ain’t no thing like me, ‘cept me.

He lifted himself off you, and a hot compress squeezed his shoulder and halted his movement.

Your eyes searched him. Wide awake, hair in loops and tangles in your face that you now brushed aside, your hand now sliding down to his blizzard-covered collarbone and reaching his built chest and abdomen.

“You’re … here.” he would have assumed the wind had spoken if he hadn’t observed your lips moving at that silent moment.

If your voice was candy he could savor in his mouth, he’d let it melt down to the last sugary atom, covering his teeth and tongue in nothing but the taste.

He smiled. “I ended earlier than expected—”

Your hands clasped his collar and he was caught in your lips once more, more contact than ever when both his and your mouth were wide open, and your tongue browsed generously through his teeth.

He reciprocated, tongues meeting and passing through each other like a solar system relying on each other’s orbit. If he didn’t need his arms to prop himself above you, he would have given you some of his ice, feeling the skin of your arms and realizing you could bake cookies on them from the heat alone. That’s what you get for not listening to him; you always insisted on making your surroundings colder so you could be comfortably wrapped in your cloudy duvet, but you always end up burning hot in the mornings.

Stubborn, stubborn you.

Rocket lifts his drink to his lips and sips. He’s not looking at something in the club, though his eyes were to the ceiling on the other side of the room.

And then … nothing.

Nothing, and suddenly he’d in this black fitting cloak with a belts strapped from his shoulder blades to his collar bones and platform boots so chunky he almost passes off as your regular alien.

There’s a lot of dust by the stairs of your apartment, but there’s also a lot of crying.

Not yours, though.

Yes, one of his vivid snapshots had brought back another friend you were holding behind your back, clutching her chest with her shoulders up to her jaw.

Rocket shook his head. Oh, this is horrible. How often do you keep your wall to wall window open? And with the lights on so bright too? What if a creep had followed you back to your place? What are you to do then?

Your friend stands up from your bed, which was up against your window so Rocket had front row seats. Your hand rubbed her back the whole time, supporting her when she stood and when she took her bag to leave. Oh, shit, you’re leaving.

Rocket dove for shelter as you and your friend were down the stairs in less than five seconds, and you had called her a ride back. A wave, and you’re back on your phone while you walk up the stairs.

Oh, silly, silly you. Don’t you know how dangerous that is?

Rocket turned to leave, but before he could even take the first step, he found rusty spot in his neck—a certain pivot of it that he had to get rid of, an itch to eradicate, and now he was facing your orange-lit window again.

You had just closed the door and entered. Still on your phone. The different ways he could have you, if you were going to be so careless. He could have dreams of them.

He willed himself to take another step. A foot forward.

And that’s as far as he got. His head turned right back around, drawn to your glowing window, and it had occurred to him that the itch wasn’t in his neck.

It was in that window.

That lovely, luminous window displaying you in your barely-even-shorts shorts, your oversized t-shirt and your bare legs.

Naturally, Rocket was at your door five seconds after you had propped your legs up in a certain way on your bed. He wanted patiently, a little pin-like gadget in his hand so shiny, covered in nothing but his nail marks.

Inside, he heard another door close. The cluster of buildings in this area were one room apartments; that was the bathroom he heard.

A few taps and jabs with his lock-picker and the door opened with a pop. His gadget folded inwards as he pocketed it, his heel the first to make contact with your floor, then the rest slipped in, a shadow slick on your walls and closing the door behind him.

The first thing that made him dizzy was the faint vanilla scent coming from your bed. There were many crumples on your sheets, and your pillows had been piled on top of one another like you were rushing to ruin your bed.

You were out of the bathroom quicker than he anticipated. Not to worry though, you switched off the light right after and Rocket had already set up camp in the darkest corner. Spiders fled their homes in his arrival.

You got into bed, wiggling for a few solid minutes into the right, the perfect position that had you curled up in your thick sheets and pillows. They’re all white, like snow laying you down in its bed. It’s a real shame, though; he’s willing to bed blood doesn’t look half as flattering on white sheets.

He rose from his corner. The moon giving him a spotlight, lining his every move toward you. His hand was quick to flip his knife in the air, twirling it around his fingers—he’d cut himself if he wasn’t careful, an it was made clear by the main thin slashes on his gloves. The 120 is large for someone his size.

He finally clasped it in his fist, but the closer he got, the thicker the vanilla scent needled his nose.

Your chest moved, in out, in out. Slow. Your shirt was still too large on you, but as gravity would have it, your waist had been perfectly defined against the glint of the moonlight.

Strange.

He imagined starting at your waist.

And, he imagined … nothing.

Nothing came up, it was all white. Blurry. Where he would usually see blood and guys forming a small heart on the bed, he saw you, sleeping your hair falling to your forehead and your eyelashes fluttering.

Your eyelash fluttered and they fluttered up, and up and up—

And just like that, shot dead by a flinch and a wide-eyed look.