"The Taste of Rain"

Asher hadn’t slept.

He lay on his back, eyes open, staring at the water-stained ceiling of his apartment as the last of the storm faded into silence. His body was still, but his mind pulsed with the same question over and over.

Who was Lucien?

The vampire’s name stuck in his throat like smoke—elegant, dangerous, strangely intoxicating. There was a memory imprinted in him now: the coolness of Lucien’s breath, the way his fingers had closed around his wrist, and that impossible stillness he moved with.

“I’ve been watching you.”

It should have terrified him more. Instead, it burned like something forbidden.

Asher turned onto his side, groaning. He wanted to forget it. Forget the way his body had betrayed him—how, for one second, he’d wanted to lean in, just to see what Lucien’s lips felt like.

“You’re not human.”

He should run from that.

But he didn’t.

Instead, as the morning sun struggled through the gray clouds, Asher got out of bed, cleaned the scrape on his hand, and pulled on his oversized hoodie. He caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror—pale, with shadows under his eyes and rain-dried curls falling into his face.

“You’re losing it,” he told himself. “He’s probably gone. Just forget it.”

But he didn’t believe that. Not for a second.

---

By late afternoon, Asher sat in the back corner of the bookstore café, nursing a coffee he didn’t want and pretending to read a poetry collection he’d already memorized.

He’d been jumpy all day—half-waiting for Lucien to appear again like some cloaked phantom from a dream. But hours passed. Nothing.

Until dusk.

The bell above the shop door jingled softly.

Asher didn’t look up at first. Then he felt it—something cold brushing across the back of his neck like a shiver with no source.

He looked.

There, leaning against the far wall like he belonged to the shadows, was Lucien.

He wore a long black coat, buttoned high, with damp hair swept elegantly from his face. Eyes like molten gold flicked toward him. No smile. Just heat. Intent.

Asher’s heart slammed once in his chest.

Lucien moved slowly this time, respectful—measured steps that felt almost human. He stopped at Asher’s table without asking and nodded toward the empty seat across from him.

Asher hesitated. “Is this… normal for you? Stalking?”

Lucien tilted his head. “Not stalking. Watching. It’s different.”

“Not really.”

“I disagree.”

Asher sighed, closing the book. “Why me?”

Lucien’s eyes didn’t waver. “Because you look like someone who doesn’t want to be seen—but still hopes someone will see you anyway.”

Asher froze.

Lucien sat, his body moving like silk under the coat, graceful in a way Asher couldn’t explain. “Do you believe in fate?”

“No.”

“Then believe in choice.” Lucien leaned forward. “I chose you.”

Asher’s breath caught.

“You don’t know me,” he whispered.

“I know more than you think.” Lucien’s eyes flicked to the scrape on his hand. “I’ve seen your loneliness. I’ve felt it in the way you walk, the way you hide behind sarcasm and books.”

“Are you always this intense?”

Lucien’s lips quirked. “Only when I’m hungry.”

Asher’s throat went dry.

“Hungry for blood?” he asked.

Lucien’s gaze lowered, then slowly slid up again—dragging over Asher’s neck, his lips, his expression.

“Not just that.”

Asher gripped the edge of the table, pulse loud in his ears. “I’m not some fantasy for you.”

“I know,” Lucien murmured. “But you’re not afraid.”

“I’m not sure I’m smart enough to be.”

Lucien’s smile was faint. “Or maybe you’re just tired of being untouched.”

That silenced him.

Lucien stood after a beat. “Come with me, Asher. Just for a walk.”