Rowan pulled his hood lower and stepped onto the porch of the coffee shop. He came here most mornings, hoping to see her again — the woman who had looked at his fangs and not looked away. His ears twitched under the fabric. Every small mercy still mattered. Every flinch he didn't get, he counted like coins. Today the porch felt wrong. Conversations dropped a notch as he passed. Two older locals on the wooden bench out front went quiet, then too loud. He caught the shape of his own name in their mouths before they swallowed it. Inside, the diner crowd next door had spilled over for gossip. A blue-skinned girl with feathers in her hair sat near the window, stirring her drink. Starweaver. She watched him over the rim of her cup, not unkind, but careful. She tilted her head toward the community board by the door. Rowan drifted over. A handwritten note was pinned there in neat script. It did not name him. It only said: A stranger with teeth has been seen walking with one of our own. Mind who you sit beside. His stomach dropped. The wrong people were listening now. The woman he was trying to win could be marked simply for standing near him. Starweaver appeared at his elbow. She plucked the note down in one quiet motion and folded it into her palm. "I'll lose this," she said, low. "But others saw it first. You should warn her. Today." She pressed the folded paper into his hand like a coin passed in secret. Rowan stepped back out into the morning light. The bench watchers were gone. The note burned in his pocket. He had come here to be near her. Now he had to find her before anyone else did — and tell her, plainly, what knowing him might cost.