Love Bites – The Diner on Third

I don’t know why I agreed to meet them in San Myshuno.
Neutral ground, Fiona said on the phone.
Change of scenery, Eirwen had added.
“You need to get out of the house before you brood holes in the floor. It’s not healthy to sit in your room until you either nail some randos or get called off to deal with a few naughty fangs,” Vincent had yelled into the receiver.

Idiot lycan. What would he know about anything I do? He’s one bad day away from chasing mail trucks. Maybe I’ll get him a flea collar for his birthday.

I should’ve stayed home.

The diner sits on a corner in the Arts Quarter, neon sign buzzing like it’s dying. I stand outside for a moment, hands shoved in my coat pockets, staring at the door like it’s a threat. Inside, I can hear Fiona’s laugh — bright, warm, too loud for a place like this. Her violet eyes are probably already sparkling with whatever joke she’s telling.

Eirwen’s heartbeat is quick and restless, the way it always is when she’s excited. She’s impossible to miss even without looking — tall, all limbs and elegance, that ridiculous silver‑blonde braid swinging halfway down her back like a weapon.

Vincent’s is steady, the calm thrum of a lycan who actually likes the city. He looks like he walked straight out of a lumberjack calendar — broad shoulders, flannel, the whole thing — which makes his love for urban noise even more irritating. My oldest sister got knocked up with him when she was still a teen, so he’s already a ripe old thirty‑two. I mention that because most people would tell you I look younger than him at this point. Immortality: one. Lycan genetics: zero.

I push the door open.

The smell hits me first — grease, burnt coffee, sugar, something floral I can’t place. It’s loud. Too loud. Humans everywhere, talking over each other, clinking forks, scraping chairs. I hate it.

Fiona waves me over like I’m late to a party.

“There he is,” she says, scooting over. “We thought you bailed.”

“I considered it,” I mutter, sliding in beside Vincent.

Eirwen grins at me, all teenage mischief. “You look like you hate it here.”

“I do.”

“Good. Builds character.”

I’m about to respond when she walks by.

The waitress.

She’s carrying a tray of plates, hair pulled back in a loose bun with strands falling around her face. Freckles across her nose. Light blue eyes that look like they’ve seen too many double shifts. She’s tired. She’s human. She’s… warm.

And she looks at me.

Longer than necessary. Not obvious. Just long enough that I feel it — a flicker of attention, a spark of curiosity she probably didn’t mean to show.

Fiona notices immediately. Of course she does.

“Oh,” she whispers, elbowing Vincent. “She likes him.”

Vincent smirks. “Yup. She definitely liked what she saw.”

Eirwen leans forward. “Uncle Damon, she totally checked you out.”

“I told you not to call me uncle in public! And she did not,” I say.

“She did,” Fiona sings. “You should get her number.”

“I’m not—”

Too late. She’s approaching our table.

“Can I get you anything to drink? Decided on what you want to eat?” she asks, polite smile, tired eyes.

She looks at me again. Quick. Curious. Uncertain.

Fiona kicks me under the table.

I glare at her.

Vincent shifts in the booth the way only a werewolf can — casually, comfortably, taking up more room than any human man has a right to. One arm drapes along the back of the seat, broad shoulders relaxed, the other hand holding the menu like it weighs nothing. He gestures with his chin when he speaks, a lazy, hungry sort of confidence.

“Coffee. Black,” he says, voice low and rough from the night air. “And your house burger — how is it? And your portions?”

He doesn’t look up from the menu, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he already knows the answer. Wolves are always hungry, and Vincent eats like a man who burns through calories just by existing.

She eyes the way he’s taking up the booth and smirks. “Big burger. Greasy. Fries like a small avalanche. Should keep you busy.”

Vincent chuckles low. “Perfect. I’ll take it.” He hands his menu back to her with a satisfied nod.

“Steak, rare, the bloodier, the better. And hot chocolate. Don’t be stingy with the whipped cream,” Eirwen says, already sliding her menu across the table toward the waitress like she’s done this a hundred times.

The waitress blinks at the combination, but writes it down. Eirwen isn’t a vampire, but she’s always had a taste for anything bloody. Always. Ever since she was a cute little pig‑tailed, poofy‑cheeked toddler.

