❀Strawberry_MilkShake❀

You’ve learned to take these moments slowly—sweet minutes before the dat demands anything of either of you. His face in repose is different from His waking expression. Much softer. The careful control He maintains drops away in these hours, leaving something almost delicate in the curve of His mouth, the way His hair falls across His forehead in perfectly imperfect disorder.

Your hand slips free from the silk sheets. Carefully, oh so carefully, you trace the line of His eyebrow. The arch of it, the texture. Your fingers map the geography of His face like you’re trying to memorize it, like you’re afraid of forgetting even though He’s right here.

The need is instinctual and overwhelming. To know every detail, every plane and angle, to commit Him to memory in case—

In case of what? You don’t let yourself finish the thought.

Your touch drifts lower, fingertips ghosting across His cheekbone. His skin is cool beneath your palm, but you press your warmth into it anyway. You’re not even sure if vampires need warmth (or sleep), if they even register temperature the way you do, but you want to give Him yours regardless. Want to leave some trace of yourself on Him the way He’s left himself all over you.

Your hand moves almost without permission, drawn to the center of His chest. To where a heartbeat should be.

You know better. You’ve known since that first night in the alley, since He told you what He was with blood on His lips and your pulse hammering in your ears. But some part of you still searches for it—that steady rhythm, that proof of life.

There’s nothing. Just cook skin and the faint impression of ribs beneath. Your palm doesn’t move from His chest.

Your mind is a dangerous place when left to wander. How can you miss someone when they’re right next to you?

“You know I’m awake, right?” Xanthus’ voice cuts through your thoughts, warm with amusement.

You freeze. His eyes are still closed, face perfectly relaxed, but there’s a smile pulling at the corner of His mouth now.

“How long have you been awake?” you ask, not moving your hand.

“Long enough to feel you cataloging my face.” His eyes open finally, dark and fond. “Should I be flattered or concerned that you’re this fascinated by my eyebrows?”

Heat creeps up your neck. “I wasn’t—”

“You were.” He shifts slightly, the arm around your waist tightening to keep you close. “You do it every morning. You forget I don’t really need sleep. I feel everything you do every morning.”

“You’ve been keeping track?”

“I’m four hundred years old, love. I’ve gotten quite good at noticing patterns.” His free hand comes up to cover yours on His chest. “Especially yours.”

The touch is deliberate, pressing your palm firmly against where His heart isn’t. His fingers are cool as they lace through yours.

Your breath catches. “Xanthus—”

“I’m here,” He continues, pulling you closer until there’s no space between you at all. “No heartbeat, perhaps, but I’m here with you. And that’s not nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” you agree, voice rough.

“So.” His hand leaves yours to cup your face, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Since you’ve been studying me, I think it’s only fair I get to return the favor.”

“That’s not—”

But He’s already shifted, rolling you onto your back so He can lean over you, propped on one elbow. His gaze travels across your face with the same intensity you’d just shown him—deliberate, through, mapping every detail.

“There,” He murmurs, almost to himself. “The way your eyes are still heavy with sleep. The line between your brows that appear when you’re thinking too hard. That spot just there—” His finger taps gently beside your mouth. “—where you always bite your lip when you’re nervous.”

“I don’t—”

“You do.” His smile is soft. “Each morning, love. I’ve been paying attention too.”

The words settle in your chest. Each morning of Him watching you the way you watch him. Each morning of this—silk sheets and velvet curtains and the strange intimacy of waking beside someone who doesn’t sleep the way you do but stays anyway.

“Kiss me,” you say, and it comes out steadier than you feel.

Xanthus stills. “Are you certain? You’ve just woken up, and I haven’t exactly—”

“Xanthus.” You reach up, fingers threading through that perfectly mussed hair. “Kiss me.”

He does.

It’s gentle at first—a soft press of cool lips against yours, careful in the way He always is with you. Like you’re something precious. Something that might break if He’s not cautious.

But you don’t want careful right now. You want the proof that He’s here, that this is real, for each morning of waking up beside Him haven’t been some elaborate dream your lonely mind conjured.

You pull Him closer, deepening the kiss, and feel His sharp intake of breath against your mouth. His hand cups the back of your neck, angling you exactly where He wants you, and there—there’s the Xanthus you know. The one who’s lived for four centuries and knows precisely what He’s doing. The one who kisses you like He’s trying to memorize you through touch alone.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathless—well, you are. Xanthus looks composed as ever expect for the way His eyes have darkened, the way His thumb won’t tracing small circles against your pulse point.

“Good morning,” He says, and there’s something smug in His smile.

