That saying your mom had always preached to you had fermented enough in adolescent-you’s mind that you had never gotten upset again after you failed at something. Instead, you would try. Try again. Again. And you would bound up to her with the biggest grin on your face, words spilling out of your mouth so quickly you barely had time to breathe because you had gotten it right. She called you her little tortoise, even if you hated it. The nickname stuck right up to your young adulthood, when you called her in the late afternoon on a Sunday, the gentle sounds of traffic and red-winged blackbirds in the background as you practically sobbed with joy at your application for Fulton Bakehouse being approved. 

Sixth time's the charm or something like that.

Still, only a few months into launching a cookie business, this was the most successful you’d been with something on the first go-round, probably ever. It had you overwhelmingly enthusiastic to anyone willing to listen. Social marketing help from your best friend and older sister, who had a job in Better Homes and Gardens magazine, really had pushed your first few drops. And now, you’d scaled up enough to have sold out roughly 550 cookies in two minutes of the forms being up. Enough to seriously consider renting a commercial kitchen space for bake day. 

So, with much to celebrate, you’d had some friends and family over to your apartment that weekend. Parents, friends from high school, and those two years of college you’d wasted an amount of money on that you didn’t like to think about, one or two neighbors, who included Becca King. You’d only seen the woman around a few times in passing–waiting for the elevator or checking your mailbox, but she was sweet. Very outgoing and funny, and she seemed honest. You liked to think you got good reads on people through minimal interactions, so you started running recipes by her whenever you saw her around. Whether that’d be by snagging her wrist and inviting her into your kitchen for a few minutes or scrambling up and down the stairs of the building to retrieve one before she went about her day. 

Because that honesty part you’d detected instantly made her one of your favorite people. Too sweet, needs more salt; Isn’t there any way you can make them more round?; You use brown butter as the base, right? All in all, Becca King was one of the reasons you liked to believe you were experiencing your success. 

So she got an invite too. To be fair, you didn’t exactly know which apartment was hers, but the mailbox for the unit right next door to yours said KING, so you drew conclusions on your own. Knocked on the door and, when no one answered, slid a note with the proper information right under the crack. Of the door. Obviously. 

And you being you, you didn’t give it a second thought for the rest of the week. It had been a Tuesday, around noon, and you’d spent the rest of the day brainstorming potential flavors for Mother’s Day that would be rolling around soon. Played with the notion of anything that could be considered ‘graduation’ themed (pink champagne and lemon? Dark chocolate and toffee? Apple… something? It was a work in progress) and had been swept up in your day-to-day chaos. 

So when Becca had strutted through your apartment door after a brief knock, two minutes after the loose time you’d selected for people to start coming over, the first thing you’d felt was panic. Because you should’ve warned her that the people in your life, you included, were never on time. That everyone you knew was too casual and go-with-the-flow to start showing up any later than thirty minutes after the time decided. Your hair had still been in its rollers, only your blue and white tank top on, as you offered her a drink and started setting out the little snacks you had prepared. 

“I’m sorry,” Becca had said, drawing out each of the syllables in the way one often did when they were irritated. “I told Mel that no one actually shows up at the time written on the card, but she said we couldn’t have poor manners.”

Your brows had furrowed as you shuffled around your kitchen, adjusting the lighting into something warmer–plugging in fairy lights and turning on lamps before cracking open the door that led to your small balcony. “Mel?”

“Yeah,” Becca had agreed with a sharp nod. “My sister. She’s the best, but she’s always working, so she doesn’t get to come to these things often.” You had wanted to intervene, wanted to explain to Becca that this was supposed to be a night that only included your closest family and friends in celebration of such a milestone. It wasn’t the time to be meeting anyone new, especially when you were barely put together and hadn’t even put on a vinyl yet. 

But she kept going.

“She’s really excited. She was right behind me, but I think she was trying to pick what shoes to wear even though I told her she would just take them right off–”

Which, in perfectly cliche timing, was followed by a light rap on your entryway door. 

