Night Hunter (BL)

The days passed quietly, with no word from the person who sent those flowers. A small part of me had hoped it was Ginevra, that he would reach out soon, but nothing happened. Still, I made sure to tend to the flowers every day. Gardening had always been one of the hobbies that kept me sane, but I had to admit, I'd been doing it a lot more lately.

I was watering my plants one afternoon when I suddenly smelled the familiar scent of Cecilia. I looked up and saw her approaching. She hardly ever came by unless she wanted me to test one of her herbal remedies. I wasn't even sure how safe they were, but she helped me when I needed something, so I kind of just took the risk.

"What did I do to be graced by your presence?" I teased, knowing exactly why she was here.

She laughed and waited until she was standing right in front of me to answer. "Didn't know you were into herbs."

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "I'm embarrassed to admit that I only see them as flowers."

"Most plants are herbs, Blake," she said, then took a seat on the stairs that led up to my porch, watching me closely as I watered each plant.

"You're being weird. Since when do you come to my home and sit down like that?" I asked, starting to feel a little nervous.

Cecilia let out a tired sigh. "I could barely sleep, Blake. For the past few days, I've been seeing you standing between two powerful forces..."

I groaned. "There you go again, spewing things that don't make sense."

Cecilia got up and cupped my face in both her hands. "You're right, I'm just an old lady. We're known to spew nonsense." She gave me a small smile, but a tear rolled down her cheek, faltering her expression.

She quickly let go of my face and hurried away.

"Wait, Cecilia, are you alright?" I called after her, but she stopped and glanced back over her shoulder.

"Be careful, Blake," she said, before disappearing, leaving me just as confused as she always did. I really didn't understand Cecilia—she was always talking about dreams and visions, things that never made any sense to me.

I tried to get back to my plants, but my mind kept wandering, troubled by what she'd said.

Amanda had gathered some intel about Damien. That's what I needed to focus on. Tomorrow night, I would go out and try to find him.

Later in the afternoon, I was relaxing on my front porch, sipping iced tea, and doing my best to not think about Cecilia. I leaned back in my chair, looked up at the bright blue sky, and let out a sigh.

Just as I had entered that peaceful state, the rumbling sound of tires struggling against gravel jerked me out of it.

"This better not be trouble," I muttered, pushing myself out of the chair.

A car with tinted windows came to a stop in front of my home, and for some reason, my heartbeat quickened. It wasn't out of fear, but nervousness. I sniffed the air, hoping for a hint of who it might be—or, more accurately, hoping it was who I was secretly hoping for—but I came up with nothing.

My mouth fell open when Ginevra stepped out of the car. I had never seen him in broad daylight before, and the sight of him—of him—was enough to leave me momentarily breathless. Damn, this man wasn't just attractive; he was the kind of dangerous that made your heart race in all the wrong ways. The kind of dangerous that made you wonder if you were crazy for even thinking about stepping closer.

His long hair was tied into a messy, yet perfectly styled, man bun that only seemed to emphasize the sharpness of his jaw. Every detail about him—his posture, the way the sunlight hit his skin—seemed carefully calculated to catch your attention. It was almost unfair how effortlessly perfect he was.

I blinked, trying to snap myself out of the daze. "Hello, Ginevra," I finally managed to say, my voice sounding more casual than I felt, as I shut my mouth with a quiet click.

"I accept hugs and kisses as greetings," Ginevra teased, a playful glint in his eyes. It was like he knew exactly what kind of effect he had on me, and he enjoyed it—way too much.

I rolled my eyes, trying to hide the fact that I was still caught in the haze of his presence. "In your dreams," I muttered, though part of me wondered if that might not be too far from the truth.

As he stepped closer, the air around him felt... wrong. Or, rather, something felt missing. I couldn't put my finger on it at first, but then it hit me. I couldn't smell him.

Why was that?

It unnerved me, that lack of something so essential, so human. Like he didn't exist in the same way everyone else did.

He stood there, right in front of me now, his usual confidence replaced by an odd, almost bashful expression, as though he were the one unsure of himself for once. It didn't suit him at all.

"Why can't I smell you?" I blurted out before I could stop myself. The question was too strange to keep inside, but the moment the words left my mouth, I regretted it. Really, Blake? Of course, that was the first thing you'd ask.

But, was it so weird? I mean, who doesn't want to smell someone who's always in their head, right?

Ginevra raised an eyebrow, his sly smile spreading even further across his face. "I didn't realize you wanted to smell me."

The smirk on his lips made my stomach twist in a way I wasn't prepared for. He took a step closer, tilting his head to the side, as though inviting me to lose my mind just a little bit more. "Go ahead, bury your nose in my neck."

What the hell?

For a brief moment, I just stared at his neck—long, exposed, too close—and my mind short-circuited. 

"Don't be silly!" I managed, though the heat flooding my face was anything but casual. I gestured toward the door, desperate to change the subject before I made a complete fool of myself. "Come on in. I'll get you something to drink while you tell me what you're doing here."

He glanced around at the mess of unpacked boxes in my kitchen, his eyes narrowing as he took in the disorganization.

"Moving out?" He raised an eyebrow.

I shook my head, a small, self-deprecating smile tugging at my lips. "No. I just never unpacked when I moved here."

"Oh, why not?" 

I shot him an annoyed look, but he didn't flinch. Instead, he held my gaze, waiting for an answer to his question.

"What do you want, Ginevra?" It was nice to see him, but I wasn't going to act like he and I were friends who could visit one another.

He gave me a look, as if I'd just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. "I came to see you, of course."

"Well, I'm here, alive and well," I said, rolling my eyes

Ginevra offered himself a chair and slouched down into it, making himself at home as if we were in a space far more familiar to him than it should be.

"I'll have a glass of whatever you were having," he said smiling.

I poured him a glass of the iced tea I'd been sipping on, trying to steady my hands and ignore the way my pulse quickened.

Ginevra cleared his throat, drawing my attention back to him. "Did you get my flowers?"

I carried the glasses to the table, setting them down. His question felt strangely loaded, though on the surface, it was just about flowers. I handed him one of the glasses while I chewed over his intentions.

There was no mistaking the flowers. They were everywhere—on the table in a vase, outside, and I had a distinct feeling he knew exactly where I'd found them. He'd seen the ones I had outside. Maybe he was just waiting for me to acknowledge them, waiting for me to say the words.

I didn't respond immediately. Instead, I looked at the vase in the centre of the table, its vibrant colours almost mocking me in their beauty.

"I wasn't sure how to express myself," Ginevra continued, his voice quieter now. "So I thought maybe the flowers would help you understand."

I tilted my head, suddenly realizing it. I didn't know much about flowers, or their symbolism, but something told me that these weren't just flowers. They were a message. A question. Something more than simple gestures.

I turned to face him and caught his gaze again. His eyes, those dark, knowing eyes, were fixed on me. There was an intensity to them now, like he was waiting for something—waiting for me to unravel whatever it was he had laid out before me.

His stare bore into me, the memories within those eyes pressing against my consciousness, inviting me to dive into them. To share them. Something deep within me strangely felt like I'd find myself there, in those memories.

But I hesitated, is this what they call Déjà vu?

Part of me wanted to dive in, part of me was afraid of what it might mean. What it might cost.