3: Half a Moon, Half a Truth

The two weeks disappeared before I could catch my breath.

Work consumed everything—my mornings, my nights, my sense of time. I woke up tired and went to sleep even more exhausted, my thoughts always racing ahead to the next task, the next deadline, the next problem only I seemed trusted to fix. Christmas crept in quietly, string lights appearing along the streets sometime between my third late night and my fourth apology text to Kade.

We barely talked.

When we did, it felt… off. Not distant. Not angry. Just wrong. His messages were short, carefully worded. Sometimes overly affectionate, sometimes strangely cold. I never knew which version of him I’d get, and I found myself rereading our conversations, wondering what I’d done to deserve either.

Still, it was Kade who suggested dinner again. A reset, he called it.

I wanted to believe him.

Friday evening came, and for once, I was ready on time. I shut down my computer exactly at six, a small, foolish sense of triumph blooming in my chest. I grabbed my coat, already imagining the warmth of the restaurant, the normalcy of sitting across from him like we used to.

My phone buzzed.

An intern. Panicked. A serious mistake.

Before I could finish reading, another message appeared.

Mr. Everett: Selene, I know it’s last-minute, but can you come back in?

My chest tightened painfully.

I stared at the elevator doors, already closing, and felt disappointment settle deep in my bones. I texted Kade immediately, explaining everything, apologizing, promising it wouldn’t take long.

Two hours. I swear.

His reply came quickly.

Kade: Okay.

Just that. No reassurance. No frustration. No warmth.

The two hours dragged on, but I was finally able to wrap up the mess. By the time I fixed the intern's mistake, the office was silent. Everyone else had gone home. Mr. Everett stopped by my desk as I packed up, his expression unusually soft.

“I know this isn't a part of your job description,” he said, “but you always handle things with grace. Thank you, Selene. Truly”

It definitely took me by surprise, but the compliment settled warmly in my chest, easing some of the frustration. Normally, I would celebrate, but today I only nodded, too tired to respond properly, and hurried out into the cold. The praise eased the sting of exhaustion. I left the building hopeful—naively so—that Kade would still be there.

⸻

The restaurant was dim when I arrived.

Candlelight flickered across polished tables, couples leaning close in quiet conversation. I scanned the room immediately.

Kade wasn’t there.

I checked my phone at 9:13 PM.

I told myself not to panic. He might be late. He might be outside. I waited, standing near the entrance, pretending not to look anxious.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

My phone buzzed.

Kade: Where are you?

I frowned and typed back quickly.

I’m here. I just arrived.

The reply came almost instantly.

Kade: I saw you walk in.

My stomach dropped.

I called him and stepped outside into the cold night air.

“If you saw me,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady, “why didn’t you come in?”

“So you noticed,” he replied calmly.

“Noticed what?”

“What it feels like,” he said, “to be the one waiting.”

My breath caught. “Kade, that’s not fair.”

“Neither is being an afterthought,” he replied. “Two hours late, Selene. Again.”

“I told you why,” I said. “I didn’t choose this.”

“You always say that,” he replied. “Funny how it keeps happening anyway.”

Something in his tone felt deliberate—like he was pressing on a bruise just to see if it hurt.

“I came as soon as I could,” I said quietly. “Doesn’t that matter at all?”

He sighed, long and theatrical. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

“I don’t want excuses,” he said. “I want accountability.”

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” he replied softly. “Because you feel guilty.”

The words hit harder than yelling would have.

“That’s not true,” I said, even as doubt crept in.

“Isn’t it?” he asked. “You’re always trying to make it up to me. Always apologizing. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

My chest tightened. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he said smoothly. “And because someone has to remind you when you mess up.”

“That’s not reminding,” I whispered. “That’s hurting me.”

There was a pause.

Then his voice softened, intimate and familiar. “I don’t want to fight. I just want you to do better.”

“I am trying,” I said, my throat burning.

“Try harder,” he replied. “Go home. We’ll talk later.”

The call ended.

I stood there in the cold, shaking—not from the weather, but from the confusion. He hadn’t broken up with me. He hadn’t apologized either.

He’d left me questioning myself.

⸻

I didn’t go home.

Instead, my feet carried me down familiar streets until warm light spilled onto the sidewalk.

The Half Moon Night Café glowed softly against the dark, its sign etched in silver and gold—a crescent moon cradling the word night beneath it. It wasn’t loud or inviting in the usual way. It felt like a secret you were meant to stumble upon.

The bell chimed gently when I stepped inside.

Warmth enveloped me instantly. The lighting was low and golden, like firelight rather than bulbs. Dark wood lined the walls, shelves filled with books, plants, and mismatched mugs. Fairy lights traced the beams overhead, and near the back, a small hearth flickered quietly, casting slow-moving shadows.

The Half Moon Night Café always felt like an exhalation.

“Hey,” a familiar voice said softly. “Rough night?”

I looked up.

The barista met my eyes from behind the counter. Dark hair, calm presence, eyes that seemed darker in the low light—but steady. Grounding.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “You could say that.”

He studied me for a moment—not intrusively, just attentively.

“Caramel latte?” he asked.

I blinked. “Yes.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “Thought so.”

He turned to prepare it, movements smooth and unhurried. Watching him felt strangely soothing, like the world had slowed just enough for me to breathe again.

“I’m Asher,” he said. “Asher Night.”

Night? “Selene.”

I took a seat at the counter instead of my usual table. When he slid the cup toward me, my hands wrapped around it instinctively. The warmth seeped into my palms, the caramel sweetness grounding me.

“This place is special,” I murmured. “It always feels safe.”

Asher glanced briefly toward the hearth. “That’s intentional.”

We talked quietly—about work, about the cold, about how December seemed to disappear faster every year. He didn’t ask about my red eyes or trembling hands.

“You look like someone who’s being made to doubt herself,” he said gently.

My throat tightened. “Is it that obvious?”

“To someone paying attention,” he replied.

The wind howled outside, rattling the windows. The fire flickered, steady and alive.

When I finally stood to leave, Asher set a napkin over my cup.

“Be careful out there,” he said. “Night hides a lot of things.”

I paused, unsure why the words stayed with me as I stepped back into the cold.

⸻

A week passed.

Kade stayed silent—just long enough for the doubt to settle.

Then, late one night, my phone buzzed.

Kade: I miss you. Come over.

I didn’t know then that this was how it worked. Not breaking me all at once—just slowly enough that I wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

And I didn’t know that answering him would lead me straight back to the moment everything would unravel to the night I would be taken.