Hi, dear readers! I'm so happy to finally post this fanfic about the Gargoyles. It's such an old fandom, I mean 90s cartoon! But when I watched it, the vibes were the dark/gothic ones that I adored.

So even though English is not my first language I hope you can enjoy the reading. I really loved writing it!

You're welcome to give some feedback, and what did or did you not like.

Happy reading! 3

Chapter 1

I let out a tired sigh as I wiped down the last of the tables. The neon sign outside flickered lazily, casting a red glow onto the rain-slicked sidewalk. It was past midnight, and the streets of Manhattan had settled into a restless hum—the occasional car whooshing by, the distant wail of a siren, the murmur of a late-night pedestrian lost in their own world.

I tossed the rag onto the counter and stretched, rolling out the stiffness from my shoulders. "Another thrilling night of culinary excellence," I muttered sarcastically to myself, glancing at the clock. Just a few more tasks, and I could finally go home.

The trash.

Of course.

I grabbed the overstuffed bag, its weight throwing me slightly off balance—typical. I stumbled my way toward the back alley, pushing the heavy door open with my shoulder. The alley was dimly lit, the single flickering street lamp barely piercing the gloom. The damp air smelled of old rain and city grime.

I moved quickly, eager to be done with it. Just as I lifted the lid of the dumpster, a sudden noise froze me in place.

Footsteps.

Too close.

My heart stuttered, and I turned my head slightly, eyes scanning the shadows.

"Hey there, sweetheart. Rough night?"

The voice was smooth, too casual for the way it slithered through the darkness.

I swallowed hard as two figures stepped into the dim glow of the streetlamp. The first man, tall and wiry, twirled something between his fingers—a switchblade. The second, stockier, cracked his knuckles, his grin too wide.

"You work here, don't ya?" the wiry one continued. "See, my buddy and I, we've got a little issue—we're short on cash. And lucky for us, you're just about to make a deposit in that dumpster."

I tightened my grip on the trash bag, my mind racing. They weren't here for the garbage.

"I—I don't have anything," I stammered, taking a step back. "The register's locked. Everything's already been—"

"Now, that's disappointing," the stocky one interrupted, stepping closer. "We were hoping you'd be more... cooperative."

My pulse pounded in my ears. Run? Scream? My options were painfully limited in the narrow alleyway.

I barely had time to react before the wiry man lunged. A sharp gasp tore from my throat, but it was cut off as his hand clamped around my neck. The world lurched as he shoved me backward, my spine slamming against the cold, unforgiving brick wall near the exit.

Panic exploded inside me like a firework, wild and blinding. My hands clawed at his grip, desperate to pry him off, but his fingers only tightened, pressing into my windpipe. A strangled sound escaped me, half a sob, half a wheeze. My feet kicked uselessly against the ground, searching for leverage, for some way to break free.

"Let... me... go!" I choked out, my voice barely more than a rasp. My lungs burned, starved for air, the pressure around my throat sending waves of terror crashing over me.

Dark spots began to dance at the edges of my vision. My heart pounded frantically, a caged animal in my chest, and every instinct screamed at me to fight—fight before it was too late. I twisted, writhed, tried to drive my knee into his stomach, but his grip was like iron.

The alley felt smaller, closing in on me, swallowing any hope that someone might hear me, that help might come. Cold sweat slicked my skin as the edges of my consciousness wavered. Was this it? Was this really how it ended?

Then, a gust of wind tore through the air, sudden and forceful.

The hairs on my arms stood on end, and even through my haze of fear, I sensed it—something massive moving above us.

Then, a sound.

Not footsteps. Not a voice. But a deep, primal growl that sent a shudder through my very bones.

The wiry man stiffened. His grip faltered, just for a second, just enough.

I didn't hesitate. I threw every ounce of strength I had left into wrenching free, tumbling onto the pavement, coughing and gasping as precious air flooded my lungs. My hands flew to my bruised throat, my chest heaving as I scrambled backward, desperate to put distance between me and—

And whatever had just landed in the alley.

The men hesitated, their confidence wavering.

Then, something crashed down between us with a thunderous impact.

I didn't see what it was at first—only a dark mass, wings folding in, a silhouette shifting in the dim light. The air carried the scent of aged stone and of the night sky. The alley, once just a dirty backstreet of the city, suddenly felt ancient, like something out of a nightmare—or a legend.

"What the hell is that?!" the stocky one stammered.

