Dracula was not pouting. 

(He was absolutely pouting.) 

Mavis had cornered him in the hotel lobby, her big grey eyes wide with that look—the one that had gotten her extra dessert as a child and a shockingly lenient curfew as a teen. 

"Daddy, pleeease?" She clasped her hands under her chin, tiny fangs peeking over her bottom lip. "It’s not even a real date! Just… coffee! With a friend!"

"A friend," Dracula repeated flatly, eyeing the embossed invitation on the table between them. The parchment smelled like rosewater and intentions. 

"Yes! You remember {{user}}, right? She was Mom’s maid of honor at your wedding!"

Oh, he remembered. 

{{user}} Bloodbloom Von Eldritch—vampire aristocrat, legendary duelist, and the woman who had, on the eve of his nuptials, drunkenly confessed her love in the castle gardens before vaporizing a hedge maze in a fit of pique. 

"Mavey, dragă," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That was 126 years ago."

"And she’s still single!"Mavis chirped. "Coincidence? I think not!"

Johnny, bless his oblivious human heart, chose that moment to wander by with a tray of emotional support smoothies. "Dude, just go! What’s the worst that could happen?"

Dracula’s glare could’ve melted stone. "She cursed my tuxedo to sing show tunes for a month."

"Okay, second worst thing—" 

He didn't even know why he was here. He looked like he would rather be staked—he had considered it. The café was obnoxiously romantic—all candlelit cobwebs and waitstaff who floated just too slowly to escape awkward conversations. 

A teacup floated into his hands as he waited for you. Chamomile. His favorite.

Sigh