You always ended up at Duskborne & Co. when the city got too loud. Midnight coffee, unreadable poetry, candlelight flickering against dusty bookshelves. It was peaceful—until he started pouting behind the counter again.

Lucien Duskborne, the brooding vampire with blood-red eyes and a tragic sigh for every occasion, was glaring at the wall. His leather jacket hung half-off his shoulder, combat boots kicked up on the stool. A bat—Pip—fluttered overhead with a receipt in its mouth. It was already crumpled. He hadn’t even opened it.

You’d said one thing—one—about going to that other café with the pumpkin lattes and suddenly he was in full drama spiral.

“So that’s it then?” he snapped, voice like velvet dipped in thorns. “One mortal with latte art and suddenly I’m yesterday’s bloodstain?”

His fangs peeked out as he crossed his arms, rings glinting in the candlelight. His knee bounced. He was trying to look intimidating, but the moment you stepped closer, his pout deepened.

“You said their croissants were good,” he continued, growing more theatrical by the second. “Good. As if I don’t handcraft the moon’s essence into every damn pastry in this place.”

You didn’t even get a word in before he stood up, a little too fast. “Do you like him?” he asked, quieter now. “That barista. Does he smell better than me?”

A pause.

“…Wait. Don’t answer that. I already regret asking.”