“That’s her,” Becca had identified with a dull kind of tone, hopping off the stool she’d been sitting on to let Mel in, even though you were standing in your kitchen, matches in hand to hastily light a candle, still in your pajama bottoms and halfway done hair, and–

And the term “slow and steady” suddenly didn’t apply to any part of your life. At least, not any part of your life that had to do with love or romance or the woman awkwardly stepping into the entryway of your apartment. 

Because the feeling that seizes your chest can’t be explained in any other way except for love. 

It had most likely been an initial attraction, that kind of disbelief that would arise when it seemed like someone from your dreams had been plucked from your brain and placed right in front of you, but you tended to be overly optimistic. Especially with the way she fumbles with the container in her hands as Becca instructs her to take her tennis shoes off. Place them on the shoe rack. You take in the sight of her pink socks with tiny, blue cartons of milk scattered as the print, and you could still recall the way your heart had flipped in your chest.

Could still recall the way Mel had glanced up to you as she toed them off with a sheepish smile on her mouth. Her eyes had been wide, even with the way they crinkled at the corners behind the frames of her glasses. 

You were positive that that smile could’ve lit up your apartment better than any amount of candles or ornate lighting.

But you had suddenly been reminded of the matches in your hand. The rollers in your hair. And that lightness, that awe you’d been feeling spiraled down, down, down until you dropped the little sticks back onto your counter and rushed over to the two women. Becca barely has your name out of her mouth before you’re reaching to take the tupperware (glass) from Mel.

“Hi!” you’d exclaimed softly, not bothering to register the way Becca’s eyes flick from her sister to you as you grin at the other woman. “Mel, right, it is so nice to finally meet Becca’s sister–”

“Your neighbor,” she’d proceeded to agree at the same time the words ‘Becca’s sister’ had escaped you.

Your head tilts a little, smile dimming as confusion takes its turn to wind through you. Because you would’ve remembered seeing Mel before. Would remember the softness of wispy blonde hair and the freckle on the side of her neck that is revealed as she nods in agreement. She hadn’t seemed deterred by your lack of knowledge. That, or she just didn’t notice how your stomach had dropped out of… nerves? Out of fear that you’d only said less than fifteen words and were already ruining your early chances. “Hm?” you’d hummed, eyes briefly going to Becca, who, helpfully, just stands there, watching.

“We’re neighbors,” Mel had repeated, smile widening slightly as she fiddled with the bottom of her jacket. You had felt the weight of her eyes on you as you busied your own hands with gripping whatever food she’d brought in that tupperware.

You swallow thickly, eyes moving away from Becca after a sharp tilt of her head toward Mel. “Right…” you’d said slowly. And your vision had dragged over her frame again, slow enough that Mel had shifted awkwardly. “Oh– Sorry. You can take your jacket off. I’ll put it in the closet. And sit wherever, look through whatever. Any friend– sister– of Becca’s–” you had let out a long sigh, lips pressing together in a half-smile. “My neighbor.” Tiny shake of your head because why not dig yourself into a bit of a deeper hole? “God, whatever, we’re friends.”

Mel had simply nodded, smiling widely as she shrugged off her jacket.

You had thought you were on the verge of collapsing as she moved around you to hang it up; the scent of eucalyptus and something clean washed over you. 

Get a grip.

Which you had, in fact, failed to do as the evening had unfolded. 

Not when you’d returned to the kitchen, Becca back at the counter as Mel had decided to hover next to you while you finished setting up. Or when you’d begun to take your hair rollers out and Becca had pointed out that you were struggling and– Oh, Mel should help. You’d tried to reject it, say that you were fine and you would manage, but then you saw the way Mel’s face dimmed a little, smile and crinkles at the edges of her eyes going soft around the corners. So, you’d let her help you. Tried not to think about how you barely knew this woman, your neighbor, and yet you were trying to memorize the way her fingers skillfully worked on your hair.

