Hello🖤

You don't remember the exact moment they pulled you out.

That's the first thing you'll tell Ryland and Simon much, much later. You'll tell them that the memory is a hole in your head, a black spot where a chunk of your life used to be. One moment you were in the escape pod after three days without sleep, without food, without anything except the sounds of screams and murder and cries and howls echoing in the mothership you'd left behind, and the next moment you were surrounded by light.

Not human light. Not the harsh, flickering fluorescents of the space stations you'd grown up on. This light was warm, almost organic, pulsing in frequencies your eyes hadn't evolved to process. And the shapes moving through it —Eridians, you'd learn later, though at the time you thought you were dead and this was some kind of alien afterlife—were so incomprehensible that your brain simply refused to process them.

You passed out.

When you woke up, you were inside a transparent ball. Xenonite. Though you didn't know that yet.

The Eridians had been gentle. That's the part that fucks with your head the most, looking back. They had no reason to be gentle. You were a strange, soft, small creature that had drifted into their territory in a piece of salvage that was barely holding together. They could have ignored you. They could have dissected you. Instead, they'd built you a climate-controlled bubble: warm, pressurized, filled with a thin but breathable atmosphere. Instead they'd transported you across however many light-years to their homeworld.

You don't remember the journey. You remember dreams. Fragments. Your crewmates' faces, one by one. The thing that moved through the corridors of the Gethsemane, a smell like copper and rot and something else, something wrong. You remember being the last one. Not because you were brave. Not because you were smart. Just because the creature had to kill someone first, and then someone second, and then someone third, and then someone fourth, and you were the fifth.

Someone always has to be last.

It had been your turn to be last.

You open your eyes.

Ryland Grace has been living on Erid for approximately two weeks when he hears the news.

He's sitting on the warm sand and he's staring at the stars through the curved xenonite wall of his habitat. It's a dome, massive and circular, built specifically to house a single fragile human being on a planet where the atmosphere would liquefy his lungs and the gravity would crush his spine. Rocky designed it. Rocky built it. Rocky checks on him every few hours, despite Grace's protests that he's fine, he's okay, he doesn't need a babysitter.

"I am not a babysitter. statement." Rocky says, his voice translating through the device they built together, the harmonic bridge between Eridian chirps and human phonemes. "I am a friend. Are you eating. Question."

"I'm eating."

"You are not eating. I am observing. You are pushing the food around."

Grace sighs and looks down at the bowl of algae-paste in his hands. Rocky is right. He's been pushing it around for twenty minutes, not because it tastes bad but because he's been thinking about Earth. About Stratt. About the Petrova line and the astrophage and the billions of people who are, by now, either dead or alive or something in between.

He doesn't know. He'll never know. That's the part he can't accept.

"Rocky," he says. "can I ask you something?"

"You are asking. Statement. I am listening."

"Do you ever think about—"

The door to the habitat opens.

Grace flinches. The door isn't supposed to open. Not without warning. Not without his say-so. He's the only human on Erid. He's the only human within fifteen light-years, at least, probably more, unless there are other survivors out there, which there aren't, because the Hail Mary was the only ship and he was the only—

But the door is open.

And through it, pushed by a team of Eridian scientists whose segmented bodies are pulsing with what Grace has learned to recognize as excitement, come two xenonite spheres.

They're smaller than the one he arrived in. Transport pods, maybe. Temporary housing. Each one is filled with a breathable atmosphere, and each one contains-

Oh no.

Grace stands up so fast he drops his bowl. The algae-paste spills onto the sand. He doesn't care.

"Rocky." he says, his voice very quiet. "Rocky, what is that."

The translation device crackles. "Those are humans. Statement. Two humans."

"I can see that they're humans, Rocky. Why are there two humans in my habitat."

"They were rescued. Statement. One human was found in a damaged submersible vessel in the blood ocean of a moon in a nearby system. Second human was found in an emergency escape pod. Both humans were recovered by Eridian science vessels. Statement. Both humans require an environment suitable to human biology. Statement. This is the only environment on Erid suitable to human biology. Therefore-"

"Therefore they're staying here?" Grace's voice cracks. He can hear it. He doesn't care. "Rocky, you can't just- you can't just drop two random humans into my habitat without asking me first! I'm not—I'm not equipped for this! I'm not a zookeeper!"

"You are not a zookeeper. Statement. You are a human. They are humans. They require-"

"I know what they require! They require oxygen and warmth and- and therapy, probably, look at them, Rocky, look at them!"

He points at the two xenonite spheres, which the Eridian scientists are now gently positioning onto the sand with one of their huge transportation claws that they use to put things inside his habitat without entering. Inside the first sphere, a man. He's huge, muscular. His hair is dark and matted, hanging over a face that's all sharp angles and shadows. He's wearing what looks like a prison uniform, faded and torn, and his hands are scarred. Knuckles broken and healed, broken and healed, broken and healed until they look like knots on a tree.

