Chapter 4
4
Anora
Midtown Detroit
I ’m sitting in the farthest booth of the empty diner, doodling on my sketchpad. The sketch has gone beyond a doodle, though. Golden eyes stare back at me from the page, intense and otherworldly, the kind you’d expect to catch you off-guard in a pitch-black room.
His locs cascade past strong shoulders, thick and neat, with strands seeming to catch the light like they’re woven with threads of midnight and sunlight. His skin looks deep, smooth, and rich—it’s hard to capture it properly with my cheap colored pencils, but I’ve tried.
His angular jawline is sharp, almost regal, and his tattooed arms coil with an edge of mystery. The ink swirls down muscles I imagine could snap a tree in half. I set my pencils down, pressing my lips together.
Amir .
His name is a whisper I don’t recall ever learning, yet I can’t seem to forget. For years—so many I’ve lost count—he’s haunted my dreams, his face etched into my mind like a smoldering brand. Sometimes, he feels like the answer to every question I’ve ever had; other times, he feels like the question itself. Is he even real? God, I wish I knew.
I glance up from my sketch and out the window. The streets of downtown Detroit are barely visible, cloaked in white as the snowstorm rages on. Every building is outlined in sleet, and the sky is just one swirling blur. Winter tourists are probably stuck in their hotels tonight, their dreams of Wintermoon Island on pause. My eyes flick to the diner entrance.
The thought of walking a mile home in this mess? Not appealing. The bus might be smarter, but considering how slowly they run, I’d rather just trudge through. Either way, the nervous knot in my stomach keeps growing.
I exhale, sliding out of the booth, and grab a rag. If there’s magic in this diner tonight, it’s buried under the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of grease. I wipe down tables mindlessly, the rag dragging slippery circles across the vinyl. Just as I reach the last table, the jingle of the doorbell rings out. Someone stomps their boots on the snow-soaked mat.
“Welcome to Benny’s, I’ll be with you in just a moment!” I call over my shoulder, chucking the rag onto the counter. I scrub my hands in the back sink, dry them quickly, and grab a neatly wrapped set of utensils. Pushing through the double doors, I brace myself for the cold draft that always sneaks in with customers.
And then I freeze.
It’s Mike. Sitting in one of the booths like he belongs here .
His delivery uniform is streaked with snow, his face flushed from the storm, but the grin he’s wearing is all too familiar. My pulse quickens—not because I’m happy to see him. Oh no, not that. If anything, the sight of him stirs up a cocktail of emotions I’d rather leave untouched, just like the moment he once ditched me over.
Mike, Mr. Gym Rat Heartthrob, adjusted his brown eyes on me like he’s still winning some nonexistent game. It hits me for the hundredth time why he hurt me so bad: because I’m still not sure why I even cared in the first place.
I walk over, setting the utensils down in front of him with a muted clink. Pulling out my notepad, I skip the greetings. Best to keep this professional. “Hey, Mike. Good seeing you. What can I start you off with?” My voice sounds flat even to me. I keep my eyes on the pad to avoid his gaze.
“Hi, Anora. Good seeing you too,” he says. His smile lingers, but I feel nothing. Not even a flicker. Back then, I thought he might’ve been someone worth feeling something for. But now?
Not when my heart has already made room for golden eyes and midnight locs.
“What are you having?” I ask, not looking at him. My voice is cold, detached—the only thing keeping me from saying the thousand unsaid things that want to burst out all at once.
“It’s dead in here, come on, Anora. Stop being a brat and talk to me,” he says, and the way he just worded that really pisses me off.
I lower my notepad slowly, fingers tightening around the pen, and meet his eyes with the glare of someone who’s had to rebuild herself too many times. His smug expression, like he thinks he still has some kind of hold on me, just makes it worse. He has some nerve coming in here, sitting in my booth like he owns the place, and calling me a brat—after everything he did.
After ghosting me for a week, taking me out only to dump me over lunch, leaving me with a $200 bill that was supposed to be my rent money, and then not even offering me a ride home. That memory alone is enough to send my blood boiling.
I glare at him, my voice wavering for only a moment. “Brat? Do you have any idea how you made me feel? You dumped me, left me to pay a $200 bill, and then I had to figure out how to get home. That was my rent money, Mike. I’m on a fixed income—you knew that.” My voice rises, sharp and unwavering. “You’d have been better off dumping me over the phone. Or better yet? Just keep ghosting me, because I was already getting over you.”
He looks away, his lips pressed into a tight line like he’s got nothing to say to that—because, for once, he can’t run. Can’t dodge it. After a moment, he sighs heavily, grabs the menu, and flips through it absentmindedly, like the words he needs might be written between the lines of a burger description.
“Yeah,” he finally mutters, barely audible at first. Then he raises his face, meeting my glare with something softer, almost hesitant. “Yeah, I was a big asshole. Not gonna lie about that. I... I was listening to my friends, believing that I’d find something better on the other side. What I didn’t realize was that I was leaving behind the best thing that came into my life.”
The arrogance in his tone is gone now, replaced by something that sounds almost like regret. Almost. But that thin apology? It’s not enough for me. Not anymore. I scoff under my breath, shaking my head, and lift the pen and notepad higher—as if they can shield me from the way his words are desperate to work their way into my chest.
“You’re a customer. So, what are you having? ” My voice is sharp and steady, a barrier I refuse to let him break through.