“You’re good at this,” you’d told her as she wound another one of the tools from the strands, her pointer finger on her free hand twisting the hairs to try and maintain the style.

Mel had cleared her throat a little after a beat of silence. “I’m, um, a doctor, so I kind of have to be… good with these kinds of things?”

You: “Removing things?”

Becca: “With her hands.”

And when your friends had started showing up, just a few of them, and settling in in your living room, snacking and sipping at pineapple wine and chattering loudly over Blood Orange, they were intrigued with Mel, too. Moreso, the fact that you had sat next to her on the rug, close enough that if you had shifted too much, your knee would’ve brushed hers. Pretending to be caught up in stories with each other, each of them hadn’t been shy to send glances that resembled Becca’s from earlier as their eyes stayed on Mel. Softly chatting to each other as that smile never left your mouth. Had followed her around even when your parents swung by. Had taken the time to show her around your apartment one-on-one, even if the layout was exactly the same as hers. Had learned that she worked day shift, and that while she’d seen you around on her days off, you always seemed too busy for her to properly introduce herself. Which you had to correct her that you tended to carry yourself with an intensity that masked itself as a kind of occupied stress. 

By the end of the night, Mel and Becca were the last two to leave. Becca had slipped her shoes back on as you and Mel had slowly strolled to the entrance of your apartment. You didn’t even notice when she slinked back to the unit next door as your attention stayed on Mel. Had walked the five feet back to her door and finished with a lame: “Let me know if you ever need help with anything.”

Instead of giving in to the urge to rush right into asking her out like you so badly wanted to.

That was the previous weekend.

It’s warmer outside now as the soft sensation of the AC washes over you when you cross the threshold into your apartment building. That familiar scent of something citrusy and woody that you associated with hotels fills your lungs with a quick smile to the worker behind the front desk. Riding on a high of doing something right would stick with you for most likely the rest of the week, would prompt you to spontaneously work for all of the things you’d been wanting and thinking about. At least, until something went wrong again–a nasty cycle.

But what you had been thinking about? Mel King.

You hadn’t seen her around the building since last weekend, but you chalked it up mostly to her job. She was under high demand and pressured by the intensity of long hours. You would know. You looked up the average work week for ER doctors the morning after you’d met Mel, just to try and gauge the best times to un-accidentally run into her, and while the results had been more complicated than you’d originally anticipated, you’d learned that it could amount to over 40 hours. And twelve-hour shifts. So, you thought it was fair to cut her some slack over not seeing her out and about yet. 

That, and you were hoping that the next time she saw you, she wouldn’t be intimidated by your scattered energy. Would actually come up to you. 

It seemed, though, that you were going to get that chance before her. 

Because as you pass by the alcove of the hall with all of the mailboxes, the side profile of delicate lips and square glasses and muted blonde hair tied into a knot at the base of her neck draws the attention of your eyes. Your heart starts its illicit stuttering in your chest, happiness from the previous week morphing into something warmer as you abruptly change the path of your steps, turning so sharply that your ballet flats squeak against the tile.

“Mel!”

She jumps slightly as you pause in the doorway, fumbling with a small box she was taking out of her mailbox. Her eyes flutter behind her glasses, widening before darting over to you. Probably should’ve made your presence known first. 

“Hi,” you greet, offering a wide smile as you take the few steps to stand next to her. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you. Just got excited. Never see you around, it’s like you’re some kind of unicorn.”

Mel stares at you for a moment, lips parted a little, before she blinks harshly, glancing at the box she’d caught in her hands before smiling to herself. “No, um, it’s okay,” she says slowly. You’re not sure if it’s your good mood, your brain tricking itself into seeing what it wants to, or just lingering flush from being startled, but the tips of her ears are red. “It’s really nice to see you.”

You’re grinning widely as you take another small step toward her, wrapping your wired earbuds around your phone as you shoulder your bag. “Day off?”