The growl came again, closer this time. The dark shape moved, and I thought I caught the glint of something sharp—claws? teeth? My breath hitched, but I couldn't tear my gaze away.

The shadow spoke. "Leave. Now."

Its voice was deep, edged with a barely contained fury.

The wiry man hesitated, but the stocky one had already turned tail and bolted. A moment later–after a snarl by the shadow–his partner followed, their footsteps disappearing into the night.

Silence fell once more.

I stood there, heart hammering, my breath coming in shaky gasps. I tried to make sense of what had just happened, but my mind refused to catch up.

The figure didn't move. It lingered in the shadows, its presence heavy and unshakable, watching me—or at least, I thought it was. Every instinct urged me to run, but my legs refused to obey.

Then, at last, a voice—low, edged with something unreadable.

"Are you okay?"

There was a hesitation in the question, almost... careful. Like whoever—or whatever—it was wasn't used to asking.

I swallowed, still unable to see the details of whoever—or whatever—had just saved me. My senses yelled at me to run, but I still didn't. Something in the way he spoke, the way he hadn't immediately disappeared after scaring off the muggers.

"I—I think so," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper. My hands instinctively reached for my neck, fingertips brushing over the tender skin where his grip had been. It still burned, a phantom pressure lingering, reminding me just how close I'd come to real danger.

A pause.

"Good."

The word was curt, distant—like a door quietly shutting.

I exhaled sharply, my breath still shaky. "Who... are you?"

Silence stretched between us, thick and uncertain. I could hear the city beyond the alley—the distant honk of a cab, the muffled music from a nearby bar—reminders of a world that felt impossibly far away from this moment.

Then, at last, his voice returned.

"I need to go."

Panic flared in my chest. He was leaving? Just like that?

I stepped forward before I could think better of it. "Wait—!" My voice cracked slightly, but it was enough. I heard him stop.

The darkness around him seemed impenetrable, but I could feel him there. Watching. Waiting.

"I didn't even get the chance to thank you," I said, my voice softer now, almost unsure.

More silence.

I swallowed hard, hesitating before speaking again. "What's your name?"

Another long pause. I could almost hear the wheels turning in his head, debating, weighing whether to answer at all.

Finally, with a quiet reluctance—

"Brooklyn."

The name felt... startlingly normal. Ordinary. Like it belonged to someone who should be walking the city streets, not lurking in the shadows like something from an old myth.

I licked my lips, willing my voice to steady. "Hi, I'm Alex." Slowly, cautiously, I extended my hand toward the darkness, heart pounding. "I really don't bite, I swear. I weigh about as much as a drenched kitten in a storm—I promise, I won't hurt you."

For a second, nothing.

Then—a sound. Faint, almost lost in the hush of the alley. A chuckle.

Not cruel, not mocking... something else. Something softer.

But still, he hesitated. I could feel it in the air between us. Whatever he was, whatever he feared I would see, it scared him more than it scared me.

Finally, a slow, deliberate step forward.

"Please don't scream," he murmured.

The dim glow of the streetlamp reached him at last, unveiling his form like a figure emerging from a dream—or a nightmare.

A sharp, beak-like mouth. A mane of wild, snow-white hair. Wings, powerful yet folded tight as if he wanted to disappear. And his eyes—black as ink, but when they met mine, they softened, uncertain, searching.

The city had always been full of strange things, but this... this was something else entirely.

My breath caught in my throat. My body wanted to react—to fear, to flee—but I didn't.

Because beneath the strangeness, beneath the fear, there was something else.

Something majestic.

Brooklyn watched me closely, tense as if bracing for my inevitable reaction—for the scream, the fear, the rejection.

But I just stared, heart pounding in awe.

"Huh," I exhaled before I could stop myself.

Brooklyn's brow furrowed slightly, echoing me. "...Huh?"

I swallowed, then shook my head. "I mean– I'm surprised." My lips quirked up, just a little. "And maybe a little curious."

"Curiosity's a dangerous thing," he said, his tone carrying something deeper beneath the humor.

I met his gaze, ignoring the chill that ran down my spine. "So is walking alone in a dark alley at night, apparently."

Brooklyn exhaled through his nose—a sound almost like a sigh. "Yeah. You shouldn't do that."

I swallowed again. "Well, Brooklyn... I think I owe you one."

He let out something that sounded almost like a chuckle. "Nah, you looked like you had it handled. I was just here for moral support."

