Shifters and Scribbles

I throw myself into the grueling demands of the dinner rush, balancing heavy trays through the packed dining room. I force practiced smiles, desperate to distract myself from the alluring mystery of the blue thread. Plates clatter and a steady hum of wealthy patrons fills the air. I work harder than ever, pushing my aching feet. My tips do not reflect my hustle; the Meridian crowd leans snobbish, rarely rewarding a server's sweat. For an hour, I keep my head down and ignore the tug of magic.

Finally, near the server station, I succumb to the temptation. I tune into the magic and glance at the glowing blue line.

A sharp gasp escapes my lips.

The thread no longer drifts out the heavy glass doors. Instead, the glowing string hums with energy, weaving through the crowded tables before connecting directly to a woman seated at table thirteen.

She looks my age, undeniably stunning. Pitch-black hair ripples down her back in loose waves, stopping a few inches shorter than my own. Her flawless tan skin glows under the warm dining room lights. Even from across the restaurant, she commands attention.

Swallowing my nerves, I approach to take her order. She lifts her head, and striking, golden-yellow eyes lock onto mine.

My breath hitches.

I drop my gaze. She wears a gorgeous, backless black dress. The halter neck leaves her arms bare, exposing the intricate black marks wrapping around her bicep. The dark ink forms a striking design, broken by jagged slashes mimicking claw marks.

Golden-yellow eyes. Claw-mark designs. She is a Shifter.

Apprehension hits me. Shifters rarely befriend outsiders. Even among themselves, they remain incredibly picky. A feline Shifter wouldn't share a drink with a canine Shifter, let alone a magic-less Unknown like me.

But the blue thread bridges the space between us. The string hums, solidifying with just this brief eye contact. The universe made its choice. Our friendship is a destined fact. I must have unwavering faith in that magic.

I open my mouth to ask for her drink order when a harsh, not-so-subtle cough shatters my focus.

I blink, snapping my attention across the table. I was so captivated by the Shifter woman—my fated friend—that I failed to notice her companion.

The man opposite her possesses a classic handsomeness, ruined by the arrogant sneer he directs at me. His hair blends blonde and bronze. He shares her yellowish eyes, though his irises lean into a burnt orange. He wears a sharp, tailored suit that covers his arms, hiding any potential marks. Still, the eyes give him away. He must be a Shifter too.

Flustered, I hastily take their orders and flee. I fetch the requested bottle of wine, steadying my hands. Walking back, I utilize the brief distance to scan them for threads, searching for the tell-tale glowing lines of fate.

My steps falter. My brow furrows in shock.

There are zero threads linking the two of them together.

The woman possesses no magical ties in the room, save for the bright blue string tying her directly to me. But the man has a thread. A thick, solid red string sprouts from his chest. It trails down the aisle, slips under the front door of the restaurant, and disappears from sight into the night.

A red thread. The ultimate mark of a soulmate.

He has already met his soulmate, and she is nowhere near table thirteen. I shake my head, recovering my composure. They must just be friends, I reason. Or business partners grabbing dinner.

I pour their wine, deliver their entrées a short while later, and retreat to manage my other tables. I do everything in my power to suppress my usual clumsiness, a task made much harder by my constant distraction. I hover anxiously from afar, watching table thirteen from the corner of my eye, tracking their every move through the bustling sea of diners.

Time slips away. I step forward to clear their empty plates and offer the dessert menu.

Before I reach the table, the man pushes his chair back. He shifts out of his seat in one smooth motion and drops gracefully to one knee right beside her.

I freeze in my tracks. A stack of dirty plates rattles in my grip. What on earth is happening?

He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a small ring box. He flips it open.

The woman gasps. Her hands fly up, covering her mouth. Her golden eyes widen in shock—then, genuine tears stream down her face. I am too far away to hear his exact words over the clinking silverware, but the scene paints a devastatingly clear picture.

He is proposing.

She nods frantically, joyfully accepting the proposal, and leans forward to capture his lips in a kiss. The man slips a sparkling ring onto her finger.

A ripple of cheers and polite applause erupts from the surrounding restaurant patrons as they congratulate the happy couple.