The man is sitting in the center of his sphere with his knees drawn up to his chest, and he's staring. Not at anything specific. Just staring. His eyes are dark and flat and wrong in a way that makes Grace's hindbrain start screaming predator.

Inside the second sphere, a woman. You are that woman.

You're younger than the man, he notes. Early twenties, maybe. You're wearing the remnants of a uniform: a patch on the shoulder that Grace can't quite read from this distance, a name tag that's been scratched out. You're not curled up like the man. You're standing. Standing still, your arms at your sides, your head tilted slightly to one side.

And you're looking.

Not staring like the other man. Looking. Your eyes are moving, tracking, cataloging. Every few seconds, your gaze flicks to the xenonite walls, then to the sand, then to the artificial sun-lamp in the ceiling, then to Grace, then back to the man, then to the Eridian scientists outside the dome. You're not blinking enough.

You looks like an animal that's been cornered and has given up on running and is now waiting to see which direction the killing blow will come from.

"Rocky." Grace says, his voice barely a whisper. "Rocky, no."

"Explanation. They are your same species. Statement. They need the same environment. Therefore-"

"Rocky. Look at them. They don't look- they don't look civilized. That one" He points at the man "looks like he's going to murder someone. He looks like he's done murder."

"Humans are a violent species. Question. You are also a human. Does that mean Grace is violent. Question."

"I'm cuddly compared to that guy, Rocky! I'm a teddy bear! I'm- I'm a middle school science teacher who makes beanbag toss jokes! I'm not equipped to handle whatever that is!"

Grace doesn't like this.

His hands are raised. His palms are facing you and Simon. It is a universal sign of peace, of I am not a threat, but his face tells a different story.

His face says: What the fuck have they dropped into my living room.

"Rocky." he says, trying a different angle, "some humans don't like other humans. Some humans are dangerous. I'm not- I'm not comfortable with this. I didn't sign up for roommates. I didn't sign up for- for whatever this is."

Rocky is quiet for a long moment. Grace can see him through the xenonite suit, his clawed hands twitching in that way they do when he's thinking hard.

Then Rocky says. "They are same species. Statement. They need a suitable habitat. Statement. You are not allowed to refuse."

"I'm not allowed?"

"Clarification. The habitat is Eridian property. The Eridian science council has authorized the placement of these humans in this habitat. Statement. You do not have veto power. Statement. I am sorry."

Grace opens his mouth to argue. Closes it. Opens it again.

"Rocky-" he says, very quietly, "I'm going to say something, and I need you to listen very carefully. Those two humans are not normal. They are not okay. Something has happened to them. Something bad. And I don't know how to help them. I don't know how to be around them. I'm a science teacher, Rocky. I teach kids about photosynthesis. I don't- I don't do trauma. I don't do whatever that is."

Rocky's claws twitch again. "Observation. You also experienced trauma. You also were not normal when you arrived. Statement. I helped you. You helped me. Statement. You will help them. Or they will help you. Or you will help each other. Statement. This is what living beings do."

"That's not—"

But Rocky is already turning away to approach the wall of the dome, speaking to the other Eridian scientists through the wall in a rapid series of chirps and clicks that the translation device doesn't catch. And the scientists are moving, their claws reaching for controls.

They're going to open the xenonite balls.

They're going to open them right now.

"Rocky!" Grace says, panic rising in his throat. "Rocky, wait! Rocky, please. At least give me a warning. At least give me- give me a heads-up or something so I can—I don't know, prepare mentally???"

The spheres open.

The xenonite spheres retract like flower petals, dissolving into the sand.

For a moment, nothing happens.

The man (Simon, Grace will learn later) doesn't move. He stays curled up, his knees to his chest, his head down. He looks like a spring that's been compressed too tight, waiting for the pressure to release.

You don't move either. You stand exactly where the sphere deposited you, your arms at your sides, your breathing shallow and controlled.

Grace raises his hands higher. He's not sure why.

"Hi-" he says. His voice comes out too high. He clears his throat and tries again. "Hi. Hello. Um, Welcome. I'm- I'm Ryland. Ryland Grace. I'm a—I'm a human. Obviously. You can see that. I'm human. We're all human here. Ha. That's- that was a joke. Because we're all human. In this habitat. Which is for humans."

Simon looks up.

Oh, Grace thinks. Oh no.

Simon's eyes are wrong. They're not just flat, they're burning. There's something behind them, something hot and hungry and angry, and it's looking at Grace like he's a problem to be solved. Like he's an obstacle. Like he's prey.

Simon stands up.

He doesn't do it slowly. He doesn't do it gracefully. He unfolds, all at once, like a trap being sprung. One moment he's curled on the sand, and the next moment he's on his feet, his shoulders hunched, his hands curled into fists, his head low.

He's looking at Grace.

No, he's looking past Grace. He's looking at the xenonite walls. At the artificial sun. At the sand. At the stars beyond the dome. His lips are moving, but no sound is coming out. He's mouthing something.

"This is- this is my home. Sort of. The Eridians built it for me. And I'm sure you're both very—" He stops. His eyes dart between you and Simon. "...very.. something. But I need you to just. Take a breath. Both of you. Nobody here is going to hurt anybody."