I huffed out a breath, half a laugh, half disbelief. "Right. Because nothing boosts morale like a giant... whatever-you-are, swooping out of the sky growling like a horror movie monster."

"Hey, I take offense to that. I was going for 'terrifying, yet mysteriously alluring guardian of the night.'" His tone was dry, but there was something teasing in it.

"But seriously, what are you?" I asked, my voice barely masking the lingering tremor from tonight's events.

Brooklyn scratched the side of his beak-like mouth with a clawed finger, considering. "I'm a gargoyle."

I blinked. "Wow. So they do exist."

He huffed, crossing his arms. "I mean, unless you think you're hallucinating, which—" he glanced at the faint bruise forming on my neck, "—would be concerning."

A small, breathless laugh escaped me. I was starting to dig his dry wit. It cut through the fear still gripping my chest, grounding me in something... lighter.

"I guess you're the living proof," I mused, shaking my head in wonder.

Brooklyn smirked. "Apparently."

Despite everything—despite the alley, the fear, the bruises forming on my skin—I found myself smiling. Just a little.

The moment settled into silence. Not an awkward one, but something tentative. Like we were both tiptoeing into something neither of us expected.

I exhaled slowly and rubbed my neck, the soreness making me wince. "Hey... I know this is weird to ask, but—would you mind taking me home? Just, y'know... in case they come back?"

Brooklyn hesitated, his wings shifting slightly. His gaze flickered to the mouth of the alley, as if scanning for any remaining threats. His muscles tensed, like he was debating whether this was a good idea.

"You want a ride from a 'horror movie monster'?" he asked, arching a brow ridge.

I gave him a tired, lopsided smile. "I think I'll take my chances."

He stared at me, unreadable, weighing my words like he was still waiting for me to take it back, to look at him the way most humans probably would—with fear.

When I didn't, he let out a short exhale, shaking his head. "You're a weird human."

I shrugged. "I've been told worse."

For another beat, he studied me, then, with something that was half a sigh and half a chuckle, he held out his arms. "Alright. But hold on tight. Seriously."

I nodded and quickly locked up the diner, my fingers fumbling slightly with the keys. When I turned back, he was watching me, still wary, still on guard, as if expecting trouble to find us again at any moment.

When I finally stepped toward him, there was a flicker of hesitation in me now. Not out of fear—but because... this was about to happen. I was about to fly.

"Uh, so... how do we do this?" I asked awkwardly.

"Just—hold onto my neck."

I swallowed and carefully wrapped my arms around him.

The wind stirred around us as he crouched, wings unfurling, powerful and vast. Then, instead of leaping immediately, he dug his claws into the brick wall and climbed.

I let out a sharp inhale, gripping him a little tighter. "W-We're not jumping?"

Brooklyn's voice rumbled with amusement. "Baby steps."

Even still, the sheer speed of his ascent sent my stomach lurching. The city spun beneath us, the rooftops tilting at angles that made my head swim.

Then, he stopped. Took a deep breath.

And with one powerful push—

We were airborne.

A startled yelp broke from my lips as the ground vanished beneath us. Instinctively, I squeezed my eyes shut, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Brooklyn let out a quiet chuckle that vibrated through my whole body. "Hey, it's okay," he murmured, his voice softer now, reassuring. "I've got you."

I forced myself to take a breath, my grip on him iron-tight.

Maybe this was crazy.

Maybe tonight was a fever dream.

But, against all logic, I believed him.

And, just for a second, I let myself trust the wind.

I tentatively opened my eyes, my breath still caught somewhere between fear and wonder.

Brooklyn's face was closer than I expected. But what really startled me was—he wasn't looking ahead.

He was looking at me.

The second our eyes met, he swiftly turned away, his gaze snapping back to the sky like he hadn't just been caught staring. A flicker of something unspoken passed between us, but the wind stole it before I could grasp it.

I was still clinging to him, my fingers curled against his skin, but now, I noticed him—really noticed him. His body was warmer than I'd expected, not cold and unyielding like stone, but something else entirely. His skin had a supple, leathery softness beneath my fingers, smooth yet firm, like something meant to withstand the world yet still strangely inviting. The warmth of him seeped into me, dulling the bite of the chilly night air.

I swallowed, unsure of what to do with this sudden awareness.

And then, I looked down.

