Salt and Starlight

Chapter 1- The Man with Gold Eyes

The bell above the door chimed at 7:43 PM, and Persephone Jackson didn't look up from her notepad. She'd learned not to. Blue Plate regulars didn't need greeting, and tourists preferred to settle themselves. She just needed the table number, the drink order, and enough time between shifts to maybe—maybe—sit down for five minutes before her feet turned into actual bricks.

"Welcome to Blue Plate," she said, still scribbling. "Specials are meatloaf and—"

She looked up.

Oh.

Oh.

The man standing in the entryway was... well. He was a lot. Six-foot-four, easy, with dark hair swept back in that perfect, expensive flow-cut that screamed I have a personal stylist and probably a yacht. But it was his eyes that stopped her—the kind of gold that wasn't hazel, wasn't amber, wasn't anything that belonged in a diner in Queens at nearly eight o'clock on a Tuesday. Pure gold, warm and unearthly, catching the fluorescent lights like they were made of actual precious metal.

He was wearing a tailored charcoal coat over a black turtleneck, which was absurd. Nobody wore turtlenecks to the Blue Plate. The heating was either volcanic or arctic, no in-between.

"Table for two," he said. His voice was low, smooth, and completely detached. Like he was reading from a script he'd memorized but didn't particularly care about. "My son and I."

That's when Percy noticed the kid.

Blond curls, fair skin, dressed in a tiny navy peacoat that probably cost more than Percy's monthly rent. He was gripping the man's hand with both of his small ones, looking up at Percy with the exact same gold eyes, wide and cherubic and utterly innocent.

"Hi," the kid said, and his voice was all six-year-old enthusiasm, bright and piping. "I'm Eren! We're hungry. Daddy said we could have pancakes for dinner if I was good in the car, and I was very good. I didn't even ask about the radio once."

The man—Daddy—didn't smile. He just looked at Percy with those impossible eyes and said, "Kael Nebulon. And this is Eren. We'll take a booth, please. Preferably quiet."

Percy blinked. She'd been a waitress for four years. She'd served crying babies, drunk college students, couples mid-breakup, and one guy who'd tried to pay in rare coins. She'd developed a professional armor that let her navigate all of it with the same tired smile.

But something about Kael Nebulon made her feel like she was sixteen again, standing in front of the Olympian throne room, completely out of her depth.

"Right," she managed. "This way."

—

They settled into booth twelve, the corner one near the window. Percy brought waters and menus, and Eren immediately started coloring on the kid's menu with the crayons she kept in her apron, humming tunelessly to himself.

"Do you know what you'd like?" Percy asked, pen ready.

"Pancakes," Eren announced, not looking up from his furious scribbling. "With strawberries. And whipped cream. And more strawberries. And orange juice, but the kind with pulp, because Daddy says the no-pulp kind is for people who hate joy."

Kael—Mr. Nebulon—was staring out the window at the parking lot, his long fingers drumming a slow, precise rhythm on the table. He didn't look at the menu. He didn't look at her.

"The meatloaf," he said. "And coffee. Black."

"Got it." Percy turned to leave, but Eren's small hand shot out and caught her apron.