You do not move.

You have learned not to trust people who tell you that nobody is going to hurt you. The last person who said that was your captain, three hours before the thing ripped him in half.

Your eyes seem to convey your distrust.

Grace takes a step back. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Let's all just- let's all just take a breath. Nobody needs to- nobody needs to do anything rash. We're all friends here. We're all-"

Simon turns his head.

He's not looking at Grace anymore. He's looking at you.

His head turns. The motion is slow, mechanical, like a turret swiveling to acquire a target. His eyes find yours. And you see it: the shift, the calculation, the recognition. A potential threat. A variable he did not account for, and variables get people killed.

And you're looking back at him.

Something passes between you. Grace doesn't know what it is. He doesn't want to know what it is. All he knows is that Simon's posture changes: his weight shifts, his center of gravity drops, his hands flex, and your posture changes too. Your shoulders square. Your chin lifts. Your trembling hands stop trembling.

"Okay," Grace says, backing up another step. "Okay. That's- that's a look. That's a look you're giving each other. That's a concerning look. Can we talk about the look? Can we just- can we just use our words—"

You do not know what your face is doing. You have lost the ability to control your face. Somewhere in the three days you spent hiding in the Gethsemane's air vents, listening to the creature drag your crewmates' bodies through the corridors, your face stopped being yours. It became a mask. A flat, wide-eyed, unblinking thing that sees everything and betrays nothing.

Grace sees this. His hands go higher.

Simon moves.

It's not a charge. It's not an attack. It's something more akin to a lunge, a leap, a launch. He crosses the distance between himself and you in less than a second, his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for your throat, your shoulders, your face, anything.

It happens too fast for Grace to react. One moment Simon is standing still, his head turned toward you, his breathing shallow. The next, he is on you. His body crashing into yours, you both hit the sand hard, the wind knocked out of you, and then instinct takes over.

You do not scream.

You have not screamed since the Gethsemane. Screaming attracts things.

But you fight.

Your knee comes up between you and Simon, catching him in the stomach. He grunts but doesn't stop. His fist connects with your jaw, not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to make your vision white out for a split second. You twist, using the leverage of the sand, and suddenly you are on top of him, your forearm pressed against his throat.

He roars.

It is not a human sound. It is something primal, something scraped out of a throat that has forgotten how to speak. He throws you off with a strength that scares Grace shitless, and now you are both scrambling, both clawing, both grappling. Silent on your end, vocal on his, a symphony of rage and survival and something that sounds like prayer.

Grace is frozen.

He's standing ten feet away, his hands still raised in that useless gesture of peace, his mouth hanging open, his brain refusing to process what he's seeing.

"Rocky." Grace hisses, his voice cracking. "Rocky, do something!"

Outside the xenonite dome, having went out just before the spheres dissolved, Rocky is watching.

His claws are twitching in a pattern that Grace has learned to recognize as excitement. He's chirping to the other Eridian scientists, his voice rapid and almost joyful.

"Rocky!"

"Is this the human mating ritual. Question."

What.

"Rocky, this is NOT a mating ritual!"

"Statement. I am observing. They are gripping each other. They are making sounds. They are exchanging physical contact. Question. Is this not how humans reproduce."

"Rocky!"

"Clarification. I am not understanding the problem. They are mating. This is good."

Grace wants to scream. He wants to tear his hair out. He wants to shake Rocky until his faceted eyes fall out of his head.

"They are not-" Grace chokes on his own words. "They are not doing a mating ritual! They're fighting! They're hurting each other! This is bad, Rocky! This is the opposite of good!"

Rocky's claws stop twitching.

"Oh." he says.

Silence.

"Oh." he says again. "Statement. I may have made a miscalculation."

"You think?"

"BUT THEY ARE SAME SPECIES. EXPLANATION. WHY DO SAME SPECIES TRY TO KILL."

"Because humans are-" Grace stops. Rethinks. "Actually, no, that's a fair question. I don't have a good answer. We just do that sometimes."

"THAT IS BAD. STATEMENT. VERY BAD. BADBADBADBADBAD." Rocky's legs move in an agitated pattern. "THEY ALONE. THEY NEED COMPANY. GRACE DO SOMETHING. COMMAND."

"What do you want me to do?" Grace hisses. "They're either highly trained in combat or they've gone completely feral—I can't tell which—and I am one middle school science teacher. I am not equipped for this. I was equipped for Astrophage. I was equipped for saving the sun. I was not equipped for interpersonal conflict resolution between two traumatized murderers."

Simon has you pinned again.

"EDEN!" Simon howls, and his voice breaks on the word. "EDEN TOOK EVERYTHING! EDEN AND THE- THE GETHSEMANE. THE GETHSEMANE DISAPPEARED AND THIS PLACE-" He punches the sand next to your head, deliberately missing. "THIS PLACE HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT! I KNOW IT DOES! I KNOW!!"

You stop fighting.