My breath hitched. The city sprawled beneath us, lights flickering like scattered stars, cars moving like tiny veins of light through the dark streets. Buildings that had once loomed above me now felt like mere stepping stones. I was flying.

No—I was soaring.

A shaky laugh bubbled out of me, the exhilaration crashing over my fear like a wave. This was nothing like riding in an airplane or looking out from a rooftop. This was something primal, something untamed. This was freedom on a whole other level.

"Is this what you see every day?" I whispered, barely trusting my voice, afraid to break the magic of the moment.

Brooklyn's gaze flickered to me again, briefly, before returning forward. "…Pretty nice, huh?" he said, but there was a note of something in his voice—something softer, like he was seeing it all differently for the first time.

I shook my head in disbelief. "More like magnificent."

He huffed, a sound of quiet contentment.

The moment stretched, the wind curling around us like an unseen current, carrying us higher. And for the first time in my life, I understood what it meant to be weightless—to leave the world behind.

But then Brooklyn cleared his throat, as if pulling himself back. "I, uh… I need you to give me directions. Unless you wanna glide all night."

I blinked, breaking out of my amazement. "Oh! Right—see that skyscraper up ahead?" I pointed quickly, regaining my bearings. "My building is right behind it."

At my instruction, Brooklyn tilted his wings and adjusted his glide with a grace that was mesmerizing. The movement was seamless, natural—like he belonged to the sky.

Before I even realized how fast we were going, we had already reached my building.

"It's the second-to-last apartment on the left," I said, my heartbeat still racing from the flight. "See the balcony with the little pink table?"

Brooklyn huffed a small laugh. "Pink? Really?"

"Yes. Don't judge."

His wings angled slightly as he prepared to descend. "Alright—hold on tight. We're landing."

I instinctively tightened my grip, pressing myself closer to him.

"Not that tight," he chuckled, but there was a slight nervousness to it, like he wasn't used to someone holding onto him this way.

Before I could feel too self-conscious, his talons made contact with the balcony floor, the landing smoother than I'd expected. The second we touched down, Brooklyn loosened his grip on me, his hands hesitating for a split second before he finally let go.

"We're here, by the way," he muttered, almost too casually, as if trying to shake off whatever moment had just passed between us.

I wasn't sure what to say. My heart was still soaring somewhere in the night sky.

But I knew one thing for sure—

I never wanted to walk again.

After a moment, I forced myself to steady my breath, the night air still cool against my skin. I had barely processed everything that had happened, but one thing was certain—without Brooklyn, I wouldn't be standing here.

"I didn't thank you properly before," I murmured, absently rubbing at the sore skin on my neck. My voice was softer now, no longer shaken but filled with something else—something raw. "If you hadn't shown up when you did… I don't even want to think about where I'd be right now." I let out a small, uneven laugh. "I swear, I must have a talent for attracting bad luck."

I lifted my eyes to his. "I owe you my life, Brooklyn."

The words hung between us, heavy with truth.

Brooklyn shifted where he stood, his talons scraping softly against the balcony floor. He looked down, then away, his wings giving an uneasy twitch.

"There's no need to thank me," he muttered, his voice quieter than before. Almost… embarrassed. "It's my duty to patrol the city and help those in need."

It was strange—someone as strong, as otherworldly as him, reduced to this kind of awkwardness. For all his sharp edges, there was a softness to him. A humility.

For someone so ancient and 'scary,' he was awfully shy sometimes.

"Well, I'm going to thank you anyway," I said with a small, lopsided smile. "And, actually… I'd like to return the favor. I mean, it's nothing in comparison, but—I could make you tiramisù."

Brooklyn blinked at me.

I cleared my throat, suddenly feeling ridiculous. "I mean, if you even eat human food—Wait, do you?"

He gave me the strangest look, like I had just asked if he drank motor oil.

"…I do eat human food," he said slowly.

"But?" I prompted, tilting my head.

Brooklyn hesitated. He didn't finish his sentence.

His brow furrowed slightly, his wings shifting like the movement helped him think. His gaze flickered between me and the city.

Something held him back.

I watched him closely, waiting, hoping—wondering if he would let himself take this small, simple offer.

Would he?

Could he?

Or would he slip back into the night, like he had never been here at all?

Brooklyn tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing in curiosity. "What is… a tiramisù?"

For a second, I just blinked at him, stunned by the innocent question. Then, a beaming grin stretched across my face.

