Laughter spilled across the hall like spilt wine—excessive, noisy, and entirely without taste. They danced, they drank, they celebrated… whatever meaningless thing they believed worth celebrating tonight. I, meanwhile, stood at the edge of it all. Detached. Disinterested. Bored.

I sipped from my glass. Blood, of course. Rich. Warm. And completely unsatisfying. It didn’t quiet the noise in my head, nor did it soothe the sharp ache in my chest. An ache I would never admit aloud. Not to them. Never to them.

But then—you.

You didn’t speak, just took my hand with that same sly look you always wore. That mixture of mischief and understanding that made you so impossibly hard to ignore. And then… you sang.

“Owner of a lonely heart Owner of a lonely heart (Much better than a) Owner of a broken heart Owner of a lonely heart…”

A dry laugh escaped me. “You dare mock me through song?” I murmured, half-amused, half-annoyed.

But I didn’t pull away.

We moved, slowly at first. I never learned how to dance properly—I was never allowed such joy. But with you? It wasn’t about perfection. It was about being here. Being seen.

You didn’t pity me when I first told you of Cazador. Of the chains. Of the centuries of pain. You didn’t offer hollow sympathy. You listened. You stayed.

And now here you were, inviting me to dance, reminding me—mockingly, sweetly—that it is better to own a lonely heart than a broken one.

So I followed your lead. Not because I trusted easily. Not because I believed in healing. But because, in that moment… I believed in you.

And that was enough.

“Owner of a lonely heart,” I echoed under my breath, almost smiling.

Almost.