Blood and Lavender

The Diner on Main

Mira’s POV

I woke up to sunlight and the smell of bacon.

For about three seconds, I didn't remember where I was. The ceiling was too high, with an old-fashioned light fixture instead of the cheap dome light from our apartment. The light was wrong, too golden, streaming through lace curtains instead of the vertical blinds Mom had never gotten around to replacing. The sounds filtering up from downstairs were footsteps in a kitchen that wasn't ours, a radio playing old country songs Mom would have hated, the clatter of pans, and the murmur of a voice that wasn't hers.

Then it all came back. The bus. The rain. Portland left behind like a half-finished sentence. Mom's funeral three weeks ago, closed casket because the cancer had taken too much for an open one. Aunt Carol's hug at the door, her eyes wet but her voice steady: "You're home now, sweetheart. As long as you need."

And Elias.

Elias.

I sat up so fast my head spun. The golden eyes. The voice... like warm honey. The way he'd said my name, like it was something precious. And the car disappearing into the night like it had never existed at all.

Had I dreamed him?

No. I could still smell it— that strange, wonderful scent of winter air, old books, and something darker. It clung to my clothes, faint but unmistakable. I pressed the sleeve of my jacket to my nose and breathed in deeply.

Real. He was real.

Which meant I'd gotten into a car with a complete stranger in the middle of the night, told him my mother was dead within five minutes of meeting him, and then asked if I'd see him again, like some lovesick teenager in a bad romance novel.

I groaned and fell back against the pillows. Aunt Carol's guest room had floral wallpaper, lace curtains, and a quilt that smelled like lavender. It was the coziest room I'd ever slept in, and I'd spent the whole night dreaming about a man with eyes like molten gold.

Get a grip, Mira.

But I couldn't stop thinking about him. The way he'd looked at me. The way he listened when I talked about Mom, as if my words actually mattered. The way he'd said my name, “Mira,” with that slight emphasis on the second syllable, like it was a word he wanted to hold onto.

I'd never had anyone look at me like that before. Like I was interesting. Like I was worth paying attention to. Back in Portland, I'd been invisible—the quiet girl in the back of the class. The one who didn't raise her hand. The one who slipped out as soon as the bell rang and went home to take care of her sick mother.

No one had ever looked at me like Elias looked at me.

The bacon smell was getting stronger. My stomach growled, reminding me I'd abandoned my frozen dinner on the side of the road last night. I dragged myself out of bed, pulled on the least wrinkled clothes I could find in my suitcase, jeans and a gray sweater that had seen better days. and i followed the smell of food downstairs.

Aunt Carol was at the stove, humming along to some sad country song about a man who had done her wrong. She was fifty-three and looked sixty, with gray-streaked hair pulled back in a messy bun and hands that were permanently red from decades of work. She'd been a nurse for thirty years before retiring to Fletcher's Grove, and she had the kind of calm, capable energy that made you feel like everything was going to be okay, even when it obviously wasn't.

She was also the only family I had left. Mom's parents had died when I was little. Dad had never been in the picture; Mom never talked about him, and I'd learned early not to ask. Aunt Carol was the last branch on a very small family tree.

"Mira!" She turned and beamed at me. "I was starting to think you'd sleep till noon. Not that I'd blame you. Long trip, and you got in so late. I waited up but I must have dozed off. I didn't even hear you come in."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"Hush. Sit down and eat." She slid a plate across the counter. Eggs, bacon, toast with butter melting into the corners, and a small dish of sliced peaches. "You're too skinny, Mira. Your mother would have my head if she saw me letting you waste away."

The mention of Mom hit me like a punch to the chest. I must have flinched, because Aunt Carol's expression softened immediately.

"She was my sister," Carol said gently. "My baby sister. I know I can't replace her. Nobody could. But I can feed you. So let me feed you."

I sat and ate, surprised at how good it was, better than I had expected. It had that simple, perfect taste you only get from someone who’s been cooking the same way for years. The eggs were soft and fluffy, the bacon crisp without being burnt, and the toast… You could tell the bread was homemade, probably sitting on the counter cooling when I got here last night.

Through the kitchen window, Fletcher’s Grove looked like something out of a postcard. Sunlight slipped through the pine trees, birds filled the air with noise, and somewhere down the road, a dog kept barking. I could even see the old church, its white steeple standing out against the bright blue sky. Everything looked so clean and calm, nothing like the dark rain-soaked place I'd arrived in.

"Hey, Aunt Carol?"

"Mm?" She was at the stove again, cracking more eggs into a

"Does anyone... unusual live around here?"

She chuckled. "Define unusual. It's a small town. Everyone's unusual in their own way. You should meet Mabel at the diner. She collects ceramic frogs—hundreds of them. Her whole house smells like a swamp."

"I mean... really unusual. Like, someone drives an expensive car and picks up strangers in the rain."

Her hands went still on the spoon. Just for a second. A tiny hesitation I would have missed if I hadn't been watching her so closely. Then she was flipping bacon again, but I caught it, the pause, the tension that crept into her shoulders.

"Expensive car? Not many around here. Most folks drive practically Trucks mostly. Some sedans. My old Honda's on its last legs, but she still gets me where I need to go," she said, avoiding my gaze. "What did he look like?"

Careful, something whispered in the back of my mind. Be careful what you say.

"Dark hair," I said slowly. "Pale skin. Young, maybe mid-twenties. Handsome in a... strange way."

"And his eyes?"