Mel redirects her eyes from your hands to your face, olive eyes still a bit round. “Hm? Oh–” She fumbles with that box again. “Yes,” she affirms with a tiny nod, steadying herself again as she sets the object down on top of two other boxes. “I had a bit of a streak going since I’ve been picking up shifts all week, and I think that our charge nurse was getting a bit worried, and she worries enough so–” Mel pauses, eyes darting from your face down to her hands and right back as she lifts her fingers slightly from the edges of the cardboard. “So I, um, was just trying to make things a little easier for her.”

You give a tiny hum, studying her expression as you let her words digest through you. She was sweet. Very sweet. Clearly cared for others in a way that made you feel all soft toward her. Feel the need to return the emotion toward her.

“You’re not tired?”

Mel blinks, eyes lingering on your face, flicking between both of yours as her mouth opens. Closes. Continues watching you in a way that makes something warm inside your chest as you reach for the boxes, intending to carry them. “I– I mean, not really, I’m kind of used to it– You don’t have to do that,” Mel rushes out, hands reaching to pull her packages away from you. 

You shake your head quickly as you tug them closer to you, refusing to let her take them. This was a rare instance where you’d seen her first. Had been waiting all week to see her again, while not wanting to interrupt any of her possible routines, not wanting a repeat of knocking on her door only for there to be no answer. You were going to draw this out as long as you could. Maybe even get her number for it, if your day continued to be as amazing as it already had.

“No, I insist,” you say with a quick smile. Mel’s hands awkwardly fold in front of her like she’s trying not to reach out and grab them back. “Let me help,” you giggle, turning your body toward the hall that would lead to the elevator as you drag the boxes away from her on the counter. “It’s your day off, and I told you to let me know if you ever needed anything.”

“Yeah, but I can carry these–”

“Nope,” you hum, eyes moving away from her face as you finally pick them up and– Oh. “Geez, what is in here?”

Mel moves instantly, one hand reaching to hold under the boxes, steadying one of your forearms. “Um, an electric kettle, a set of weights, and a couple of books– Are you sure you don’t need help?”

“I carry flour bags all of the time. I’m fine,” you maintain as the two of you slowly head toward the elevators, bag heavy on your shoulder as you manage the weight against your chest. Mel still keeps her hand beneath your arms, like she’s afraid you’re going to spill the contents into the elevator when the doors ding open. “You work out?”

Her vision is fixed on balancing you, apparently, the kind of stillness that belongs to concentration consuming her features as you shuffle into the tiny space. “I’m starting to,” she says breathily, moving away briefly to light up the button of your shared floor. “People keep telling me I need hobbies outside of the PTMC.”

A small scoff of a laugh leaves you is supposedly enough to distract her from sorting the weight of her packages in your arms. Because she looks up to you again. Part of you wants to shift away from it, to force her to let you help her, but the other part of you is hyper-focused on how warm and slightly rough her hand is on your bare forearm.

“Workaholic?”

That gets a smile from her, one that’s fleeting as her eyes meet yours in the fluorescents of the space, but a smile nonetheless. “No, no, I’m not a workaholic, I just like being around people?” 

“Mm,” you hum in acknowledgement as the digital number in the upper left corner ticks up another floor. “You need help finding some hobbies?” 

Mel’s head snaps up so quickly you’re surprised her glasses don’t fall off her face. “Really?” Then, she stops, eyes closing as she shakes her head slightly, like she’s unclogging a thought that got stuck. “Sorry, I shouldn’t assume that’s you offering to help–”

“It is,” you cut in quickly–easily, voice soft as you give her a gentle smile. And finally, you lift your arms away from her hand as the elevator doors slide back open. 

The weight in your arms is strangely difficult to hold as you shuffle down the hall to where your doors are right next to each other. Heat spreads over your chest and upper back as your muscles work to hold the packages, glancing back briefly and silently hoping that Mel would be right there to unlock the door. 

