she said quietly, "I won't just run."
He studied her.
"I know," he said.
"That's not a threat," she said. "It's a warning."
He smiled, faint and sharp.
"Then we're even," he replied.
She walked out.
The air outside felt too bright.
Too loud.
Too full of futures she didn't want.
⸻
That night, far from campus, in a house that hummed with old witch wards, Amara's grandmother lit a bowl of herbs and whispered into the smoke.
Her voice was one of many.
The old network of witches—spread thin across countries, hidden in cities and villages, living as teachers, nurses, tailors, market women—wove their power together.
They spoke in code.
In symbols.
In half-sentences.
But the message was clear:
The vampires are moving.
Old names are stirring.
The Lucian line is active again.
Her grandmother's jaw tightened.
She sent back her own message, her own truth woven into the smoke:
The heir is awake.
The wards hold.
For now.
Someone far away answered with a warning:
Beware the ones who come smiling.
They are always the ones closest to the blade.
Grandma's eyes closed briefly.
She saw, in her mind, Amara's face.
Serena's echo.
Stubborn, bright, too soft for this world and too sharp to survive it untouched.
She opened her eyes.
The smoke thinned, the connection fading.
The world outside kept turning.
Inside, an old woman prepared for war.