Just like that. Your body goes limp beneath him. Your arms fall to your sides. Your eyes, still wide, still unblinking, find his face.

Simon freezes.

His fist is still raised. His knuckles are split, bleeding onto your collar. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wild. But something in your stillness has reached through the red haze, because he doesn't hit you. He can't hit you. Not like this. Not when you are looking at him like that.

"How," you say, and your voice is a ruin. It hasn't been used in days. Maybe weeks. You have forgotten the shape of words. "How do you know about the Gethsemane."

Simon blinks.

His fist lowers, slowly, like a machine winding down. He is still straddling you, still pinning you to the sand, but the violence has drained out of his posture. He looks confused. Lost.

"I'm.. from Eden," he says, and the words come out rough, hesitant, almost questioning. Like a little kid's. "The—the colony. Eden."

"I'm from the Gethsemane," you say, and your voice is shaking now, cracking at the edges. "The ship. The one that went off the grid. My crew- my crew spent years trying to find you. Trying to get back. We were looking for you."

Simon's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"You're from Eden." you repeat.

"Yes."

"You're from Eden."

"Yes."

"The Eden."

"I'm from Eden." Simon repeats once again. His voice is harder now. Defensive. "I was there. They sent me on some suicide mission to pay my penances and you-" He looks at your uniform. At the patch on your shoulder. At the scratched-out name tag. "You're from The Gethsemane."

"I'm from The Gethsemane."

"So you did not die."

"Not when you stopped getting the signals." Your voice breaks again, and this time it's not fear. It's grief. "We were stranded for years after a collission. We tried to search for you. And then—" You stop. Swallow. "And then the thing came. The creature. It got them. It got everyone except me. That's when we died, well, they died. I'm still here. as you can see."

Simon is quiet.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists. He is still pinning you. His face is still inches from yours.

But something has changed.

His weight shifts. His grip loosens. He's not holding you down anymore. He's holding you still. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

"The Gethsemane." he says slowly. "You were on the Gethsemane."

"I was."

"And you were looking for Eden."

"We were."

Simon makes a sound. It's not a word. It's not a laugh. It's something between—a groan, a sigh, a release.

And then he moves.

Not to hit you. Not to hurt you.

He rolls off you, onto his back in the sand, and stares up at the artificial sun. His chest is heaving. His face is bloody. His hands are shaking.

And you're sitting up.

You're looking at him.

Your eyes are still wide, still haunted, but there's something else there now. Something alive.

"You're from Eden." you say again, like you're testing the words.

"I'm from Eden." Simon says.

You throw yourself at him.

Not to fight. Not this time.

You collapse onto him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face pressing into his shoulder, your whole body shaking.

Simon makes a sound like he's been punched.

Simon, for his part, looks like he has been struck by lightning.

His hands hover in the air, uncertain, trembling. He does not know what to do with this. He has not been touched in kindness—or anything resembling kindness—in longer than he can remember. But his body knows what to do. His arms close around you, slowly at first, then tighter, until his hold is almost painful.

"GRACE."

"What."

"THEY STOP FIGHTING. OBSERVATION."

Grace turns back to look.

He's standing ten feet away, his hands lowered now, his mouth still open, his brain screaming.

"What." he says to no one. "What the fuck."

"THEY TOUCH," Rocky says, and there is something in his tone that Grace has learned to recognize as wonder. "THEY TOUCH AND DO NOT FIGHT. IS THIS... COMFORT. QUESTION."

"Yeah, Rocky." Grace's voice softens. "That's comfort."

"HUMANS NEED COMFORT. QUESTION."

"Yeah." Grace says, and for a moment, he forgets that he was panicking. For a moment, he just watches two broken people hold each other on the sand, and he thinks about the months he spent alone, about the nights he talked to a wall because he needed to hear a voice, about the first time Rocky touched his hand and he cried because he had forgotten what contact felt like. "Yeah, we do."

Grace approaches slowly.

He's not sure why he's approaching. Every instinct he has is telling him to stay back, to give you space, to not get involved in whatever the hell is happening. But his feet are moving anyway, carrying him across the warm sand, closer and closer to the two broken humans tangled together on the ground.

Simon sees him coming.

"Okay," Grace says, and he takes a step forward. Then another. "Okay. I'm going to- I'm just going to come over there. Very slowly. With my hands where you can see them. Because I am not a threat. I am the least threatening person on this planet. I am probably the least threatening person in this solar system. I once cried because I ran out of coffee. So. You know. Threat level: zero."

You watch him approach. Your head turns to track him, but your body stays still. Simon's head turns too. His eyes narrow.

Grace stops when he is standing over you. He looks down at Simon. Simon who is still laying on the sand, who is still holding you, who is looking up at Grace with an expression that Grace can only describe as proprietary.

Simon's arms tighten around you.

It is not subtle. His biceps flex. His hands press into your back. He pulls you closer to his chest, and his eyes never leave Grace's face.

Grace blinks.

"Okay." he says. "Wow. Okay. Possessive much?"