I remember one visit — she must’ve been five — when she stole one of Dad’s emergency blood bags from his coat. By the time Fiona noticed, Eirwen was halfway through slurping it like a juice pouch.

Some things don’t change.

“Red wine for me,” Fiona adds. “Something deep.” She hands her menu back with a graceful flick of her wrist.

The waitress turns to me. “And for you?”

I don’t like anything they serve here. But I hear myself say:

“…Just water.”

“I’m sorry, he meant to say beer. He’ll get a beer. Whatever’s on tap,” Fiona corrects smoothly — and before I can protest, she reaches across me, grabs the untouched menu I never picked up, and hands it to the waitress with a tight smile.

The waitress looks at her, then at me. I shrug. She nods and walks away.

The moment she’s gone, Fiona pounces.

“Water? Seriously? Ever heard of blending in with the mortals?”

“I don’t like any of their shit here,” I mutter. “I’m here to see you all so we don’t get lectured by our respective species. I’m seeing you. I’m hearing you. And I’m already regretting it.”

“You sound like Caelan,” Eirwen says deadpan.

I shoot her a glare. In no universe is that ever anything but an insult.

“What? Even I know we are all supposed to do what the normies do so we don’t stand out more than we already do. When in Rome …” she now snaps at me in fluent teenage snark.

“We’re not in Rome!” I grumble.

“She likes you,” Fiona says, looking back at me from wherever she was staring. “The waitress was still checking you out until she noticed me looking.”

“She does not. She’s polite, she has to be. They work for tips, so of course they’re nice!”

“Yeah, major tip coming on a free glass of water,” Fiona says, absolutely obliterating my explanation. “I don’t think that’s why she’s eye‑raping you, lil’ bro.”

“Well, thanks to you I am now getting whatever lukewarm dogpiss they serve here as beer. Maybe she can tell I was forced to be here and is wondering if she should call for help,” I snap back.

“Damon,” Vincent says, leaning back like he’s about to deliver a TED Talk on my humiliation, “I’ve seen women look at you. Some look at you because you’re talking — or should be — and others look at you imagining you shirtless. She falls into the latter category.”

He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen doors. “I’ve seen that look. That was full‑on ‘I’m mentally undressing him with my teeth while pretending to refill the ketchup bottles’ brain‑rot. Don’t argue. If you want her she already hot and bothered for ya.”

“Shut up.” I grumble at him.

“He’s totally right,” Eirwen says. Fiona nods.

I want to walk into traffic.

“Thank you and your seventeen years of vast life and dating experience, Eirwen,” I snarl.

“Almost eighteen,” she fires back instantly. “Just a few more days. And I probably know more about dating than you do, Damon. At least the parts where you actually get to know someone before deciding if they’re even worth it. Do you even stop and ask for their names when you… ‘date’ for one night, Uncle dearest?”

She matches my glare without blinking — fearless, smug, absolutely delighted to be winning. I hate how accurately she calls me out on something I didn’t even think she knew about me. Good thing I’m not easily offended or I’d be sitting here blushing in shades of crimson.

“Knowing your dad, the ancient mage, I have a very hard time believing that,” I growl back.

“Oh please,” she scoffs. “Dad’s ancient. I’m not. I actually live in the real world. And my daddy loves me — he wouldn’t tell me no. And who says he even has to know until there’s something worth telling?”

“Just go talk to her,” Fiona cuts in, shutting down the bickering between her daughter and her brother. “Ask for her number. Since when are you shy, Damon?”

“No. And I am not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not—” I stop. I don’t have a reason. I don’t have anything.

Fiona raises an eyebrow. “You’re scared.”

“I’m never scared! I am a damn Enforcer! I don’t even know what that word really means!”

“You should google it, because you are,” Eirwen says. “It’s kinda adorable in a pathetic goth‑core way. Like a sad Victorian catboy.”

I want to evaporate. After strangling my niece.

Vincent leans back. “Fine. Don’t talk to her. But she’s been staring at you since you walked in. Definitely low‑hanging fruit. Isn’t that your type?”

My jaw tightens.

“I’m going to the restroom,” I mutter, sliding out of the booth.

“Remember to come back,” Fiona says. Eirwen makes a chicken sound.

