Every Time I Fell

Kaira

They say nightmares are echoes of memories you can’t silence, but mine never echo — they scream.

I woke up drenched in sweat, my lungs clawing for air as if I’d just been pulled from underwater. The screech of tires and the shattering of glass still rang in my ears, even though the accident that killed my parents happened eight years ago. I was sixteen then, and the silence of the orphanage that swallowed me afterward has never really left me. Sometimes I think it lives in me now, curled like smoke in my chest.

I kicked off the sheets, sat up, and pressed my palms against my face. Pull it together, Kaira. Dreams don’t change the past.

By the time I’d showered, pulled my curls into a messy bun, and slipped into my black jeans and a white shirt, the mask was back on. The smile that fooled most people. The one Alma never bought.

Alma. My ride-or-die since the first week of college, when we bonded over burned pasta and terrible instant coffee in our tiny dorm. We studied finance, but what we really studied was food. Cooking together turned into an obsession, then a dream, then a business. With every spare dollar we scraped from tutoring, internships, and part-time gigs, we built something. Our place.

Now, five years later, that dream is a phenomenon. Veyora isn’t the biggest city, but it knows our restaurant. Hell, everyone knows this restaurant. Reservations are booked a month in advance, and walking into the place still makes my chest swell with a weird mix of pride and disbelief.

When I pushed open the door that morning, the smell of baked bread, garlic, and roasted tomatoes wrapped around me like a hug. Alma was behind the counter, her auburn hair tucked into a loose braid, bossing around one of the new hires with that charming authority only she could pull off.

“You look like hell,” she said, spotting me.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.” I grabbed an apron and tied it around my waist.

“Nightmare?”

“Same channel, same rerun,” I muttered.

Her eyes softened, but she didn’t press. Alma never did. Instead, she handed me a tray. “Full house today. Care to play waitress?”

“Always.”

Serving tables wasn’t my official job, but when the restaurant buzzed, I loved it. The chaos, the clinking glasses, the orchestra of conversations. It reminded me that I was alive, and not just surviving.

About halfway through the lunch rush, the bell above the door chimed and in walked Max.

Max, the unofficial third wheel of our little duo. Tall, broad-shouldered, with sandy brown hair that never stayed in place and a smile that belonged in a toothpaste commercial. He was charming in that dangerous, unbothered way that made women forgive him before he even finished a joke. He’d been a regular for years, claiming the food was the reason, but I knew Alma’s eye-rolls and my sarcasm had as much pull as the pasta.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite financial disaster turned culinary queen,” Max grinned as he slid into his usual booth.

“Hi, Max,” I said flatly, setting menus down. “Try not to flirt with the cutlery today. It’s bad for business.”

“Harsh.” He clutched his chest dramatically. “Luckily, I brought backup. An old friend. Be nice.”

I turned — and froze.

The man following Max in was… different. Dark hair, cut sharp. Eyes like polished obsidian that didn’t just look at you — they assessed you. Tall, taller than Max even, built in a way that made the air around him seem smaller. His suit wasn’t flashy, but it fit so well it whispered money without trying. He moved like he owned every space he stepped into.

“This is Hades,” Max introduced. “Don’t let the name scare you. He’s not the god of the underworld. Most days.”

Hades’ mouth curved slightly as his gaze landed on me. Not a smile, exactly. More like an acknowledgment.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, balancing my tray a little too tightly.

“Likewise.” His voice was deep, even, with an edge I couldn’t place.

Before I could retreat, a voice from a nearby table cut through.

“Hey sweetheart,” a middle-aged man in a crumpled suit leered at me. “Why don’t you smile more? You’d be prettier.”

I didn’t even flinch — I’d heard it all before. I was ready with my usual sharp retort when suddenly, chairs scraped.

Max pushed to his feet, but Hades was faster. He was at the man’s table in seconds, towering over him.

“She doesn’t owe you a smile,” Hades said quietly, which somehow made it worse. More dangerous. “Apologize.”

The man laughed nervously, trying to act tough, but under Hades’ stare, he wilted. His hands trembled as he muttered, “Sorry.”

“Louder,” Hades pressed, calm but unrelenting.

“I’m sorry!” the man blurted, standing up so quickly his glass spilled. He threw down some cash and nearly tripped over himself as he fled the restaurant.

The silence that followed was thick.

Max whistled low. “Well. That’s one way to clear a table.”

I exhaled, forcing a smirk to cover the thundering of my heart. “Remind me never to get on your bad side, Hades.”

His eyes found mine again, steady and unreadable. “Don’t give me a reason to.”

Hades’ POV

Coming back to Veyora wasn’t part of some grand plan. It wasn’t calculated or timed. I’d spent the last decade outrunning gravity — base jumps off impossible cliffs, free climbing ridges that made normal men piss themselves, chasing adrenaline like it was oxygen. That kind of life burns you fast, and by thirty-one, I knew I had two choices: die spectacularly or learn how to stay still.

So I chose still. Or tried to.

Max had been dragging the company forward while I danced with death. He was the architect, the visionary, the one who sketched towers that kissed the sky and made them real. I was just the guy who wrote the checks — the sponsor with blood money earned from breaking bones and winning races. Except “just” didn’t last. The company exploded. Millions turned into tens of millions. Luxury condos, steel, glass, marble — we built dreams, and people paid for them.

So yeah. Coming back to this city felt overdue. I had business to handle, and Max was right: I couldn’t live with one foot in and one foot out forever.

But then I saw her.

