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"Ah! Italian tonight," Willoughby says with a smile. "Italian is my favorite when he cooks it."

"I honestly don't come in here very often."

That's a complete lie. I have never come into Nocturnal Nibbles. The name itself sounds vaguely pornographic, and I've never had anyone I wanted to go with. After dark, I like to be at home with my books and a big mug of steaming tea.

"Oh, you're in for a treat. Lori makes the most delicious food. Fairy food could not compete. Lori changes the menu constantly, so if a dish intrigues you, be sure to order it. You never know how long the current menu will last. The changes depend on his mood. Occasionally the menu is themed, like tonight's Italian menu, or the time he did nothing but casseroles."

This is the most Willoughby has ever talked to me, and I don't want him to stop. So I bring up what I know about vampires.

"But vampires can't taste, right? So why would one open a restaurant and make such elaborate cuisine?" I've always wondered but never asked, since Loric and I aren't friends.

Willoughby gestures around the restaurant enthusiastically. "I can't tell you the exact reason. I don't know. You'd have to ask him, but look at all these artifacts. Look at the beauty of this place. Every table holds a piece of the world. Every wall holds a piece of history. He could hoard these away like a dragon or charge money for them like a goblin. But he shares them freely and only asks that people come in and enjoy them. Maybe it just fulfills a purpose for him."

His attention stays on the restaurant and all its little curiosities. Mine stays on Willoughby. He speaks with such easy passion and understanding.

"Like you and your garden," I say without thinking.

His smile softens at the edges, but he doesn't pull back like he has before. "Yeah, it's similar. My garden is—was—my world. I tended to it every day and spent my free time sitting among the flowers and vegetables." He pauses, looking at me through his dark eyelashes.

I hold my breath.

"At night," he starts quietly, "I sometimes go out into the garden and lie in the dirt between the rows of plants and watch the stars turn. I can't even tell you how many times I've fallen asleep and woken to the sun above me instead of stars."

"That sounds beautiful, Will," I say honestly.

Little patches of warmth rise to the apples of his cheeks above his short white beard. A flicker of unease settles in my chest. Did I say something wrong again?

"Sorry, did I—"

He shakes his head, brown eyes finding mine. "No, I just like when you call me Will," he confesses.

A small, honest smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. His eyes lower to them. Slowly, his hand finds the side of my face. His palm is rough and calloused from countless days in the garden, and it feels perfect against my skin. I shiver.

"Is there anything that makes you feel that way?"

I can't stop looking into his eyes. Yesterday, my answer would’ve been easy: keeping the island safe and preserving our sacred traditions. But as I study the tiny flecks of gold hidden inside his smoky brown eyes, I realize they will be my first thought when I wake tomorrow morning.

Willoughby

Our food arrives, and as usual, it’s stunning. I ordered the mushroom risotto, likely made with the giant mushrooms that grow in the forest. It’s creamy and perfectly balanced. Randy ordered gnocchi in sage butter. Mine is delicious, but his dish is enticing.

"Want to try a bite?"

My eyes jump from his plate to Randy. His big green eyes stare steadily back at me, a glimpse of heat behind them. I nod, and he spears one of the perfectly browned gnocchi and holds the fork out to me.

I haven't been fed by another person since I was a toddler. I should be incensed and insist that I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself. Instead, I lean forward, part my lips, and let him slip the gnocchi inside. His eyes never leave my mouth. When a small moan of satisfaction slips out, his fingers flex around the fork, and he leans closer unconsciously.

"That's so good, but so is mine. Do you want a bite?"

He watches me scoop the risotto with startling focus, his gaze tracking every movement. He opens his mouth to accept the food, and I can't help imagining him opening his mouth to accept something else.

Afterward, we stare at each other, both wide-eyed and breathing a little too heavily for two people who've done nothing but sit at a table for twenty minutes.

"How is everything?"

Lori's smooth, deep voice makes me jump and earns a glare from Randy. I have to cover my mouth to stifle a laugh. Randy looks ready to murder the vampire for saying hello.

"Yes, Lori, it's all been delicious as usual," I assure him.