Daughter of None

1

Lex

I’ve always loved the morning rain.

Not the dramatic kind with thunder and cinematic windshield wipers. Just… rain. The soft, steady kind. The kind that makes everything quiet. Slows the world down until it matches my speed.

It’s the only thing that ever does.

I lay tangled in my sheets, staring up at the slope of my ceiling while the rain patters against the window. The light outside is silver and half-asleep, and honestly, same. I should get up. Be productive. Go touch grass or whatever healthy people do.

Instead, I breathe in. Exhale. Let my limbs stretch like a cat that's had too many lovers and too little coffee. One by one, I swing my legs over the side of the bed and prepare to betray the warm safety of my blankets.

The floor is cold. Life is hard.

I pad over to the window, pushing my fingertips against the glass. The city outside is drenched and half-hidden. Fog hugs the rooftops. Strangers move like ghosts in oversized coats. It’s beautiful. Melancholy. A little bit dramatic.

Just like me.

I make my way to the bathroom and flick on the light. The mirror doesn’t pull punches. My hair is a mess of soft brown waves that definitely had plans last night without telling me. It falls to my chest, unruly and borderline feral.

My skin is pale and sleep-kissed. My eyebrows are full and vaguely threatening. I narrow my eyes at my reflection.

“Could be worse,” I mutter.

I cleanse my face while mentally cataloging every imperfection like I’m prepping for battle. A blemish here. A dry patch there. A crisis incoming.

Still, there’s one part of me I’ve always liked—my eyes.

Most people call them hazel, but that feels lazy. They’re green, first—quiet, foresty green. But there’s blue too, if the light hits right. And around the edges, a gold ring I swear wasn’t there until my heart got broken the first time. Or maybe the second.

I turn on the shower, hot enough to sting. Steam curls around my legs like a lover with no boundaries. I step in and let the heat hit me full force.

The water wakes my skin like a slow confession. I scrub rose oil into my arms, my hips, the curve of my neck. I rinse and stay in longer than necessary because I don’t feel like facing the world yet. Sue me.

Eventually, I emerge, towel-wrapped and vaguely new. I lotion. I perfume. I pretend I’m the kind of girl who has her life together and not the kind who once cried in the produce aisle over overpriced cherries.

Jeans. Black tee. A brush through my hair. I leave it loose today—wavy and wild, just the way the rain likes it. A little mascara, a smudge of liner, and enough blush to make it look like I’m still capable of blushing.

Coffee brews while I lace up my sneakers. I sip, burn my tongue slightly, and sigh like it’s the universe’s fault.

Then I step out into the day.

The mist hasn’t quite let go yet. It beads on my cheeks, my lashes, my collarbone. I could use an umbrella. I don’t.

I walk slow. The city moves around me—umbrellas, umbrellas, more umbrellas. I drain the last of my coffee and toss the cup in a bin outside the café.

The door groans when I push it open. Warmth hits me like a hug I pretend I don’t need.

The scent—gods, the scent. Espresso and something sweet and burnt. Like desire with a touch of anxiety. Perfect.

Baristas are moving fast. Customers are moving faster. I order a vanilla latte from a guy with a sleepy smile and calloused hands. He gives me change and a look that lingers just a little too long.

I wink. Why not?

My favorite spot is open—corner window seat, pillows piled like a nest, view of the street. I sink into it, sighing. My bones are still warming up.

I people-watch.

Suits storm in like caffeine is the only thing keeping them from homicide. Girls cluster in flocks, all perfect hair and oversized scarves. A few loners type furiously on laptops like the fate of the world depends on their dissertation. Or their fanfic.

I sip my latte when it comes. It tastes like vanilla and the promise of surviving another day.

Outside, the clouds finally crack. A shard of sunlight hits the sidewalk, bright and gold like an invitation.

I slip out of the café, weaving through the crowd until I find a drenched bench, half-sunken in the light. I wipe it down with the sleeve of my jacket and settle in. My latte beside me. My book in my lap.

It’s a fantasy novel. A broken heroine. A war she barely survived. Magic, trauma, tragedy. s*x as a coping mechanism. You know, the classics.

She’s a mess. And I adore her for it.

I read for a while. Let the world fade into words and steam and sunlight.

Then—

Something shifts.

I feel it before I see it. That old electric prickle. The sense of being watched.

I look up.

Across the street, someone is standing still in the flow of bodies.

A man.

And he’s looking directly at me.