The little brunette with the sharp tongue and those green eyes that didn’t just look at you, they tested you. She carried herself like she didn’t owe anyone a damn thing, and every movement she made — balancing trays, leaning just slightly as she took an order, brushing that stubborn curl back from her face — hooked me deeper.

Kaira.

She wasn’t flashy. She wasn’t trying. And that was the problem. I couldn’t stop watching her.

Max was talking beside me, cracking jokes the way he always did, but my attention was locked across the room. She moved through the crowd like she belonged to it, but also somehow stood apart from it, untouchable. I wanted to know what lived behind that smile she wore for strangers. I wanted to know what it looked like when she didn’t smile at all.

And then that idiot in the wrinkled suit opened his mouth, and I saw red.

I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh the consequences. I was on my feet and at his throat before my chair even stopped moving. Watching her face when he apologized — watching her smirk cover the fact her pulse was racing — told me everything I needed. She’d been handling men like him her whole life. She didn’t need me.

But maybe I needed her.

Max let out a low whistle after the guy bolted. “You’re still faster than me. Damn, man.”

I sat back down, eyes dragging to Kaira again as she walked away, pretending the whole thing hadn’t rattled her. She was tougher than she looked. That only made her more dangerous to me.

Max followed my gaze, and I didn’t have to say a word. He knew.

“Oh, hell no,” he muttered, leaning closer. “Don’t even think about it.”

I arched a brow. “About what?”

“About her.” He jerked his chin toward where Kaira was laughing with Alma at the counter. “She’s not your usual type, Hades. She’s not some model you can wine and dine for a month and then ghost. She deserves better.”

“She deserves someone who knows what he wants.” I took a sip of my espresso, eyes never leaving Kaira. “And I do.”

Max swore under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. “Goddammit. You’re serious.”

“I don’t do hesitation,” I said simply. “I see it. I want it. I take it. That’s how I’ve survived this long.”

“This isn’t survival. This is a person.” His voice sharpened, protective now.

“Exactly,” I countered. “And that’s why I won’t screw it up.”

Max shook his head, muttering another curse, but I didn’t care. My decision was already made.

For years, I’d thrown myself off cliffs because nothing else gave me a reason to stay. Now, sitting in that restaurant, watching Kaira move, laugh, breathe — I finally understood what it felt like to want to hold on instead of letting go.

And when I want something, I don’t wait.

Three nights later, Kaira's POV

I haven’t slept in... well, days.

Not really. An hour here. A fragment there. The nightmares come faster now. Deeper. My body is running on espresso and spite. The restaurant is mostly empty now. Alma had to leave early. Her mother was in town for dinner, and I pushed her to go. Smiled. Lied. Told her I was fine. But I’m not. My head aches. My vision blurs. My stomach’s been ignoring food for forty-eight hours, and my limbs feel like they’re stitched together with lead.

I clean anyway. Wipe down every surface twice. Fold napkins that don’t need folding. Scrub sinks that already shine. Distraction is better than thought. Better than the phantom fingers still burned into my skin from another lifetime. Better than dreams that end in blood and headlights. By the time I finally turn off the last light and unlock the door to leave, it’s close to midnight.

And he’s there. Again.

Same spot.

Leaning against the same car.

Backlit by streetlight and shadow. A statue made of silence.

Hades.

He’s been coming in every night. Doesn’t eat much. Just... watches. Waits.

I’m too tired for this.

I pull my coat tighter and step past him.

“I’m not in the mood,” I mutter.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t try to stop me. But his voice is right there, low and certain.

“Kaira.”

I stop. My name on his tongue sounds wrong. Like a secret slipped through a crack he wasn’t supposed to find.

He steps forward. Still at a respectful distance. Always careful. “Just one chance,” he says. “One conversation. That’s all I’m asking.”

I don’t face him. My body’s too cold. Too hollow.

“You don’t know me,” I reply, voice flat.

“I want to.”

I laugh. Dry. Bitter. “You really don’t.”

He doesn’t answer that.

Just takes another step. Still careful. Still not touching.

“Try me.”

Something in my chest snaps.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... a flicker.

Then the world tilts.

My knees fold before I even realize what’s happening.

A wave of cold sweeps through me. My vision darkens. My lungs forget what air feels like.

And then—

Arms. Strong. Sure. Warm.

Catching me.

Holding me.

“Kaira!” he says, louder this time. Panic in the roughness of it.

I can’t respond. Can’t speak.

I feel my body lifted. I hear the jingle of keys. A car door. The distant vibration of tires on asphalt. Maybe a voice shouting a name I no longer remember how to answer to.

And then—

Nothing.

Just quiet.

Just dark.

Just the faint scent of cedar and smoke where his shirt pressed against my face.

Hades

She avoided me.

Third night, again. Nothing.

No glance. No word. Just walls.

But I noticed things.

The way she never stood too close to anyone.

The way she flinched when someone accidentally brushed her arm.

The way her eyes — sharp, calculating, beautiful — never really rested anywhere for more than a second.

She was tired. But not the normal kind.

Her skin looked thinner. Her lips chapped. Fingers trembling slightly as she poured a glass of wine like her nerves were wired to a fault line.

And tonight, she looked worse.

Not a lot. But enough for me to feel it in my gut.

She locked the door behind her like she was locking away a version of herself the world wasn’t allowed to see.

Then she saw me.

I didn’t move.

“I’m not in the mood,” she muttered, stepping past.

“Kaira.”

She stopped.

Every time I said her name, it sounded heavier.

“Ju