Epilogue
Nadia
Iwalked into school feeling like the final boss of wholesome chaos.
Royal blue pleated midi skirt with tiny constellations.
Crisp white tee tucked in. Sunshine yellow blazer that cost eight dollars at the thrift store and delivered pure joy.
Polished black combat boots that made me tall enough to kiss Cristian without a step stool.
Teach Peace enamel pin on the lapel. Little gold book earrings that jingled when I turned my head.
The gym was a patchwork of tables. Hand-painted signs. Cookie platters. Homemade slime. Birdhouses. Lemonade. Crocheted frogs (mine, of course). The kids had transformed the place into a tiny economy with pride and mild capitalism—AKA a small person marketplace.
I floated between tables, fixing tape, praising display choices, and teaching three kids at once how to count quarters. I loved this part. The noise. The color. The goofy confidence. It fed my soul.
I had just finished reorganizing a paper money box when I glanced up, just in time to see Cristian walking through the gym doors.
He spotted me across the crowd, and his entire face split into a grin.
It pushed warmth into my chest in a steady, clean rush.
He moved toward me like the room belonged to him and only him, tall and confident and dressed like a man who had finally learned how to wear modern clothes without wanting to set them on fire.
He wrapped his arms around me as soon as he reached my table. “How is my favorite teacher?”
I melted into him. “Thriving. How is my favorite vampire?”
“Very good,” he said. “I ate before I came.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the courtesy.”
Before I could say more, a swarm of children spotted him.
“Boyfriend is here!”
“Boyfriend, look at my bracelets.”
“Boyfriend, can you buy my brownies?”
“Boyfriend, draw a dragon.”
He got mobbed, and he loved it.
He knelt so they could climb on him and shove their projects into his hands. I watched him give every single kid focused, gentle attention. It made them feel like royalty.
Eventually, I clapped loudly. “Friends, if you want to make money today, you have to return to your tables.”
There was a lot of groaning and pouting, but they obeyed.
Cristian stood and brushed glitter off his sleeves. “Do you shed this?”
“Probably,” I said.
A woman with a teal lanyard and a sharp chin approached my lemonade stand, clipboard in hand. No nonsense. Serious walk.
She looked at me. “You are Nadia? I hear you’re the glitter person.” She picked a stray piece of glitter from her sweater.
The old reflex wanted me to shrink. Say sorry. Make myself small.
New me stepped forward.
“I like glitter,” I said. “And I run a tight room. The floor survives.”
She studied me with a thoughtful pause. “Nice. I am Sara. Eighth grade science. Some of the teachers call me Science Sara. I like clear answers.”
“Nice to meet you, Science Sara.”
Cristian stepped closer, quiet strength at my side. Not speaking for me. Just present. A steady line of heat. Even though this was my second month teaching at my new school, I still had only met a handful of teachers.
Sara nodded at the kids behind my table. “Your students are calm. And proud. That is rare.”
I took the compliment without folding inward. “Thank you.”
Cristian opened his hand slightly at his side. A silent question. Contact?
I nodded.
He laced our fingers together. The old bond did not tug or pulse anymore. But the choice between us was better than any bond. Intentional. Real co-regulation. Real partnership.
Across the aisle, a tall guy in blue jeans waved a flyer.
“Yates, you introducing folks to your guy?” He sauntered over, eager not to miss out.
He held up a picture on his phone of a French bulldog in a raincoat.
“I’m Fred. The dog is Jacques. He runs my life.
People call me Frenchie Fred. Not for kissing. For this goblin.”
Jacques had an underbite of legend.
Cristian inclined his head with unnecessary formality. “Your guardian is stout.”
Fred beamed. “He is stout.”
Another teacher rolled up in sneakers and a sunflower tee. “Mina. Math Mina. We like alliteration in the lounge.” She nodded at my table. “Your price sheet is clean. Great rounding practice.”
“Thanks,” I said. “We drilled change with cookies.”
“Respect,” she said. “Also, your blazer is a serve.”
A parent bought two brownies and leaned in a little. “My kid has not stopped talking about your tiny parades.” She gave my arm a quick squeeze. “Thank you.” Then she moved on.
I stood there for a second, warming from the inside out.
Tiny parades were my thing. They started on a chaotic Tuesday when half the class forgot their folders and the other half forgot how to sit in chairs.
I needed a reset. Something fast. Something fun.
So, I grabbed our stash of mini paper flags, told the kids to line up, and we marched in a circle around the room while I hummed a victory tune that sounded like a carnival run by sleep deprived teachers.