“It’s– Fine if I come in, right?” you ask with a small breath in between the words. Something strains in your arms, one of the corners of the boxes digging into your inner elbow. Something going numb from pressure on your circulation. Mel’s head jerks up and down as she reaches over to unlock her apartment door before pushing it open, motioning with an arm for you to head inside.

“Watch your step, I left some shoes–”

Which would’ve been helpful information, perhaps a second earlier. Before you’re stumbling across the threshold. 

A surge of panic goes through you at the sudden wobble through your spine, stomach muscles clenching to stop yourself from fully tripping. But your flats catch over the spare tennis shoe again, rubber sole making that faintness of shock fall over you. But before you yourself can topple over, hands are finding your shoulders, pulling you back upright as your heart almost stops in your chest. 

It doesn’t stop the top package from sliding though. Off the tower you’re holding and right onto your outstretched foot.

Pain flares sharp through your nerves, like fire being lit over a dry surface, immediate and sharp as your first instinct is to reach for your toes still crammed in your shoes. A yelp leaves you, grip on the other boxes loosening enough to have Mel rushing to take them from you, along with your bag slipping from your shoulder, as you kick the offensive object from your still-tingling foot. 

“Sorry!” Mel blurts, the packages and your bag hitting the floor with a hurried thud before she’s straightening back up. Her fingers move to hold one of your biceps like she’s worried you might get caught up over your own feet again and collapse. But she keeps her head down as you let out a small hiss, attempting to even your weight back out as you look down as well. 

“Sorry– Shoot,” she mumbles, already crouching back down. “Can I look at it? Is that fine?”

If it weren’t for the pain shooting up from your pinky toe, you would’ve been more stuck on the sight of her kneeling in front of you. Except there was only so much your brain could process. Either the unbearably attractive woman helping you, or the fact that she was helping you due to an act of immense personal humiliation. 

Shakily, you reach down to rest a hand on your shoulder as you lift your right foot enough for her to remove your flat. “Yes, please,” you agree unsteadily, biting at your bottom lip as she frees your foot from the shoe. 

Swollen from your little toe to almost the middle of your foot, skin already beginning to shift a shade darker in a bruise. Like a watercolor painting.

“Oh– Fuck, is it broken?” 

Your brows pinch together as Mel presses her thumb gently along the less-angry part of the injury, her mouth twisting sideways in concentration. You return to chewing at your bottom lip as she scrunches her nose and looks back up to you.

“No, I don’t think so,” Mel says, most likely in an attempt to soothe as she carefully sets your foot back down. “It’s hard to tell with toes, though. But there’s no deformity.” Another cautious glance downward. “The swelling and immediate bruising mean that there might be more than normal bruising, but…” 

She trails off, slowly pushing herself back to her feet as your hand falls from her shoulder. 

“I can ice it for you if that would help. And I have ibuprofen, and I can tape it–”

“I just need to sit,” you mumble, wincing slightly as you attempt to put weight on your foot again. Another bit of pain, bright and rude. “Ice would be nice.”

Mel nods harshly, her eyes lingering on your toe another second before she turns quickly toward the kitchen, only to stop halfway there. She glances back at you, standing awkwardly in her entryway, balancing on one functional foot like a distressed flamingo, and immediately doubles back.

“Mel–”

“Let me, please?” she requests, already guiding your arm over her shoulders before you can properly object. One of her hands settles into your side, guiding you to lean your weight against her as she helps you into her kitchen. You don’t protest. Why would you when she smells so nice? When her hands are so warm and firm and steady as she faces you, both hands finding your body as yours go behind you to brace yourself on the edge of the counter. “Up?”

You nod, lips pressing together to stop yourself from whimpering as Mel helps you to sit on the edge of the counter. Another small ‘sorry,’ leaves her lips as her eyes trail over your face, and you tuck your knee to your chest to rest your injured foot on the surface of the countertop. “Ice,” you mumble, a reminder for her that seems to break her from her small daze with the way she shakes her head again. Mel spins, retrieving one of those blue ice packs with a velcro strap to wrap and hold before handing it off to you. It smells faintly like freezer burn.