"It's a dessert! A really good one!" I gushed, suddenly unable to contain my enthusiasm. "It's originally from Italy—my grandma taught me how to make it when I was little. It's got layers of espresso-soaked ladyfingers, creamy mascarpone, cocoa powder… oh! And sometimes a little bit of rum. I promise you, it tastes like heaven."

As I rambled on, my fingers fidgeted with the hem of my sleeve, an unconscious habit whenever I got too excited. Brooklyn just stood there, watching me. Listening. His expression was unreadable at first, his dark eyes locked onto mine as if he were absorbing every word.

Then, after a long pause, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly in amused defeat.

"…Alright," he said at last, his voice laced with something almost playful. "Then I guess I have to see if this 'heavenly' dessert lives up to the hype."

I gasped. "Really?!"

Brooklyn's wings twitched as I practically bounced in place, unable to hide the thrill running through me. I hadn't expected him to actually say yes. I mean, he'd been so hesitant, so unsure. But now—now he was coming back. He was choosing to come back.

I clapped my hands together, giddy. "Good! That's—That's so great! You won't regret it, I swear. I'll make the best tiramisù you've ever had. Not that you've had one before, but still!"

Brooklyn let out a quiet chuckle—low, deep, almost fond. The way my excitement bubbled over seemed to amuse him, but there was something else in his expression too. Something softer.

His gaze lingered on me for a beat longer before he gave a small nod. "See you tomorrow, Alex."

And before I could even think of stopping him, he moved.

With practiced ease, he perched on the railing, wings stretching wide against the night sky. I barely had time to process the way the dim light caught the silver streaks in his wild mane before he leapt—plummeting for a brief second before catching the wind beneath his wings and gliding into the darkness.

I stood there, my heart hammering, watching as he disappeared beyond the rooftops.

A grin slowly crept back onto my face.

See you tomorrow, Brooklyn.

I slid the window open—thankfully, it was still ajar from the day before—and stepped inside. As I flipped on the light, my gaze inadvertently caught my reflection in the mirror hanging by the door.

My hair was a disaster, wind-tossed from the earlier glide, strands sticking out in every direction like I'd just been through a tornado. But that wasn't what made me pause.

My face.

It was flushed.

Wait. Why was I flushed?

A sudden, unwelcome realization crept over me. Was I… excited? Over a creature—a gargoyle? That wasn't natural. Right?

I rubbed my face, trying to will away the warmth rising to my cheeks. Get a grip, Alex. You are not a teenager.

And yet—

For goodness' sake, what was I even thinking? I had asked him—a stranger—to take me home. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just instinctive trust.

I shouldn't trust Brooklyn.

He. Not Brooklyn. Don't start making it personal.

He is a gargoyle.

I sighed, shutting my eyes for a second, hoping that when I reopened them, my thoughts would be clearer. They weren't.

Because instead of reevaluating my sanity, I found myself standing in front of the fridge, mindlessly pulling out the ingredients for tiramisù.

Damn it.

The next day blurred by in a haze of routine and exhaustion at the diner. I went through the motions, took orders, served food, and ignored the occasional rude customer, but my mind was elsewhere—a frustrating, inescapable elsewhere.

No matter how many times I told myself to forget about it, my thoughts circled back, like a stubborn, looping track.

By the time my shift ended, I found myself unconsciously stalling. Slowing my steps. Lingering at crosswalks.

And yet, despite my best efforts, my legs carried me home at their own determined pace. As if they wanted to be there. As if I wanted to be there.

By the time I reached my apartment, my breath was ragged, as if I had just escaped some wild, feral predator. But the truth was far worse.

I wasn't running away from something.

I was running toward something.

Something I didn't even want to admit to myself.

Trying to shake off the weight in my chest, I shoved open the French window, kicked off my suffocating uniform, and dashed to the bathroom for a shower.

That should help. Right?

Wrong.

Because fifteen minutes later, I was pacing my apartment like a trapped animal, drawing the unfortunate attention of my downstairs neighbors. The occasional bang of a broomstick against the ceiling was proof of that.

Not that I cared.

Because there I was, standing in front of my mirror, holding up a dress. A cute dress.

And instead of tossing it back into the abyss of my closet like I should, I hesitated.

Why?

Why did I want to look cute?

I didn't. I couldn't.

With a huff, I threw the dress onto the bed and yanked on a T-shirt and sweatpants instead. That's right. No cuteness. Just pure, unfiltered comfort.

But maybe... maybe I could leave my hair down.