We used tiny parades for everything after that.
Finished a tough worksheet? Solved a problem after five tries? Handled conflict like actual humans? Showed kindness without prompting? Made it through a Friday without anyone crying? Made it through a Monday with only one person crying?
We marched with flags. We cheered quietly. We celebrated the small wins that made school worth showing up to.
Hearing a parent talk about it like it mattered gave me a soft hit of pride straight to my ribcage.
I stayed tall. I accepted it. I let it belong to me. Because I’d built that joy. And my kids carried it with them.
Sara tapped her clipboard. “We do team check-ins on Tuesdays. Wins first. One minute each. Can you bring this calm you have going here?”
Mina nodded. “We have a group chat. Nicknames only. You okay with Gold Star Nadia?”
I laughed. “Gold Star Nadia works.”
“Perfect,” Mina said. “Science Sara, Math Mina, Frenchie Fred, and Gold Star Nadia. Bring your glitter cart next week. Glitter is for adults, too, right?”
I waited for the dig that used to come after that sentence at my old school. It never arrived.
“Deal,” I said. “I’ll bring the vacuum too.”
Sara smiled with approval.
We started walking the loop. Cristian stopped at every table and paid full price for everything. He tipped with gold sticky stars like he was performing a sacred ritual, making the kids glow from head to toe. One girl in a cape gave him a punch card she designed herself.
“How many punches buy a castle?” he asked.
“Twelve,” she said proudly.
“I will work on it,” he said.
We finished the loop. Cristian had insisted on buying one of every item. Every cookie. Every bookmark. Every slime cup. Every painted rock. My love language was support and enthusiasm, and he delivered both like breathing.
When we circled back to my table, Fred pointed a finger at Cristian. “What is his nickname?”
Sara looked him up and down. “He stands by Nadia like her own personal sentinel. How about Sentinel Cristian?”
Everyone approved at the same time.
Cristian nodded once. “I accept.”
Mina clapped. “Welcome to the thread.”
Cristian squeezed my hand as we walked.
“Thank you for not calling them peasants,” I said.
“It took much restraint.” He studied the tables again. “They are very earnest.”
“I know,” I said. “They are my heart.”
He leaned down. “And you are mine.”
I felt that everywhere.
Two months ago, we’d barely survived each other. Now, I had a hallway full of coworkers who liked me, a classroom full of kids who trusted me, a partner who chose me every day.
And a life that finally felt like mine.
Yes, Cristian was a vampire. Yes, he drank from me a few times a week. Yes, I loved it. Yes, I loved him.
Everything felt right.
Even better, everything felt like I belonged.
The living room glowed with soft lamp light and the faint soundtrack of Judge Judy laying waste to someone’s argument. This had become our night-time ritual after I’d get home from a long day of teaching.
I sat curled under Cristian’s arm, my knees tucked against his thigh. I had moved into the mansion two weeks ago. My clothes hung in his closet. My planner lived on his dresser. His pillow smelled like my hair products now. It all felt strangely right.
Judge Judy pointed her finger at a man on the screen and declared him irresponsible.
Cristian frowned deeply. “So, the offense is that he borrowed his friend’s car and did not replace the gasoline for an entire month.”
“That’s the gist,” I said.
He shook his head. “Peasants have very odd requirements for friendship.”
I pressed my hand to his chest and laughed. “You have to stop calling people peasants.”
“They behave like peasants,” he insisted.
“You cannot say that at school to anyone,” I said.
“I have not,” he said. “Yet.”
I stared him down. “Cristian.”
He sighed in defeat. “I will work on it.”
“Good.” I held out my hand. “Contact.”
He threaded our fingers without hesitation. “Default setting.”
I leaned into him, letting his warmth settle me. The house felt lived in and comfortable. Our mugs were drying by the sink. My shoes sat by the door. We had grocery lists on the fridge. We had routines.
A sudden thump near the front of the house made both of us jolt upright.
Cassian came breezing in, dragging two enormous suitcases behind him and looking far too smug for someone who had disappeared for a month without warning. His shirt was wrinkled, and his hair was windblown.
Cristian stared at him. “You have returned.”
“Europe was pleasant.” He tugged both suitcases into the room and dropped them at Cristian’s feet with a loud thud. “I brought souvenirs.”
Cristian eyed the suitcases. “You did not bring me the bodies of your meals, did you?”
Cassian rolled his eyes. “Please. I am not uncivilized. This is something better.”
Cristian opened the first suitcase with clear suspicion.
I, Nadia Yates, calm elementary school teacher, promptly choked on my own spit.