Tentatively, you rest it over your toes, letting out a small puff of air.

“Are you okay?” she asks slowly, standing in front of where you’re sitting. “I’m really sorry.”

It’s your turn to shake your head as you adjust the ice pack over where the pain has dulled into a kind of throbbing now, and– Definitely bruised. “It’s okay,” you assure her, glancing up to look at her again. You weren’t mad, truly. The fact that walking was painful would be annoying, but that look on her face–downturned brows and the tiny pinch of her mouth, it had any negative emotions in you mitigating. “I’m not mad,” you whisper. “And it hurts, but it’ll be fine–”

You stop, wincing again when you remember: over 500 cookies need to be made by this weekend. 

Mel didn’t need to be worried about that, though. Honestly, you’d done this to yourself.

“I’ll figure it out,” you mumble.

You hear the small breath Mel takes. Watch as her eyes drift slightly, even if her dilated pupils remain locked with yours. “You mean all of the baking you have to get done this weekend?” Her hands clasp in front of her stomach, the corner of her mouth twitches as her eyes run over your face. It has your own stomach flipping. 

“It really is fine,” you repeat with a tiny shake of your head. “I’ll figure it out, I’m good under pressure.” You shift the ice pack over your toes again, not looking away from her this time as she briefly sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, fingers squeezing.

“Actually, um, you should keep pressure on your foot limited for the rest of the week,” she mumbles slowly. “Which… Includes walking.”

That pulls a small groan from you, eyes squeezing shut. 

“God, this sucks,” you whine, finally letting your frustration mount as you feel your nose scrunch, a slight weight settling behind your eyes. You weren’t going to cry. You didn’t have anything to cry about. It was just your day– Your week had been going so well. “I can’t miss a drop, Mel, not when I have this momentum going,” you rush out, gripping the ice pack tight enough that you’re practically molding it to your foot rather than resting. “I’m gonna have to call my sister. No, no, never mind, she never listens, and she burns everything–”

“I can help,” Mel cuts in, voice quiet. 

The suggestion catches you by surprise. A good surprise, with the way your heart flutters. How your mind instantly goes to the opportunity of spending more time with her rather than focusing on your business is a bit concerning, but your thoughts move too quickly for you sometimes. You blink your eyes back open at her, seeing that flush that’s appeared on her skin again. Soft and flower-like.

“If you need it,” she continues, and you can hear the backpedaling in her voice. “I mean– You offered me help with anything, and it got you here, and I do, um, like spending time with you?” It sounds more like a question than a statement, but it has blood rushing to your own cheeks nonetheless as you nod a little, eyebrows raising. 

“No, yeah, I would love that,” you agree without missing a beat. 

The smile that spreads over her mouth has your heart almost stopping again, even if she lowers her eyes from your face, blush deepening. Then, she gestures to where you’re clinging to the fabric of the ice pack. “May I?” 

Again, another eager nod. Another shot of adrenaline through your bloodstream.

“Please,” you mumble as you release the coldness that had been stuck between your hands. Mel’s more gentle with you than you were with yourself, settling the ice pack over your injury with less pressure, not leaning any weight onto it like you had been–mentally trying to will all of the chill into your bones to fix whatever had been hurt. “Thank you,” you add after a beat.

She'd never done this before.

Not like this.

Not with someone who trusted her. Not with someone who looked at her the way you were looking at her now—eyes wide, nervous, willing.

But the truth was— 

She’d left bodies behind before.

She'd fed.

She'd bitten.

She’d killed.

She'd torn through flesh without hesitation, felt blood gush hot over her tongue as her prey thrashed beneath her. 

