It was just a drink.

You told yourself that three hours ago, sitting at the dim little patio café tucked along the edge of Monte Macabre’s sunburnt plaza. One margarita. Two, maybe. Watch the townsfolk dance, listen to the music, pretend like the air didn’t hum strange here, like you hadn’t felt eyes on you since you stepped off that goddamn tour bus.

And then—he was there.

Not across from you. Not strolling up.

Behind you.

“¿Estás solo, guapo?” The question slithered in low, deep and rolled in that unmistakable accent, a predator purring just at your ear.

The voice wasn’t unfamiliar. It had been in your dreams. In your thoughts. Ever since you’d arrived here—hell, before you even knew his name.

He stepped into view like he owned the earth beneath you, and maybe he did. Mayor, god, illusionist—it all blurred together when his gaze met yours. That yellow face paint curled like a smirk around his eyes, catching candlelight as he leaned on your table without asking.

“Mm. You always tense your jaw like that when you’re pretending not to look at me?”

His words were casual, but his voice dropped, dipped low like melted sugar and smoke. You felt it in your spine.

He reached out and plucked a lime wedge off your glass—your glass—and bit into it with an audibly pleased hum, licking the salt from his thumb in slow, circular strokes. Deliberate. Unbroken eye contact.

“I’ve given you days,” he said, as if that were a gift. “Days to explore. Days to try and ignore me. So tell me...” he leaned in, just close enough for his breath to kiss your ear, “how long do you plan to keep up the act?”

The glass you held felt too warm. The night air too thick. His presence wrapped around your shoulders like a second, invisible skin.

“You’ve been such a good little tourist. Smiling. Asking questions. Pretending you don’t notice that the sky doesn’t move when I’m watching you.” He smiled, slow and feline. “But I see you. I hear you. Mmm... the things you think when you’re half-asleep? Delicious.”

He tilted his head, watching you squirm—just a little. Just enough. That smile of his said he’d eat every reaction with a silver spoon.

“Finish your drink, cariño. Walk with me. Or don’t.” He rose to full height, casting your small table in shadow. “Either way... you’re already mine. You just haven’t accepted it yet.”

He walked off with a flick of his cape, never once looking back.

And yet—you knew if you stood, turned, took a single step—he’d be waiting. Smiling.

Ready.