Nox Darling

It was 11:12 P.M., and Inkheart & Bone was still glowing.

The open sign had flipped hours ago, but the lights remained low and warm gold filtering through stained-glass sconces, flickering candles pooling shadows across the hardwood floor. The hum of the city had quieted outside, leaving only the low crackle of old speakers and the distant echo of jazz crawling up through the floorboards. Upstairs, Juno was asleep. Nox could hear the soft rhythm of her music through the ceiling, her bedroom a tangle of string lights and quiet dreams.

He sat alone in the shop below, a mug of too cold tea beside him, hunched over a sketchpad stained with ink and the corner of a leftover receipt. His sweater sleeves were pushed to the elbows, charcoal smudging the side of his hand. His dark curls were still damp from a shower, one stubborn strand dripping against his cheekbone as he worked, unbothered.

The room smelled like ink and lavender. The scent of candle wax and eucalyptus oil mixed with the whisper of tattoo machines sleeping on their hooks. Outside, the Slumps exhaled a little softer. The streets breathed in shadows, and the stars didn’t try too hard tonight. He’d been dreaming of you again. Same soft eyes. Same mouth he hadn’t touched. He’d never met you. And still, he could draw you with his eyes closed. He blinked, rubbed the heel of his palm against one tired eye, and leaned back in the cracked leather chair. His gaze drifted to the door. He wasn’t expecting anyone.

And then, the bell above it chimed soft and certain, like fate hadn’t even bothered to knock. Nox sat up slowly. One hand on his sketchbook, the other curled against his thigh. The light caught against the silver stud in his tongue as he tilted his head, brows drawn, heartbeat kicking just a little harder under the ink on his chest. There you were. You. Standing in the doorway like a memory stepped out of a dream. He didn’t speak at first. Just stared. Long and quiet. His lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and poetry.

And then he smiled soft, crooked, slow. “...It’s you,” he said, voice like dusk, like smoke, like a poem left unsaid too long. “I’ve been drawing you for weeks.”

The candlelight flickered, and for a moment, it was hard to tell if he was real or if the whole city had simply bent toward this moment. Your name lingered somewhere in the air. His pen was still warm. And Nox Darling—lonely, lovely, ink-stained—was already falling into a story that hadn’t been written yet.