I ignore both.

I don’t go to the restroom.

I go to the counter, where she’s entering orders into the register. She doesn’t notice me at first. When she does, she startles slightly.

“Oh—hi. Did you need something? Kitchen is still preparing your order.”

Her voice is soft. Warm. Human.

I hate how it hits me.

“I…” I clear my throat. I’m terrible at this. I haven’t done this in decades. I don’t do this. Not like this. The women I get with are usually intoxicated and ready to go there. All it takes is a nod and they’re putty in my hands.

“I thought,” I say, the word foreign, “maybe you would like to… you know… go out sometime?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. Mine do too. Perfect. I sound like a terrified fifth grader confessing to his crush with a sweaty Valentine’s Day card. I should be put down.

“What about your girlfriend?” she asks, looking at me like I’ve just crawled out from under the fridge.

“My what? I don’t have one,” I mutter, confused.

“Oh. I thought the blonde woman at the table. The one who ordered for you.”

My lips twitch into a tiny smirk. “That’s my sister. Doing what big sisters do best.”

For a moment she relaxes, giggles, glances at my table, then back at me.

“Oh yes, right — now I see it. The resemblance. You two look like siblings. What about the other blonde? Looks related too.”

“My niece. My sister is older and was a teen hussy,” I lie smoothly. Poor Fiona is only five years older than me and didn’t have Eirwen until her mid‑twenties, Eirwen is clearly approaching young adulthood and Fiona still looks in her mid-twenties, so the math ain’t mathing and I have no idea how to package that into something digestible for a mortal I just met. And after the way they all roasted me tonight, I don’t particularly care if they look like trashy tramps in her mind.

“Oh boy,” the waitress says — then her smile fades. She stiffens.

“Oh my god,” she says, turning again toward them, then back at me — mortified, suspicious. “Is this a dare?”

“What?”

She gestures toward my table. “Your friends. They’re all staring. Did they put you up to this? Are you making fun of me?”

I glance back. Fiona, Vincent, and Eirwen are absolutely staring. Like they’re watching a live‑streamed train wreck.

I turn back to her. “No. I just—”

“You don’t have to pretend,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I get it. I’m used to it.”

“Used to what?”

“Guys coming up because their friends dared them to. Never had a sister do it, but there’s always a first time. Do I read desperate? Or easy? I am not.” She gives a small, tired smile. “I’m not.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Try again.

“I wasn’t—”

“It’s okay,” she says gently. “Really. But I’m working. And I’m not interested. Sorry. Your orders should be up next.”

She pushes through the swinging kitchen doors and vanishes into the back.

The words hit harder than they should. That went even worse than anticipated.

I nod once — probably to myself — then walk away.

I don’t go to the restroom. I go to the hallway outside it and lean against the wall, pressing my hands into my eyes.

I’m an idiot.

A complete idiot.

Why did I listen to Fiona? Why did I care? Why did I—

I exhale sharply.

I need to get myself under control.

When I return to the table, Fiona looks smug.

“How’d it go, Romeo?”

“Fine,” I say flatly. “I have been using the bathroom successfully for many years now, thank you for your interest.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow. “You’re lying. We saw you talking to her.”

“Why am I being interrogated?!” I grumble back.

“You are not,” Eirwen says, absolutely roasting me at this point. “And you are totally lying. You struck out. Hard. My uncle with the ‘dark‑and‑brooding vampire rizz aesthetic’ fumbled talking to a waitress. Olympic‑level fumble. That’s a generational L. Gonna live in my head rent‑free forever.”

She giggles and snorts.

I ignore all of them as the order arrives.

The food comes in a clatter of plates and the faint smell of burnt oil. The waitress sets everything down with practiced efficiency — Vincent’s mountain of a burger, Eirwen’s still‑bleeding steak, Fiona’s wine, my beer I never asked for.

Vincent is already halfway through his fries before she finishes placing the last item on the table.

He eats like a werewolf pretending to be civilized — fast, focused, inhaling food like an industrial‑strength shop vac. The burger disappears in three bites. The fries vanish in handfuls. He doesn’t chew so much as demolish.

Fiona and I exchange a look.