Simon doesn't even know he's doing it. But his whole body has shifted, curling around you, covering you, like he's protecting you from a threat.

From Grace.

Simon does not answer. He does not loosen his grip.

"I'm not going to take her from you," Grace says, and he means it to be a joke, but it comes out softer than he intended. "I'm just... I'm just going to sit down. Over here. Away from you. Where I am not a threat. Because I am really committed to not being a threat."

He sits down in the sand, cross-legged, a few feet away. Far enough to give Simon space. Close enough to talk.

For a long moment, nobody speaks.

Simon glares at him.

It's not the same glare from before. That glare was hostile, dangerous, predatory. This glare is something else. This glare is possessive.

And you're still clinging to him.

Simon's expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough.

And then he looks up at Grace.

"Where are we." he says. It's not a question. It's a demand.

Grace swallows. "Erid"

He then makes a gesture, motioning over to the wall behind of which there are a few Eridians congregated. Simon follows Grace's gesture.

He looks at Rocky.

Rocky waves.

Simon's expression doesn't change.

"An alien colony." he says flatly.

"Friendly aliens." Grace corrects immediately when he sees the way you tense in Simon's arms. "They're- they're nice. Mostly. They're just curious. They saved you, by the way. You and-" He looks at you. "your friend."

You blink at him.

Simon is still looking at Rocky. His expression is calculating. He's trying to understand. Trying to process.

"The aliens brought us here." he says slowly.

"Eridians." Grace says. "And yes. They brought you here. To my habitat. Because apparently I'm the only human on this planet and they thought I needed roommates."

Simon looks back at Grace.

"You're alone here." he says.

"I was alone here." Grace corrects. "Now I'm not alone. For better or worse."

Simon is quiet for a long moment.

Then he looks down at you.

"We're not leaving." Simon says, it's a question.

"Doesn't seem like we have any options here" you answer.

Grace sighs.

"No," he admits. "No we don't."

You and Simon finally separate.

"I'm from the Gethsemane." you tell Ryland, as if testing the words. "I'm the only one left."

Simon's jaw tightens. "I'm from Eden."

The three of you form a rough triangle on the warm sand. The artificial sun is dimming, mimicking a sunset that doesn't exist on this planet. The xenonite walls are glowing softly, casting long shadows across the dome.

Outside, Rocky is still watching.

He's not alone anymore. Other Eridian scientists have gathered, their segmented bodies pressed against the xenonite, their faceted eyes fixed on the three humans sitting in a circle. They're fascinated. They're observing. They're taking notes, probably, in whatever way Eridians take notes.

Grace tries to ignore them.

"You're both from the same system." he says, rubbing his temples. "That's- that's something. That's a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. Maybe the Eridians have been looking for humans. Maybe they found you because they were trying to find you."

Simon snorts. "They found me because I was drowning in a submarine full of blood."

"They found me because I was drifting in an escape pod." you say quietly. "I didn't even know they were there. I didn't even see them. I just.." You stop. Swallow. "passed out. And then I woke up here."

Grace nods slowly.

"The Eridians are rescuers," he explains. "That's- that's kinda what they do. They find things. They save things. They're curious. They wanted to know what you were. They wanted to help."

Simon's jaw tightens. "I didn't ask for help."

"You didn't have to."

Simon glares at him.

Grace holds up his hands. "I'm not saying- look, I get it. I didn't ask for help either. I was forced onto the Hail Mary. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be on Earth, in my classroom, with my students. I wanted to live."

"But you're here." Simon says.

"But I'm here." Grace agrees. "And I'm alive. And so are you. And so is she." He looks at you. "And maybe, just maybe, that's something. Don't you think?"

You look at Simon.

Simon looks at you.

You both look back at Ryland.

"Eden." Ryland sais. "Tell me about Eden."

Simon's expression shifts. The anger doesn't disappear, it's still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else rises to meet it. Longing. Grief. Hope.

"Eden is a colony." he says slowly. "A survivor colony. After the stars in our sollar system went out, after the Quiet Rapture, the stations started falling apart. People started dying. But Eden—Eden held on. We had resources. We had leadership. We had-"

He stops.

His hands curl into fists.

"We had a religion." he says, the word bitter on his tongue. "A cult. They said- they said the stars went out because humanity had sinned. Because we had reached too far. They said the only way to survive was to repent. To sacrifice."

Your eyes widen.

"The Gethsemane ship," you whisper. "That's- that's where the name came from. The Bible."

Simon nods. "The ship was named after the covenant. It was supposed to be a pilgrimage. A mission. They sent it out to find—I don't even know what. Salvation. Redemption. Something."

"And you were on it?" Asks Ryland.

Simon laughs. It's a hollow sound.

"I was on it, alright." he says.

A beat of silence.

"So.. this is your place." you say. It is not a question.

"It's... temporary." Grace says. "The Eridians are building a ship to take me back to Earth. But it's going to take a while. Astrophage engines are fast, but they're not instant. So I'm here. Living in a bubble. Talking to a rock."

"And how did you get here?"

Simon looks at him.