I stand rooted to the floor, numb to my core.

This situation is fundamentally wrong.

How can he propose marriage to her when his red thread—his literal soul—belongs to someone else? He is binding my fated friend to a lie. When his true mate eventually crosses his path, fate will demand its due, and this stunning woman will be left shattered.

Realizing this engagement can only culminate in profound heartbreak for my newly discovered friend, I make a split-second decision. I cannot stand idly by.

Marcus waves me over from the server station, shoving a slice of complimentary cheesecake onto my tray as a congratulatory gift. I nod mechanically, snatching a pen and a scrap of paper from behind the bar. I press the paper against the wooden counter and hastily scribble a desperate warning note.

*You don't know me, and I am sorry that I cannot explain this properly in a note. You should know that the man who just proposed to you is not the right man for you. While it may be unpleasant to hear, I thought I should tell you now in an attempt to spare you more pain in the future. One day I hope to explain myself properly, but for now, this is all I can do. I am truly sorry.*

I lift the pen, hesitating over the bottom edge. I do not know how she will react. I know she will be my friend eventually, but she is a stranger right now, and I do not want to push my luck. Lacking the bravery to sign my full name, yet unable to remain unnamed, I compromise. I drag the pen in sharp, quick strokes, signing it with my initials.

*B.V.*

Bria Vale.

I fold the scrap of paper into a tight square, tucking it into my palm. Now, I have to figure out how to slip her the note without alerting Derrick.

I scan table thirteen. Her designer handbag rests by the leg of her chair, slightly under the table. The top flap sits open. Perfect.

I grab a black leather bill folder and stride back into the dining room. I approach their table, plastering a bright, practiced smile on my face.

"Congratulations," I say, setting the cheesecake down.

As I reach across the table to place the little folder down, I let my wrist go limp. I fake a clumsy misstep, and the leather folder slips from my grip, clattering onto the hardwood floor right beside her chair.

"Oh, my apologies," I say, diving toward the floor.

I drop to a crouch. My left hand snatches the folder. Utilizing the momentary distraction as I bend down, my right hand flicks out. I swiftly slip the folded note directly into her open bag.

I stand up in one fluid motion, smoothing my apron, and place the bill securely on the table directly between them.

The man haughtily reaches for the leather flap with an arrogant smirk.

The woman playfully waves him off. "Don't be ridiculous Derrick," she says.

Her voice is rich and melodic. I hang on every word.

"I have plenty of money," she continues, pulling her bag up onto her lap. "It makes sense for me to pay. Besides, once we marry, what's mine will be yours. So, it doesn't really matter at this point."

My heart hammers against my ribs. I hold my breath, watching intensely as she digs her purse out of the bag. I am counting on her not finding the hidden note until she gets home. If she pulls out the crumpled paper now, Derrick will demand answers. He will cause a giant scene.

She bypasses the warning, oblivious to the hidden note resting at the bottom. She extracts a shiny silver credit card and hands it up to me with the folder, flashing a brilliant smile.

I exhale a silent breath of relief. "I'll process this right away."

I pivot and march to the terminal. Swiping the card, I drop my gaze to the embossed lettering on the silver plastic.

*Siena Cross.*

I finally learn her identity. Siena.

I grab the printed receipt and return to table thirteen. Handing the card back to her, I offer a bright, genuine smile. She might not know it yet, and she might not be my friend today, but from the moment she entered this restaurant, she became mine. I silently vow to be the best friend Siena could ever possibly have.

A few minutes later, Derrick and Siena stand from the table. He helps her into her coat, and they eventually leave, arm in arm.

I fiercely bite my lower lip, tasting a faint hint of copper. A visceral ache blooms in my chest. Every instinct screams at me to sprint past the tables, chase them out the door, and introduce myself properly to Siena. I want to yank her away from Derrick and his deceitful red thread.

I resist the overwhelming urge. I dig my fingernails into my palms, forcing my feet to stay planted on the floor. I force myself to remember the fated connection. The universe wove our thread. Fate demands patience.

I watch the heavy glass doors swing shut behind them, holding onto the unwavering certainty that we are fated to connect. I will see her again.