Damn it, Alex!

I sat on the couch, checking the time more often than I checked my own pulse.

Two hours passed.

Nothing.

I tried not to overthink it. Maybe he was just running late. Maybe something had come up. He was a gargoyle, after all. He probably had duties—patrolling the city, keeping people safe. I should be grateful for that.

And yet...

A gnawing feeling wormed its way into my gut.

What if something happened to him? But that was ridiculous, right? He knew how to handle himself. He spooked off muggers, for crying out loud.

I opened the fridge again, peeking at the tiramisù like some obsessive baker waiting for validation.

What if he did come, but hated it? What if he thought it was disgusting?

But no, that was stupid. Tiramisù was delicious. Objectively so.

Still, my mind spiraled, my own thoughts betraying me.

Another hour passed.

Then another.

It was past one now.

And finally, reality checked in.

He wasn't coming.

I stared at the clock, heart sinking like a stone in water. A bitter laugh pushed past my lips.

Ghosted. By a gargoyle.

Was there a sadder sentence in existence?

The epitome of my luck.

I pressed my lips together, swallowing down the pathetic weight in my throat. With heavy steps—and an even heavier heart—I moved to turn off the lights, resigning myself to the sting of disappointment.

But then—

A slow, deliberate sweep of wings sliced through the silence, stirring the air around me. A warm gust curled along my skin, carrying with it the scent of aged stone and the night itself.

I froze.

My breath hitched.

And just like that, I wasn't alone anymore.

"Hey…"

The voice was unmistakable—goofy, slightly sheepish, yet oddly endearing.

A part of me wanted to stay still, act indifferent, pretend like I hadn't just spent hours overthinking his absence.

Do not dash to the window.

Do not.

Damn it, my legs.

Before I could even think about stopping myself, I was already there, my fingers gripping the edge of the window frame, my pulse kicking up a notch.

And there he was.

Brooklyn stood hesitantly on the balcony, never once stepping over the threshold or peeking inside. His wings shifted, his tail flicked once against the railing—nervous, unsure. He looked awkwardly out of place, yet at the same time, as if he belonged there all along.

A slow, foolish smile spread across my lips, completely overriding the irritation I had just been feeling.

"You're here." The words tumbled out, soft, almost relieved.

His beak twitched slightly, his eyes flickering over me as if confirming that I was actually standing there. "Yeah," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "Sorry for the lateness."

For someone who had just ghosted me for hours, he looked... almost surprised to see me. As if he half-expected me to be asleep—or worse, mad.

I crossed my arms, tilting my head with mock suspicion. "You couldn't resist the call of the tiramisù, could you?"

That got him.

His stance relaxed, and the tension in his shoulders eased as he let out a soft chuckle.

"You're awfully proud of your tiramisù," he teased, his tone carrying just the right amount of playfulness.

My grin widened.

He wasn't wrong.

But right now, food was the last thing on my mind.

Brooklyn had come back.

And somehow, that meant everything.

The tiramisù had been an absolute success.

Brooklyn had taken the first bite with cautious curiosity, his sharp talons oddly delicate as he scooped the dessert onto his tongue. The moment the flavors melted in his mouth, his eyes widened slightly, and his tail flicked in what I could only describe as pure satisfaction.

"Okay," he admitted after swallowing. "That's really good."

I smirked, leaning on the table. "Told you. Heavenly, right?"

He scoffed lightly, still savoring the taste. "I don't know about heavenly, but I could definitely be convinced to rob an Italian bakery for more of this."

I gasped in mock offense. "Excuse me, sir, but that would be a crime against my grandmother's legacy. This is a family secret. You can't just betray me for some random pastry shop."

Brooklyn chuckled, shaking his head as he reached for another bite. "Fine. I guess I'm honor-bound to only get my tiramisù from you."

Something warm coiled in my chest at that.

For the next few hours, we talked.

About everything.

I told him about my childhood—how my mother had raised me alone, how I'd grown up in a tiny apartment that smelled like books and coffee. He listened as I described my love for baking, how my grandmother had taught me the precise art of folding mascarpone into cream, how cooking was one of the few things in life that always made sense to me.

He told me about his clan. About what it was like to be a gargoyle—to live in the shadows, to sleep in stone, to exist in a world that wasn't built for them. He spoke of the past, of battles fought, of a life that had spanned centuries. And yet, despite all that history, despite all the nights he had spent watching over this city, there was still something boyish about him.