"Um- my sun was.. dying, the main star of my solar system y'know and they sent.. me and a few other people to try and fix it." he says. "long story short, those people died and i was alone until Rocky found me, his star was also dying, so we worked together."

"I assume something went wrong."

Simon inquires.

"You assume right." Grace admits. "Things went south in Rocky's ship so I sacrificed my return to earth to get him home safe, and he brought me with him so.. here I am."

A beat.

"I have so many questions to ask you two. But I'm not going to ask them. Because I feel like that would be rude."

Simon snorts. It is the first sound he has made that is not angry or confused. It is almost... amused.

"Rude." Simon repeats. "You're worried about being rude."

"I'm a scientist living in an alien zoo," Grace huffs, a sound almost mimicking an exhasperated sigh. "Manners are all I have left."

Something passes between you and Simon. A look. A shared recognition of absurdity. You are sitting on alien sand, beneath an alien sky, next to a man who talks like he's hosting a podcast, and somewhere outside the dome, a rock spider is watching you with what you can only assume is fascination.

Outside the xenonite dome, Rocky turns to the other Eridian scientists.

"Statement," he says proudly. "Humans are doing the mating ritual."

The Eridians cheer.

Grace doesn't hear them.

And maybe that's for the best.

The sound of your shoes clicking against the polished marble echoed faintly as you stepped into the lavish home nestled deep in the Italian countryside. Golden sunlight spilled through wide windows, catching on the gilded frames and carved furniture, and for a moment the house itself seemed to exhale at your arrival.

“Ahh! My love!”

The raven-haired woman swept into the foyer before you could call her name. Your Lucy. She smelled of perfume and sunshine, her arms already wide before you rushed forward, colliding in a joyous embrace that left you both breathless. “Lucy!” You gushed, arms locked around her neck, lips pressing to her cheek in a smacking kiss. For a moment you clung to each other the way you always had, as though no time had passed.

Pulling back, her hands settled on your waist while you grinned so brightly your cheeks ached. “How are you, darling?”

“Amazing—now that you’re here.” Lucy replied, her voice bubbling with warmth before her attention darted to the men who lingered a few steps behind, carrying your bags like shadows. Her expression softened into a beam. “Oh! Louis, Armand!” She exclaimed, flitting to greet them in turn. She brushed her lips lightly against each cheek, less effusive but no less fond. “It’s so nice to see you both again.”

“You as well, Lucy.” Louis said smoothly, his smile almost shy. Armand inclined his head, dark eyes unreadable but polite.

“Where’s Tommie?” You asked, pulling her gaze back to you.

“In the back, with the kids.” She said, planting her hands on her hips as her eyes scanned you anew. You had slipped off your sunglasses and hat, shaking loose your hair. A few silver streaks threaded through the strands, laugh lines curved gently around your eyes, but you still looked—at least to her—the same. The same best friend who had been with her through every messy heartbreak and fleeting joy. The same ray of joy that always seems to make her feel better.

Still, Lucy tilted her head, squinting. “What’s different with you?” She demanded, suspicion flickering across her features.

You only laughed, spinning lightly on your heel as you strolled deeper into the home. “Ah, I can never hide anything from you for long.” You sighed, plopping yourself on the couch, tired from such a long flight. “Anyways, Thailand was a blast. We haven’t been since your wedding—you should come with us next time.”

“I have kids now, Y/N.”

“Which I adore.” You shot back as your abaya pooled around you in a soft wave.

“I can’t just up and leave spontaneously.” Lucy continued. “Plus, that’s always been your sort of thing.” She teased, sitting beside you.

“Yeah.” You admitted softly, smile twitching at the corner of your lips. “It has.”

“Now spill.” She pressed. “Before I pull out your baby pictures to show Louis and Armand again.”

A groan tore from your chest at that, echoed by Louis’s warm laugh as he and Armand entered. “No need.” Armand said smoothly, lowering himself into a nearby chair. “We have them all.”

“Not the ones I have.” Lucy countered slyly. “I don’t play all my cards at once. I’ve got the braces years. And softball.”

Your eyes then widened in horror. “Okay!” You interrupted hastily, sitting up straighter. “No need to get crazy.”

For a moment, silence hung like a taut thread—then you lifted your left hand. And the light caught the diamond, sharp and dazzling.

Lucy gasped, hand flying to her mouth as her eyes flicked between your face, the ring, and the two men behind you. They were smiling too, quiet and knowingly.

Her squeal shattered the moment as she grabbed your shoulders, shaking you with infectious joy, the sound loud and sharp within Louis and Armand’s ears. You squealed back, the sound bubbling into laughter before she seized your hand and dragged you outside. The men lingered by the window, far enough from the sun, watching as Lucy paraded you onto the patio. Her voice carried high and bright as she held up your hand for the family to see. The children shrieked with delight, circling you in a whirl of small bodies and infectious glee.

“Oh my goodness! This is amazing! You’re getting married!” Lucy gushed, turning back to you.

