Aven
Standing in front of the cracked mirror in the shop's tiny bathroom, I aggressively smooth a wrinkle in my black button-down that refuses to surrender.
It's the nice shirt, the one I usually reserve for bar shifts where the tips are high and the ghosts are low, and wearing it now feels like a very specific kind of tactical error.
I'm dressing for Ezra. Not because I want to impress him, obviously, because I still have some standards and at least three unresolved emotional disasters pretending to be dignity.
I'm dressing carefully because if I show up looking like the human equivalent of a car crash, he'll tally it as another symptom of my unraveling.
Every frayed thread becomes data. Every shadow under my eyes becomes evidence. Every coffee stain becomes proof that I need a soft-padded room, a steady diet of Seminary-approved prayers, and possibly a pamphlet with a dove on the cover.
I tuck the shirt in, my fingers trembling just enough to be annoying. I'm going to coffee. I'm not going to war. But in the three days since I moved into Soren's shop, the line between a social call and a tactical extraction has gotten incredibly blurry.
Cain is leaning against the doorframe when I finally step out into the hallway.
He doesn't say anything at first, only watches me with that predatory elegance that usually makes my brain short-circuit.
Today, it makes me feel exposed. He's wearing a dark V-neck that shows off the lean muscle of his chest, looking like he's been carved out of moonlight and bad intentions, and I hate that some petty, damaged part of me is grateful Ezra won't get to see me leave this place looking neglected.
"You're overthinking the buttons, Aven," Cain says. His voice is low enough to vibrate in the floorboards. "He already knows what you look like when you're falling apart. You don't have to prove you're whole to him."
"I'm not proving anything," I snap, though I immediately go back to adjusting my cuffs. "I'm maintaining a standard. It's called professional dignity. You should try it sometime instead of lurking in hallways like a very handsome Victorian haunting."
Cain crosses the small distance between us before I can find an excuse to move. He reaches for the heavy coat draped over the back of a nearby chair and holds it open for me, which is either chivalry or a very elegant way of pretending he isn't trying to wrap me in a portable warning sign.
"It's cold out," he murmurs. "And you haven't slept enough to keep your own blood warm."
I look at the coat, then at him. I want to argue.
I want to tell him I'm a grown man who can manage my own thermoregulation and make my own outerwear decisions without vampire oversight.
The truth is, the shop's wards are the only thing keeping the spectral screaming at a low hum, and the thought of stepping out into the city without an extra layer feels like walking into a blizzard naked.
I turn and let him slide the coat onto my shoulders, arguing only by making an irritated sound in the back of my throat.
His hands settle on my lapels for one brief second, a grounding weight that feels like an anchor being dropped into a storm, then he lets go before I can decide whether to resent it.
"If you're going to emotionally compromise yourself before noon, the least you can do is bring back pastries," Soren calls from the front of the shop.
He's sitting behind the counter, surrounded by a small army of twitching, carnivorous-looking succulents that seem to be judging my outfit choice.
"The ones with the almond paste. If I'm going to deal with your post-Ezra crisis, I need sugar. "
"I don't have crises," I lie, stepping into the main room. "I have complicated afternoons."
Soren rolls his eyes, his bright orange hair catching the morning light filtering through the dusty windows.
"Right. And I'm a well-adjusted human being with a healthy retirement fund.
Just get the croissants, Aven. And try not to let him talk you into any more exorcisms. They're terrible for your complexion. "
Ira waits by the front door without a snarky comment or a pastry order.
He only stands there, a massive, silent wall of tactical muscle and green-eyed focus, looking through the glass as he scans the street with mechanical precision.
His attention moves over parked cars, windows, doorways, the narrow gap between buildings across the road.
It should be comforting. It is, which makes me want to be difficult about it on principle.
"The street's clear," Ira says. He doesn't look at me until he opens the door, shifting just enough to block the wind. "I'll be within two blocks. If he tries to lead you anywhere else, you leave. Don't be polite about it."