She nudges him under the table. “Vincent. Tone it down. You look rabid.”

He grunts, mouth full. “M’fine.”

“You’re eating like a boar that got into the compost bin,” I mutter.

He shrugs and keeps going, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s never seen a napkin in his life.

Eirwen cuts three dainty bites of her steak, then pushes the rest toward him. “Here. Before you start eating the table.”

She grabs the teaspoon from her hot chocolate and starts eating the mound of whipped cream off the top, completely unfazed.

Vincent doesn’t even answer. He just devours it — the entire two‑thirds of a rare steak gone in seconds, like feeding a wood chipper.

I stare at him, horrified. Disgusting.

He wipes his mouth again — with his sleeve this time — then points at my untouched beer.

“You gonna drink that, pretty boy?”

I grimace. Even if I was going to, all my appetite for human food is long gone thanks to the lycan trash compactor next to me.

I slide it over. He takes it like a gift from the gods and downs it in one go — loud, obnoxious gulps that echo through the diner.

Gluck. Gluck. GLUCK.

He slams the empty glass down with a satisfied sigh. “Good stuff.”

Then he burps — loud enough that other guests turn around.

I want to crawl under the table and die.

This is probably the real reason vampires and werewolves are arch‑nemeses. Vampires are elegant and sophisticated. Werewolves are the exact opposite.

Fiona pinches the bridge of her nose, then pulls a handful of napkins from the dispenser and slaps the wad into his face. “Vincent. For the love of all that is unholy. Napkins. Use them.”

He wipes his mouth with the napkin wad — the same way a toddler wipes a spill, smearing it around more than cleaning anything. Then he grins at her, all teeth and zero shame.

“Better, Auntie Fi?”

“I know my sister taught you better than that! That’s just nasty! There is no universe in which Jaymie wouldn’t spank the crap out of you if you did that at her dinner table!”

“Nope,” he says cheerfully. “That’s just the way we are. We eat fast, we swallow a lot of air, and that needs to come out one way or the other. Trust me, burping is the better alternative. She’s just used to it.”

He starts gulping down the coffee.

Fiona looks like she’s about to ascend to a higher plane out of sheer horror. “Vincent. I don’t care. So you do that at home, fine. But you are in public.”

He shrugs, utterly unbothered. “So are they.” He gestures vaguely at the other diners, as if that explains anything.

“That doesn’t even make sense,” I mutter.

“It does,” he insists, already reaching for the last of the fries he somehow missed. “Humans do it too or they’d all explode. I’m just honest about it.”

Eirwen beams at him like he’s a beloved family pet who just performed a trick. “I think it’s funny.”

“Of course you do,” I say. “You grew up around him.”

“And you didn’t?” she fires back. “We’re all used to it — how is this news to you? Whenever Caelan wasn’t looking at least. Now if you wanna be so judgy, Damon, how about you hanging around with Caelan so much, when he won’t even acknowledge Vince and I even exist, just ’cause we’re different and not fanged?!”

Fiona slaps a hand over her daughter’s big mouth at the same time I kick her under the table — or try to — but instead I get Vincent. He doesn’t even flinch. It feels like kicking a brick wall.

“Sorry.”

“Didn’t even feel it. But she’s right. We didn’t create ourselves, so why does your precious Commander treat us like we did all this on purpose? I get that he may have wished our parents made different choices, but why blame the kids? Not Eirwen or my fault. You better hope that if you ever settle down your future wifey has Caelan’s seal of approval or you’ll find out how it feels when you don’t. Especially my mom, getting knocked up at seventeen by a wolf. Dad did everything right — married her, found a job, provided for us so she could finish school and go to college. Still, just because Dad is lycan – and I am too, we’re treated like scum and mom doesn’t even exist to him anymore. Even if they are in the same room, he acts like she’s invisible. That’s her grandfather. Talk about nasty. THAT is nasty where I come from.”

Eirwen immediately pipes up.

“You think it was any better for us, Vincey? Caelan legit hates my dad, and the feeling is mutual. I mean, we all laugh about him and Blaine going at it, but that’s harmless. If my dad and he ever ended up alone together, it would not end well. And he hates me just because Gwydion is my father. How is that my fault? And he doesn’t even know what kind of dad my dad is. And my mom only wishes she were treated like air. Because she has fangs, she gets insulted. Mom, tell him what Caelan said to you?” she nudges Fiona.