“Anora,” he says, folding his arms over the edge of the table, his shoulders sagging slightly. “I mean it. I’m sorry. I was stupid, I was selfish—I get that now. I get you , okay? I know I hurt you, and if I could take it all back, I would…”
I’m trying to focus, trying to keep my cool, but the anger stirs in me like a boiling pot, ready to spill over. How dare he show his face here?
“I’m not here for food, Anora. I’m here for you,” Mike says, pushing the menu aside and sitting back in the booth, his eyes locked on mine.
“Then you wasted your time. I’m fine, Mike. I’ve moved on.” My voice hardens, but he just laughs, like he can see right through me. I hate that.
“Please, just leave me alone,” I nearly beg, even though I hate giving him that power.
“No, Anora. I’m not leaving. I was stupid before, and you were right to stand your ground. I get it now. You’re not some filler in a man’s life; you’re the real thing. A woman for keeps.”
“What the hell are you saying, Mike? I’m not about to sleep with you,” I snap, crossing my arms. Nothing’s changed. He’s only here now because I had the guts to stand firm on what I needed—what I deserved. And that isn’t some meaningless fling.
“I know that. You want to be courted. Fine. I’ll court you. Starting now. I’m staying here till the end of your shift, and I’m making sure you get home safe. After that, I’m taking you out on a date. ”
I scoff. “Oh yeah? So you can ditch me at the table again and leave me stuck with the bill? Not happening.”
That earns another laugh, but this time he pulls his wallet out, dropping three crisp hundred-dollar bills on the table like it’s nothing.
“There. That should cover it,” he says, pushing the cash my way. “And for the record, I’m not just looking to screw around, Anora. I’m looking for long-term commitment. Exactly what you’ve been offering from the start.”
The sight of the money makes my stomach twist. I hate him for bringing it, for making it harder for me to resist. He knows the financial bind he put me in when he stiffed me for the bill last time. Hell, I had to pawn my laptop to cover it, and I’ve been clawing my way to get it back ever since. This money could fix that.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab the cash, wincing as his fingers brush against mine. I shove the bills into my apron pocket and force the words out.
“Thanks,” I mutter. Then, with a heavy sigh, I add, “I’m guessing I don’t have a choice here, do I?”
He smiles, that smug, infuriating smile, and glances out the window at the snowstorm blowing harder by the second.
“You’re not walking home in this, Anora. Finish your shift. I’ll be here when you’re done. We’re not done talking.”
Grinding my teeth, I walk away from the table, refusing to let him see the mix of anger and helplessness on my face. He’s won tonight, and I hate it.
I move to the nearby booth where my sketch of Amir is sitting, the pencils scattered across the table. I start gathering them up, but something catches my eye. Outside, through the storm and swirling snow, I see him.
Amir .
Standing across the street from the diner, his golden eyes glow like they’re alive, burning through the white haze.
I lean forward, pressing into the booth, my heart slamming against my ribs. My hand goes still over the sketchpad as I stare at him.
And then, he blinks, and the wind picks up, blowing snow across the street.
I glance away for just a second.
When I look back, he’s gone.
Gone, like he was never there.
The ache he leaves behind feels too real to ignore. I clutch my stomach, breathing hard, my throat tight. These glimpses of him—they’re becoming more frequent, more real. In my dreams, he’s always been there, a constant presence that feels more like a memory than imagination.
But seeing him here, in the waking world? It shakes something loose inside me, makes me question everything I think I know about reality and dreams. His eyes held such intensity, such knowing. Like he sees right through to my soul. And the way my body responds to him, even from this distance... it’s like every cell recognizes something my mind can’t quite grasp.
Amir...
“Hey, Anora, you okay?”
I jump, spinning around to see Mike standing behind me. He’s squinting out the window, trying to figure out what’s got my attention.
I straighten up quickly, stepping out of the booth and grabbing my sketchpad and pens.
But he notices them. Of course, he does. Before I can stop him, he snatches the sketchpad out of my hand.
“You’re still drawing that elf?” he asks, smirking and tapping the page where Amir’s image glows back at me. My hands clench into fists, anger flaring hot in my chest. Mike’s dismissive tone makes my skin crawl. He’s always treated my drawings of Amir like some silly fantasy, some childish obsession to be mocked.
“He’s not just some elf,” I snap, the words coming out before I can stop them. I reach for the sketchpad, but Mike holds it just out of reach, still studying the drawing with that infuriating smirk.
The sketch is as clear in my mind as it is on the paper—his long, sharp, pointed ears framed by thick braids that glitter faintly, his eyes like molten gold staring through me. But there’s so much more to him that I can never quite capture on paper. The raw power that radiates from him in my dreams. The way he moves, like a predator contained in human form. The gentleness in his touch despite all that strength.
But Mike doesn’t understand. He can’t. Amir isn’t some fantasy character to me, despite what Mike thinks. In my dreams, he’s something more—much more. He’s a shifter, but not like any I’ve heard of before. He doesn’t just take on one form, one animal. He shifts into many.
Mike clears his throat awkwardly, and I feel my glare sinking into him. He gets the hint.
“Sorry, Anora, I’m working on it, okay?” he says quickly. “Here, I’ll just hold on to this while you finish up.”
Before I can respond, he bolts back to his booth, sketchpad in hand, clearly trying to avoid any more judgment from me.
I sigh and focus back on the window.
The snow outside blurs most of the view, but I can still feel it—the sense of something important slipping away.
Did I really see him? Amir? Was that real? Or is my imagination finally running wild after all those dreams?