You then bit your lip, still grinning, though your answer dimmed her glow just slightly. “Well… not really.” You said, causing Lucy to blink. “What? Why not?”

“Because that’s impossible to do when your companions are technically dead.” You said, almost breezy, though your grin never faltered.

“Oh.” She paused, then nodded with surprising solemnity. “Right. I forgot.”

“Yeah.” You lifted your hand, admiring the glitter of the ring. “This is more like… a show of commitment. That, plus the other gifts and the tattoos I made them get.”

“They got tattoos for you?” Lucy asked as her brows shot up.

You scoffed. “Of course. They’re obsessed with me.” You snorted. Lucy laughed, rolling her eyes just as Louis’s voice stirred against your thoughts. Cool it, beloved.

You smirked to yourself. Oh, you love it, Louis.

Still, Lucy wouldn’t let it go. “This is crazy. I mean, I don’t even remember how you guys met and now you’re technically married. I got divorced in that time.” She said, moving over to the dock, further back into the yard that led to the canals. “Hey, I was a young girl having fun for as long as I wanted.”

“You had commitment issues.” Lucy said flatly.

“And then I met a couple of freaks who have all of eternity.” You grinned as you leaned back, sun gleaming in your hair, the words playful but true. “Aren’t I lucky?” You beamed.

Lucy’s gaze softened, though curiosity flickered. “How did you even meet them again?” She questioned. You sighed, tilting your head back, the weight of memory drawing at your chest. “Oh, I remember it like it was yesterday. Mainly because after that night, nothing else ever measured up, if you know what I mean.” You snorted.

You then closed your eyes. The air seemed to shift, tilting you backward into memory.

“It was at your first engagement party…”

· · ────── ·✦· ────── · ·

The engagement party had been decadent enough before they’d even set foot in the club. Cairo at night glimmered like a city wrapped in gold, the Nile a living vein of silver under the moonlight. The air was warm and heavy with the spice of alcohol, perfume, and the hum of a thousand conversations.

The venue was wedged right along the river, its walls made of dark wood and glass so that the patrons—most of them foreign, wealthy, and anything but native Egyptians—could drink and dance with the water rippling just beyond reach. The sun had only recently sunk below the horizon, leaving the club lit entirely by low amber lamps and the restless glint of chandeliers swaying from the bass. It was full to bursting: champagne flutes in manicured hands, jewel-toned dresses brushing against tailored suits, laughter rolling over the music in low waves.

And there, on the small stage pressed against one side of the main room, was you.

Two shots and three martinis in, you were a vision poured in black. The sheer baby tee clung to your curves and left little to the imagination; mini shorts sat high over black stockings, the leather-gloss of your stiletto boots catching the light with every step. The only bare skin visible was your arms—bronzed and languid under the stage glow—and the occasional tease of midriff when your shirt lifted as you moved.

Your long, recently dyed, jet-black hair hung in soft, ethereal waves down your back, the Cairo humidity coaxing your natural curls into a wilder texture. Strands swayed against your face as you sung, framing the low-lidded intensity of your eyes.

The first thing you remembered was being on top of the bar with a random blonde, laughing into the flashing lights. Then—rough, large hands were lifting you as though you weighed nothing. You had been swept to the stage, and somewhere in between “California Girls” and your current setlist, the crowd had claimed you.

It was about your fifth song now—Diana Ross’s Eaten Alive—and you owned it like it had been written for you. You weren’t sure why kept going. After Rihanna’s Man Down you tried to step away, but the crowd wouldn’t have it and you thought, “Why should I?” The energy was like an electric tide crashing into your veins, intoxicating and unending.

That was the thing about being a witch—low-level or not. Crowds of shared energy fed you. Whether it was a concert, a protest, or a catastrophic event, the collective pulse of strangers made witches stronger. Without a coven, this was the closest you could come to the hum of something greater than yourself.

So you danced, swayed, and sang as the bass rolled under your feet.

“Animal stalking you at night,

I’m a sucker for someone

And I got the prey in sight…”

Your hips moved to the syrupy pulse of the ’80s synths.

“Lying on a bed of leaves

In the modern times

You forget and let your spirit breathe…”

Your free hand slid up your torso in a slow, suggestive line, hair brushing over your shoulders as your eyes skimmed the crowd—a sea of friends, strangers, and the club’s many faceless patrons.

“Capture me, my blood is red…”

You then lowered yourself into a squat, the mic still in hand, the long wire dragging across the stage like a snake.

“Another victim of your ritual

For you my skin is shed…”

Now crawling on your knees down the runway, you locked eyes with anyone who dared to meet your gaze, drawing their attention like moths to an open flame.

“Ecstasy ain’t what you find

In the modern world

One flick of my tongue changes…”

By the time you reached the end of the runway, fingertips from the crowd grazed your legs and arms. You rolled from your knees to your back in one fluid motion, long legs kicking playfully before you flipped again, landing on your knees as the chorus hit.

“And you say

That’s impossible

That’s not impossible to do, oh…”

Your voice was velvet and heat, body moving like the lyrics had taken root in her blood. Rising effortlessly to your feet, you danced with renewed energy, hair like a dark curtain swirling with each turn.

