A Vampiric Kiss

1Isabella.There’s a special kind of humiliation that sticks to your skin no matter how many times you shower. I’ve taken six in the last twenty-four hours, and I still feel it crawling under my clothes like an army of ants.The rain didn’t help either.By the time I pulled up to the edge of Willow Creek, the storm had gone from a polite drizzle to a full-on biblical downpour. My windshield wipers were doing the absolute most and still failing, and the GPS on my phone had frozen just as I reached the turnoff for something called “Mosswood Lane.” Which, for the record, sounded more like the setting of a low-budget horror movie than a peaceful writing retreat.The cottage appeared through the mist like it wasn’t totally convinced it wanted to be seen. The roof sloped low on one side, the stone chimney was missing a few bricks, and the front porch sagged. Vines had taken over the front wall like nature was trying to reclaim it. The whole place looked like it had once belonged to someone

3Isabella.I knew I should’ve bought thicker curtains.The ones in my bedroom were thin, beige, and flimsy, the kind you hang up when you don’t expect to have neighbors or prying eyes. Which I didn’t. But I also didn’t expect how loud the trees would be when the wind picked up.They scratched the window like they wanted in.I turned over in bed and stared at the ceiling. My phone glowed from the nightstand beside me. 2:14 AM. The cottage creaked like it was complaining about its age. Or maybe it was just settling. That’s what people said, right? Old houses settle.Unfortunately, so do bad thoughts.I closed my eyes and tried to focus on the sound of my breathing, which was harder than it should’ve been considering I’d read every listicle on “calming nighttime rituals” known to man. I’d already done a warm shower, peppermint tea, five minutes of guided meditation (which was really just a woman whispering about moonlight and inner peace), and still. wide awake.That stupid knock from ea

5Isabella. The third time I saw Noah was next to the bananas.Which, honestly, ruined the dramatic edge he’d carved into my brain with his whole “mystery-man-in-the-rain” introduction. There’s just something about standing next to a giant yellow fruit display that kills the brooding aesthetic.I was trying to pick the least bruised ones. He stood a few feet away, staring down a bag of oranges like it had personally offended him. I was halfway through reaching for a bunch when he turned and noticed me.“Hey,” he said.It was casual, almost too casual, like we were just neighbors who passed each other at the grocery store on a regular basis and didn’t have any weird baked-goods history between us.“Hey,” I echoed, straightening up and tucking my hair behind my ear like a seventh grader at a school dance. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”He shrugged. “I don’t usually come this early.”I glanced at the clock near the register. It was past eleven. Not exactly dawn.“Guess we’re both bran

7Isabella. I don’t know what was in that tea Sienna gave me, but I slept like I didn’t have emotional baggage strapped to my back.Still, the moment I woke up, my brain did what it always did; file through everything I hadn’t done, everyone I’d disappointed, and every petty insult Nadia ever threw like it was her full-time job. But I shook it off this time. Mostly. Today, I wanted to write.That was the promise I made to myself when I came to Willow Creek. New town, new life, new projects. Even if they were the kind that never saw the light of a publisher’s desk again.I pulled my hair into a loose bun and padded barefoot across my creaky floorboards to the tiny kitchen. The whole place still smelled like wood and lemon oil. I brewed coffee and sat cross-legged on the couch with my laptop warming my thighs.The cursor blinked on the blank document.I stared at it like it for a long while.Come on, Isabella. You survived a public meltdown, national humiliation, and a father who would

9Noah. The sky was bleeding violet when I knocked on her door. I don’t know why I was here exactly. I told myself I was just returning the scarf she had dropped while passing by my house last week. That was a lie. I could have dropped it in her mailbox or left it on her porch. But here I was, standing in the rain like a fool.She opened the door with a smile. “You again.”“I had something of yours,” I said, holding the scarf out.She looked at it like she barely remembered it, then waved me inside. “You’re wet. Come in before you catch something.”I don’t catch anything. Not the cold, not the flu, not even a break. But I stepped in anyway. The warmth hit me first, then the scent of cinnamon, citrus, old wood and candle wax. It smelled like comfort. It smelled like her.“Tea?” she asked.I nodded. She moved into the small kitchen, and I watched her from the doorway. She had this rhythmic way of moving. I used to walk like that after the war. After her.I didn’t sit until she handed m