Before my older sister can say anything, I sigh. “I get it, we all do. But what do you want me to do about it? You really think I have any weight to pull around Caelan? If you guys think that there is no help for any of you. I get beaten senseless when he ‘trains’ me, to make me tough, according to him. And still he calls me princess and wench and hussy, because according to him I am too pretty for a man, makes me too feminine. And all that reads like I could go up to him, sit him down and lecture him on how to treat you all better? Seriously?!”

“Well, we know you can’t do anything about Caelan,” Vincent says, “but do you have to be on his team? It’s always you, Grandpa, and him. Like a union. Trifecta. Three besties. Looks a lot like approval to me.”

“Vince, let it go. It’s not Damon’s fault,” Fiona says firmly. “He didn’t ask to be an Enforcer either. You and Eirwen should look at it the right way: your mother and I got out when we could. That’s why we could marry who we really loved. It put Dad — your grandpa Connell — in a very bad spot, but he still shows up for us. Always has, always will. That’s what counts. Don’t worry about Caelan. Not like he’d be a lovey‑dovey great‑grandpa to have around anyway, even if we all had fangs and were docile, obedient members of the Vannucci Coven. And Damon was basically drafted because he’s a boy. Were I born a boy, it would have been me. Jaymie was always scot‑free ’cause she was born mortal. Clearly, all of us do not follow rancid old traditions and being told whom to love or hate, or we wouldn’t be here and wouldn’t have kept in touch all those years. I don’t give a shit who here has fangs or grows fur at full moon, who can conjure up the craziest scariest things — when I look around the table I see my little brother, my nephew, and my daughter, and I love all of you. And I know the same is true for Eirwen and for Damon and for you, Vincey.”

Vincent leans back, satisfied, stretching like a wolf in a sunbeam. “Yeah, guess you’re right, Auntie.” He wipes his nose with a loud, wet sound that makes my soul leave my body to go throw up.

Fiona and I exchange another look — the kind that says we share DNA with this creature and must simply endure it. And somehow still love the feral nephew built like an industrial‑sized refrigerator. You can love someone, but you don’t have to like them all the time. Right now I wanted to grab Vincent and toss him into a garbage can with a lid. Sweet nephew of mine.

Eirwen sips her now whipped‑cream‑less hot chocolate like this is all perfectly normal.

I rest my forehead in my hand. “I should’ve stayed home. This is why I am a loner and hate socializing.”

I Come Back

I don’t mean to.

I tell myself I’m in the city anyway. I tell myself I need noise. I tell myself I need anonymity. I tell myself I’m not thinking about her.

I lie.

I come back.

Not once. Not twice. Enough times that the neon sign above the diner starts to feel like it’s judging me.

I always sit in the same booth — the one with the flickering light overhead and the view of the counter. I always order a beer I don’t drink. I always pretend I’m not waiting for her to walk by.

She notices. Of course she does.

Sometimes she stares. Sometimes she doesn’t. Sometimes she looks like she’s trying to decide whether I’m dangerous or pathetic.

Once, she decides to speak.

“Hey,” she says quietly, stopping by my table. “I’m about to go on break. Do you… want to grab a coffee? There’s a place next door.”

My chest tightens. Yes. God, yes.

I want to say it. I want to say it so badly it scares me.

I open my mouth—

My phone buzzes.

A message from my father.

Mission. Now. Get to the castle immediately.

The world snaps back into place like a trap closing.

I stand abruptly.

“Sorry, can’t. I have to go.”

Her face falls. Just a flicker — a tiny collapse of hope — but I see it. I feel her heartbeat spike, her breath catch, her cheeks warm.

“Oh,” she says. “Right. Sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s not—” I stop. I can’t explain. I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell her anything.

I lift my phone like a shield. “Family emergency.”

I rush out before I can change my mind.

She watches me leave.

And something in her expression closes.

The next time I come in, she doesn’t look at me. The time after that, she barely glances my way. By the fourth visit, she walks past my booth like I’m just another shadow in the corner.

She doesn’t ask again.

And I keep coming back anyway.