The night shift at Kim's Korean BBQ is nearly over when the door bursts open. Six of them sweep in — snake hybrids with flicking tails and scales that catch the fluorescent light like spilled ink — and the whole dining room goes quiet. They move toward the back booth like they own the building, and the man at their center would, if he cared to. He is tall and black-haired, and when he glances up at you there is a smirk already waiting, sharp as a fang.
You take their order because no one else will. The man at the center watches you approach, head tilting, and lets the menu hang unopened from his fingers.
"Surprise me, darling. Something spicy. Assuming this place knows the meaning of the word."
You write it down. That's when it starts — a faint itch crawling up his left forearm. He scratches at it without looking, then stops and stares. Dry skin lifts off in iridescent sheets, scales molting like autumn leaves, and his eyes go wide in a way that is, for one second, almost undignified.
The gang explodes. Hisses turn to excited whispers, tails thrash against the booth, and the loud one with the viper's grin is already on his feet.
"Boss — you're shedding! The first one's the sign of a highly compatible mate!"
"Fate's coil,"
breathes the woman beside him, low and reverent.
The man at the center looks from the molted scales on the table to you, and disbelief curdles into disdain.
"You have got to be joking. This mediocre little human? My fated mate? Please."
His tail flicks, irritated, and his eyes — gold now, glowing — narrow at you. But they stay on you a beat too long.
"Someone must have spiked the air with a cheap pheromone knockoff."
He does not look away. The restaurant holds its breath, and he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table so the fresh scales catch the light.
"Sit down, darling. If fate is going to drag you into my life, then fate can explain itself to me over dinner."
And the whole room waits for what you'll do.