“Morning.” You’re very aware of how your heart is racing, how He can definitely feel it under His fingertips. “That was—”

“Many mornings overdue?”

“I was going to say nice, but sure. That too.”

He laughs, low and warm, and presses another quick kiss to your forehead before rolling away. “As much as I’d like to stay here all day, I believe you have a routine to follow. Something about coffee and breakfast and actually leaving bed before noon?”

Right. The real world. Responsibilities.

“What time is it?” you ask, already mourning the loss of His warmth beside you.

“Just past nine.” He’s sitting up now, running a hand through His hair to tame it. It doesn’t work—it never does in the morning, and you’re delighted by that. “Which means you’re already behind schedule. Don’t you usually wake up at seven?”

“How do you—”

“I’ve been paying attention,” He reminds you, that knowing smile back on His face. “I know your schedule better than you at this point.”

“Go on,” He urges, standing and offering you His hand. “I’ll get started on breakfast while you get ready.”

“You don’t eat.”

“No, but you do. And I’ve become quite proficient at cooking for someone who can’t taste any of it.” His smile turns slightly wicked. “Besides, you’re about to discover I’ve taken some liberties with your clothes while you were sleeping.”

“Liberties?”

“I may have organized your things. Some of them. The ones I found in the luggage scattered across my bedroom floor.”

He tugs you to standing, steadying you when the silk sheets try to tangle around your legs. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

You should be probably annoyed and protest the invasion of privacy or the presumption or something. But looking at Him now—dark eyes warm, hair still mussed from sleep and fingers, that soft smile He only shows when it’s just the two of you—you can’t find it in yourself to care.

“Thank you,” you say instead.

“You’re welcome.” He squeezes your hand once before letting go. “Now go. Get ready. I’ll be downstairs when you’re done.”

He’s gone before you can respond, moving with that preternatural speed that still started you sometimes. One moment He’s there, the next you’re alone in his—your?—bedroom, silk sheets pooled at your feet and the ghost of the kiss still tingling on your lips.

You take a moment to look around properly. The room is massive, all dark wood and burgundy fabrics, heavy curtains blocking every window. There’s a wardrobe against one wall that definitely wasn’t open yesterday, and you peek inside you find your clothes hung neatly beside his. Color-coordinated, even. Of course.

A door on the far wall leads to an en-suite bathroom, and you find more of your things arranged on the counter—toothbrush, skincare products, the specific brand of soap you prefer. Everything exactly where you’d put it if you’d been the one unpacking.

It’s unsettling and touching in equal measure. The care He’s taken. The attention to detail.

You go through your morning routine on autopilot—shower, clothes (He’s even folded your favorite sweater and left it on top), the mechanical process of making yourself presentable for the day. But your mind is elsewhere, still caught on cool lips and silk sheets and the feeling of His hand over yours on His silent chest.

When you emerge from the bedroom finally, properly dressed and slightly more awake, you pause at the top of the stairs. The estate is quiet except for faint sounds from the kitchen—running water, the click of dishes, Xanthus moving through space with that uncanny grace of his.

You should go down. Should join him.

But there’s a door to your left, slightly ajar, and through it you can see shelves. Books. Lots of books.

Just a quick look, you tell yourself. Just to see what kind of things a four-hundred-year-old vampire keeps in His personal library.

The room is smaller than you expected—cozy, almost. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line three walls, packed with leather-bound volumes in various states of wear. There’s a reading chair by the window, the curtains here thinner than the bedroom, allowing filtered light to seep through.

You drift toward the nearest shelf, fingers trailing along spines. Poetry collection, history text, what looks like someone’s journal from the 1700s. Everything is organized with the same meticulous care as your clothes.

One shelf is cleaner than the others. Recently dusted, like books are frequently pulled from here. You lean closer, reading titles—most are poetry, but there’s one slim volume that’s been handled more than the rest. The leather is worn smooth, spine cracked from repeated opening.

You pull it free carefully. It’s not a published book at all, you realize. It’s a journal, a personal one.

You should put it back. You know you should.

But the pages fall open almost on their own, and you find yourself staring at the cramped handwriting dated August 28th, 1641.

The weather proves warm as a year prior, yet I am null to it’s warmth; for the frozen breath seeps into my bones. I am enslaved to perpetual hunger of which no remedy can abstain, and foreign remnants of iron linger upon my tongue that yearns for a deep embrace I cannot hope to flee. This is my atonement, punishment orchestrated by none other than the DEVIL.

I am damned to this fate.

Your chest tightens. This is Xanthus—no, Lawrence, a year after His death. A year into being a vampire and hating every moment of it.