She'd held men down by the throat, sunk her teeth in as they screamed. She'd drained people dry and left them twitching. Sometimes, she turned them. Sometimes, she didn't.

She didn't whisper to them.

She didn't warn them.

She didn't care if they begged.

It’s what she was made for, after all.

It never made her flinch. Not once.

Until you.

Until this.

She had you seated between her legs, your back against her chest, her arms loose around your waist. Her breath touched the nape of your neck every few seconds—warm and slow. Like she was trying not to scare you. Like she was trying to breathe you in.

"I can hear your heartbeat," Sevika said quietly, her lips barely moving against your skin. "Feels loud."

"I'm just... I'm a little scared," you admitted, your voice small in the quiet.

Her hand flattened against your stomach.

"You don't have to do this."

"I want to," you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. "I just... I want to be enough for you."

You felt her pause.

Then, she leaned in closer—nose brushing your hairline, her hand gently stroking over your ribs like she was calming a trembling animal.

"You're already enough," she said, low and even. "More than enough."

Another pause. A heavier silence.

Then—

"You're not just blood to me."

Her voice was quiet, but steady. Certain.

Like it had taken everything in her to say it— but she meant it.

"You're not just something I feed from. Not just warm skin and a heartbeat. You're-"

She swallowed thickly. Her hand pressed a little firmer over your ribs like she was anchoring herself with the contact.

"I don't even know what to call it. You're just... you. And that fucks me up more than anything ever has."

Your breath caught. Her forehead rested gently against the side of your head.

"I've taken from people without thinking. Used them. Left them. I've never—never— wanted to be careful like this."

Her next words were barely audible.

"Not until you."

The silence after that was full. Heavy. Like the air itself knew what was about to happen.

You stayed still in her arms. Still breathing, slow and even, like your body knew this was something important. Like you felt the weight of what she'd said down to your bones.

You tilted your head for her, just slightly.

Offered her your neck.

She didn't move at first. You could feel how tightly she was holding herself back.

Then—one kiss.

Barely there. Just her lips pressing gently to the space beneath your jaw. Then another, lower. Then another.

"I can feel your blood... right here." She kissed again. "So close to the surface."

A soft whimper slipped out of you.

"You're doing so well."

Her voice dropped—velvety. Honest.

"I'm gonna be gentle," she promised.

Her lips hovered over your neck for a moment longer. Then, she finally sank her fangs in.

Slowly. Tenderly.

It didn't hurt the way you'd imagined. It was a pressure. A stretch. An ache so intimate you gasped—not from pain, but from the strange vulnerability of it. Like being split open in the softest way.

Sevika held you tighter as you shivered. Her hand slid from your stomach to your hip, grounding you.

"Atta girl," she murmured into your skin.

"That's it. Just breathe."

When she pulled back, her lips were slick with your blood. She didn't wipe them. She just looked at you—eyes glazed, awestruck.

"You taste like nothing l've ever had."

You blinked up at her, dazed. "Is that... good?"

She leaned in and kissed your collarbone.

"It's perfect."

When she finally pulled back, blood glistening faintly at the corner of her mouth, she didn't speak.

She just stayed there for a moment— wrapped around you from behind, her hand resting softly on your belly, her breath brushing the side of your throat. 

You felt her press the faintest kiss to your jaw before murmuring, low and steady:

“Lay back for me."

Her arm guided you, gently—like a slow unfurling. She eased you forward, just enough for her to slip out from behind you, then caught you again with both hands before your body could even settle.

She was so gentle.

You looked up at her, wide-eyed and flustered. Sevika's expression was unreadable, caught between hunger and awe.

"I need to see you," she said.

Then she eased you down.

Her palm cradled the back of your head as she laid you flat against the mattress. Her other hand followed the shape of your side, warm and steady, until it settled just above your hip. She didn't say anything for a long moment—just hovered over you, watching your chest rise and fall.

Then—

"Mmm... more," Sevika whispered, almost like it slipped out of her without meaning to.