"Ira, I'm getting a latte, not walking into a second-location crime documentary," I say, trying for a smirk that doesn't quite land. "I've known the guy for years. He's a middle-manager with a savior complex, not a hitman."
Ira finally looks at me, hard and unblinking. "Management's just another word for containment, Aven. I don't like the way he looks at you. Like you're a problem he hasn't solved yet."
He steps back, letting me pass, but the weight of his gaze stays on me all the way down the block.
I feel like a high-value asset being moved between safe houses, which is exactly the kind of thought I'm trying to avoid.
I want to be a guy going to meet a friend.
I want the world to be as small and simple as steamed milk and an apology.
The coffee shop is a sensory assault. It's one of those places that tries too hard to be industrial, all exposed brick and lightbulbs hanging from wires, and it's packed with the mid-morning rush.
The air smells like burnt beans, expensive perfume, wet coats, and underneath all of that, the dead.
Low-level spirits cling to the corners of the ceiling like damp soot, their formless limbs trailing over the shoulders of unsuspecting college students.
One is perched on the espresso machine, its translucent fingers dipping into the foam of every drink that comes out.
Without Cain's silence or Ira's shield or Soren's warm, strange magic turning the noise into something readable, the static starts to itch at the back of my skull.
It isn't screaming yet, only a dull, persistent mumble of a thousand unfinished sentences.
I feel scraped raw, my skin too thin for the amount of noise in the room, but I tell myself this is good.
Normal. Healthy, probably, which is suspicious on principle.
If I can't handle an overpriced coffee shop without a supernatural bodyguard, then Ezra's right: I'm a patient, not a person.
Ezra is already at a small table in the back.
He looks exactly the same, which feels like a personal insult.
His hair is perfectly styled in that clean-cut, seminary-adjacent way, and his sweater is a soft, comforting grey.
He looks warm. He looks attentive. He looks like the only sane thing in a room full of monsters, and for one stupid second, I want that to mean what it used to mean.
"Aven," he says, standing as I approach. He reaches out, his hands catching my upper arms for a brief, firm squeeze before I can figure out how to dodge it. "God, it's good to see you. You look... tired. Are you sleeping at all?"
"Nice to see you too, Ezra. And yes, I sleep. Between the existential dread and the part-time haunting, I find a solid twenty minutes here and there." I slide into the chair opposite him and keep Cain's coat on because I need the layers. "It's called balance."
Ezra sits back, his brow furrowed in that gentle, managerial concern I used to find soothing. Now it feels like being studied under a microscope. He’s already bought me an oat milk latte, extra cinnamon, exactly how I used to order it, and it sits between us like a peace offering or a bribe.
"I've been worried," he says. "After that text, I didn't know where you went. I tried your apartment, but the landlord said you'd cleared out some things. He mentioned two men with you." His mouth tightens, only for a second. "One of them sounded... intense."
"My apartment was a dump, Ezra. The spirits were practically eating the drywall." I take a sip of the coffee. It's too hot, the burn a welcome distraction from the whispering coming from the vent above us. "I moved. I'm staying with friends. It's a shop. Warded. It's quiet there."
Ezra's eyes flicker, a brief flash of something sharp behind the warmth. "Friends? Aven, you don't have friends who own warded shops. You have classmates, Gabriel, and me. Who are these people? Are you safe?"
"Safe is a relative term when dead men keep treating sugar bowls like furnished apartments," I say, leaning back.
I try to make it sound like a joke, but the way he's looking at me, leaning forward with his hands folded neatly on the table, makes me feel like I'm back in a confessional.
"They're fine. They're helping me manage... the symptoms."
"Symptoms," Ezra repeats, soft enough that it almost sounds like grief.
He reaches across the table, his fingers brushing the back of my hand.
"Aven, withdrawal from the Seminary structure is a shock to the system.
You're vulnerable right now. These people might be taking advantage of your condition.
You're more open than most. You have no idea how much damage that can do when someone decides to exploit it. "