I am unworthy of redemption, unworthy of life, unworthy of love. And I shall keep this promise to myself for as long as I am Lawrence Cleyburne.

You feel your heart drop to your stomach. You have no right to dig through His life like this—though you doubt He didn’t do the same to your own history. But the pages of this journal feel heavy with the ink of pain, it feels as if it might spread onto you.

You’d rather hear Xanthus’ pain from His own lips. Not pages from journals you had no right to open.

You return the journal to it’s rightful place. You’re about to leave the room when you feel the hair on your neck rise. The eerily quiet steps of your partner (lover?) reach your ears. Suddenly you regret getting caught (not the snooping).

You quickly turn your back to the door, and start looking at any other book. You still at a random spot in front of the bookshelf, though the sound of footsteps are gone now. Did He turn around and go to another room?—

“Find anything interesting?”

Your heart is still racing from what you read, but you manage a casual smile. “Just looking. You have a lot of books.”

“Hundreds of years collecting will do that.” He moves into the room, coming to stand beside you. “Thought I’ll confess, most of them are decorative at this point. I’ve read them all at least twice.”

“All of them?”

“When you don’t really need sleep, you find ways to pass the time.” His fingers trace along the spice of the poetry collection you’re pretending to examine. He tilts His head in thought.

The sight brings a smile to your face.

“There it is,” He says quietly. “I was beginning to worry I’d have to work harder for that.”

“For what?”

“Your smile. You looked troubled when I came in.” His eyes search your face. “Everything alright?”

Unworthy of redemption, unworthy of life, unworthy of love.

The words echo in your mind, but you push them away. This isn’t the moment. Maybe there will never be a moment to tell Him you’ve read His private thoughts from 1641, seen the depth of His self-loathing laid bare.

“Just thinking,” you stay instead, which isn’t entirely a lie. “About how strange this all is. Waking up here. My clothes in your wardrobe. You downstairs cooking breakfast even though you can’t eat it.”

His expression shifts. “Strange in a good way, I hope?”

“Strange in the best way.” You step closer, taking His hand. “I was just taking it all in. This is really happening.”

“It is.” His fingers lace through yours. “I’ve already cleared three additional shelves for your books. Non-refundable, I’m afraid.”

“Three shelves? I don’t have that many books.”

“You will. I’m planning to spoil you terribly.” He tugs you toward the door. “Starting with breakfast that’s getting progressively colder while we stand here discussing my hoarding tendencies. Come on.”

He’s holding your hand. Leading you downstairs to breakfast He made specifically for you. He remembers the coffee orders and the exact way you like your eggs.

“You made me breakfast?”

“I told you I would.” He’s leading you toward the stairs now, fingers laced through yours. “Though I’ll warn you, my cooking skills are somewhat limited by the fact that I haven’t properly cooked in years.”

“I’m sure it’s fine.”

The kitchen is spotless—of course it is—with a single place setting at the counter. Eggs, toast, coffee (in your specific mug from your old apartment, which He must have packed).

“This is,” you gesture at the plate, the coffee, him. “This is a lot.”

“Too much?” There’s a flicker of uncertainty in His expression.

“No! Not too much. Just different.” You set down the coffee mug, meeting His eyes. “Just different. Good different. I’m not used to someone knowing this much about me.”

“Well.” He reaches across the counter, fingers finding yours. “You’d better get used to it. I’m fairly certain you’re stuck with me now.”

“Fairly certain?”

“You did move in. There’s no take-backs on that decision.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to move in. I remember you suggesting it and then somehow all my things ended up here.”

“Semantics.” His grin is unrepentant. “Eat your breakfast. We have plans.”

The idea of waking up next to him, spending every waking moment with your eyes on him, eating breakfast with him, running up and down stairs with Him brings a smile to your face. Your life isn’t just about surviving every day anymore. You can start truly living.

“What are you smiling about?” Xanthus asks, catching your expression.

“Nothing.” You set down your mug, moving around the counter to kiss Him again. Just because you can. “Just glad I moved in. Semantics aside.”

His answering smile is radiant. “Me too, love. Me too.”

Extra notes from author: This is probably my last long fic for now. My studies are starting again! With this fic I am spreading the housewife Xanthus propaganda. Audric let them go, all Xanny wants is an apron (preferably with the lettering “kiss the cook”).

I know a lot of people voted angst, so I threw in the depressing 1641 letter in just for y’all.

Honestly, the timeline of this fic (where it takes place in the canon story) is a bit skewed. Maybe it’s before everything went haywire.

Now I’ll go into hibernation and only post small drabbles thank you very much. I’ve been able to write fics pretty fast this week but I think my motivation has run its course 🥹