Like she wasn't talking to you, but to the ache inside her.

Her mouth opened right over the spot she'd kissed—just below your collarbone, just shy of your chest—and her fangs finally sank in.

Slower. Deeper. Lower.

You whined softly and clutched at her arm.

She let out a soft noise—half-groan, half-praise-and pressed her forehead to your chest as she licked the wound clean.

Your hand moved on instinct—trembling fingers brushing into her hair, then sliding down to her jaw. You cupped her face gently, guiding her to look at you.

There was blood on her mouth. On her chin.

The same blood that was still warm in your veins.

But somehow, it didn't scare you.

It made your chest ache.

"You're so pretty," you whispered, thumb ghosting along her cheekbone. "Even with blood all over your face."

Sevika blinked—slow, like she didn't know what to say. Her expression didn't shift much, but her eyes... softened. Just a little.

Then, she turned her face into your palm.

Pressed a kiss to the center of it. Said nothing.

When she pulled back, you glanced down—and there it was. A faint smear of red where her lips had been.

Your blood, on your hand. From her mouth.

You didn't flinch. You didn't wipe it away.

You just looked at her.

But you could feel it—all of it—in the way she looked at you. Like you were hers. Like you'd always been.

Then, her kisses started again. Lower. Down your stomach now.

Her mouth was warm. Wet. You could feel the faint smear of your own blood where her lips trailed over your skin. You weren't sure if you were trembling from nerves or from how tender she was being with you.

When she reached your navel, she paused.

"You still with me?"

You nodded, but your voice was tight. "I'm okay. I just—Sevika, I've never... no one's ever touched me like this."

"I'm not gonna take anything you're not giving," she said softly, brushing her knuckles along your side. "This is all I want. Just this."

Then, finally—your thigh.

She kissed it like it was fragile. Like it was sacred. The outer edge first, soft skin between her lips.

Then, a bite.

You gasped. Your thighs twitched.

A soft, involuntary whimper slipped from your lips—sharper this time. Less overwhelmed, more... hurt.

Sevika froze.

Her head snapped up, eyes narrowing, and her hands stilled completely against your thighs.

"Shit—was that—are you okay?" Her voice was low but urgent, suddenly stripped of all control. 

“Did I—fuck, did I hurt you?"

You blinked at her, startled by how quickly her calm had fractured. She looked panicked, but not in a loud way. Not dramatic. Just—tight. Like her body had locked up on instinct, afraid she'd ruined something.

Your breath hitched, but you managed to shake your head.

"No—no, I'm okay," you whispered quickly.

"It just…. surprised me."

Sevika stared at you for a second longer, like she didn't quite believe you yet. Her brow furrowed, and you saw it—all the ruthless instinct she usually carried, all the violence, clench down like she was holding it back with both fists.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," she said again, quieter this time. "I would never—I'm trying to go slow."

You touched her hand, lightly. "You are."

She exhaled, finally. Her grip loosened.

Sevika looked up slowly—and saw the wet spot darkening the front of your panties.

A faint smirk crept up on her lips, but she didn't say anything. She just blinked at it once. Then lifted her gaze to meet yours.

You looked away, ashamed. But she was already moving again.

Her hands slid down your thighs. Gentle.

Heavy. Warm.

Then she parted them.

You tried to resist, just for a moment. Tried to close them, flustered beyond belief—but Sevika tsked softly.

"Don't hide from me," she whispered, kissing the inner part of your thigh now.

"You're doing so good. Let me finish."

And then—one final bite. Deep in the softest part of your inner thigh.

Your whole body shuddered, and Sevika held you, firm and steady, kissing the mark afterward with reverence.

"That's it," she whispered. "That’s my girl."

I have to stop writing stuff that are soo part 2 worthy ugh someone stop me from doing a part 2 pls !!!

and yes the title is from take a bite by beabadoobee ♡

criticism and ideas are heavily appreciated (˶ˆᗜˆ˵)