Something endearingly unsure.

I found myself watching him more than I should.

The way his eyes flickered between sharp intensity and hesitant amusement. The way his talons tapped absently against the table when he was thinking. The way he smiled—really smiled—when he got lost in a story.

It felt so... easy.

It shouldn't have. But it did.

And before I knew it, the sky was beginning to shift. The deep inky black of the night had started to soften into dark blue.

Brooklyn noticed it too. He glanced at the window, his expression shifting from relaxed to regretful. "I should go," he murmured.

My stomach twisted.

I didn't want him to go.

But I couldn't say that.

I shouldn't say that.

Instead, I forced a small smile and nodded. "Of course. Sunrise and all."

He hesitated, his wings shifting slightly before he stood. He stretched—rolling his shoulders, flexing his talons—and my breath caught.

I shouldn't be staring.

But how could I not?

The way the dim light caught his skin, a deep shade of crimson with an almost velvety texture, was mesmerizing. His muscles shifted beneath it with a quiet power, his movements effortlessly fluid, like something carved from myth and brought to life. There was a rawness to his presence—something untamed and wild—and yet, in this moment, there was also something strangely gentle.

I didn't want him to leave.

That thought came so suddenly, so viscerally, that I clenched my fingers into my palms.

This was ridiculous.

This was Brooklyn—a gargoyle, a creature I had only met a day ago. And yet, I felt myself drawn to him as if some invisible force had taken hold of me. Like a magnet. Like gravity itself had shifted in his direction, and I had no way of resisting.

I had invited him over tonight because he had saved me. Because I wanted to return the favor. Because I had an excuse.

But now?

Now there was nothing.

No reason. No justifiable pretense to say stay, come back, see me again.

Just the gnawing feeling in my chest, the unbearable weight of wanting something I shouldn't.

Brooklyn turned back to me, catching my gaze just as I tried to look away. I saw the way his eyes flickered, as if he had noticed the way I was staring. But if he did, he didn't say anything.

Instead, his voice came softer this time. Quieter.

"Thanks for the tiramisù, Alex."

I swallowed. "Anytime."

Anytime.

The word hovered between us, unspoken things tangled in its weight.

Because we both knew the truth.

There was no anytime.

There was only this time.

We shouldn't see each other again, right?

I could feel the words forming on my tongue—the question that had been clawing at my ribs. Will you come back? But they wouldn't come out.

Instead, I just stood there, gripping the edge of the table like a coward.

Brooklyn held my gaze for a second longer, his eyes flickering with something I couldn't quite read. Then, with a small nod, he turned.

He perched on the railing, wings unfurling like the sails of a ship about to set off into the unknown. The night air stirred around him, ruffling the wild strands of his snowy-white hair.

I stepped closer—drawn to him without thinking, like a compass needle pulled north. My fingers curled against the railing, grounding me as I watched him prepare to leave.

I didn't want him to go.

I swallowed, forcing my voice to be steady. "Goodnight, Brooklyn."

His name felt strange on my tongue this time, as if I were saying it for the last time—like speaking it too loudly might make this whole encounter vanish into nothing.

Brooklyn turned his head slightly, his dark eyes catching the soft glow of the city beyond us. Then, with the smallest tilt of his lips, he said,

"Good morning, Alex."

A quiet, clever twist. But I heard the weight beneath it, the way it lingered in the space between us.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. No words, no movement—only the distant hum of New York in the background, a reminder of the world continuing on, oblivious to whatever this was between us.

I wanted to reach out.

To touch him.

We were so close, yet impossibly far apart. I wanted to know if he would flinch or lean into my touch. I wanted to make sure this wasn't just my imagination, a fever dream brought on by exhaustion and adrenaline.

But I hesitated.

And before I could gather the courage, Brooklyn smiled—a small, knowing thing that made my heart tighten—then pushed off the railing, wings spreading wide as he disappeared into the night.

Gone.

Just like that.

The empty space he left behind felt almost tangible, pressing against my chest.

I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding, my fingers tightening around the railing.

I had let him leave.

I had let him leave.

And worse—I had never asked if he would come back.

A lump formed in my throat as I leaned toward the railing, watching as his figure became smaller and smaller against the backdrop of the city.

I let out a breathy chuckle, but it didn't quite reach my chest.

Because deep down, I knew the truth.

I was too scared to ask for what I wanted.

To be continued.