“And you digest what I can see

The taste of you can be…”

Then, your eyes found him.

They were bright green. Striking. Fixed on you from the very back of the room.

He didn’t move, didn’t jostle with the rest of the eager crowd. He was a still point in the chaos, a calm in the intoxicating sea of bodies. The sight of him sent a flicker of something—curiosity, heat—skittering up your spine.

“I don’t wanna be eaten alive

’Cause you’re so dangerous

No more hearts I can trust, you see…”

The crowd screamed as you rolled your hips in a slow, deliberate circle, as if you were wearing an invisible hula hoop. You turned so your back faced the audience, swaying in a way that would make anyone react, hands lifting above your head in a belly-dancer’s pose. The movement exposed the tattoos carved into your skin, the glint of your piercings catching the light.

Still, your gaze kept drifting back to him. Watching him, almost as if you were dancing for him.

And somewhere in that locked stare, you forgot entirely about the stage, the drinks you had previously consumed and the strangers.

It wasn’t long before your little performance as all over.

The crowd is still fever-warm from your presence on stage and each thud of the bass was a rush of blood to your ears.

You’ve just come down from Closer by Nine Inch Nails—your body feeling loose and sweat cooling in the air-conditioned breeze that couldn’t quite keep pace with the heat of so many moving bodies.

You’re buzzing off two martinis and four shots, but mostly off the energy. It was still running under your skin, humming like electricity. You’d pulled from the crowd without permission, fed off the collective pulse of strangers until your body feels lighter, sharper, and hungrier all at once.

The club was a riot of color and perfume and money. Most patrons were wealthy foreigners with a taste for exotic settings.

You laughed at something one of your best friend’s colleagues says, the sound slipping out without thought, and then you’re weaving through people with a grin that doesn’t belong to sobriety to anything genuine. You barely notice the way eyes track you, or how heads turn when you pass. You’re still high from being on stage.

At the bar, you lean forward, propping your elbows on the counter, smirk already in place as your gaze finds the woman behind it. “Can I have a French martini, please?”

Your head tilts just so, hair spilling over your shoulder, cheek resting lightly against your hand.

The bartender, a pale skinned woman with light brown hair and eyes sharp with appraisal—gives you a look that’s more than polite. Her smirk is slow.

“You can have that and more.”

Her words caused your teeth to graze your lower lip, a reflex out of habit. “We’ll get to that more after you get me my drink.” You murmur, letting a thin thread of sultry seep into your voice, flirting back.

It earned you another smirk, a slight tilt of her chin.

“Yes, ma’am.”

It’s then that you hear it—that soft drawl tangled in her otherwise North American accent, somewhere west in the United States. You can’t help but wonder what brought her here, this far from wherever home is for her. But then, the same could be said of you. You’re far from home, too.

She turns to make your drink, and your gaze trails after her, measuring the sway of her walk and the cut of her waist beneath the black of her uniform.

That was until hands press lightly against your back.

“Quit flirting to get free drinks.”

You don’t even have to turn your head to now that voice, but you look anyway when she slides onto the stool beside you, and your smile comes easy.

“It’s not for the free drinks, Mrs. Manchester.” You snipped.

“Ah, ah!”Lucy raised one perfectly manicured finger to tap lightly against your bottom lip, stopping your words.“Not so fast. Future Mrs. Manchester.” She corrects with a grin, holding up her left hand so the large diamond on her finger catches and scatters the club lights. No wedding band yet, just the promise of one with the engagement ring. “Oh, and I forgot—it’s not about the free drinks with you. It’s about the chase and how you just love to flirt.” She finished with a sarcastic nod.

“Yeah, yeah, the chase and all that.” You say, waving her off with a mock scoff. “What’s up with you avoiding this wedding topic? You’ve done that twice today, and this is literally your engagement party.”

“I know that.” Lucy shrugs, eyes dropping to her ring as she turns it slowly around her finger. “I just..don’t want to get carried away. My wedding won’t be for a year or two now. Maybe even more.”

You narrow your eyes, watching her closely.

“Lucy, I’ve known you since middle school, which means I know you’ve had your wedding planned to a T since then.” You playfully deadpan her. “And you edit it every year.”

Her lips purse, her shoulders tightening under the weight of your gaze. Something flickers there—hesitation, maybe, or a truth she’s not ready to give you. You watched as she let out a sigh, her eyes not meeting yours, drifting over to her group of work friends that laughed in a circle together. “I just… want to be me for a while longer, you know?” She said, looking over at you. “Lucy Lim. Just Lucy.”

Her smile is thin, not reaching her eyes. You know there’s more, but you let it go, matching her expression with one of your own.

“Okay.”

The word hangs between you, quiet but final.

Then she’s brightening again, looping her arm through yours.

“Good. Now you need to get that drink and bring your ass back to the dance floor! You’re the life of the party and my work friends absolutely love you.”

You let out a chortle, nearing on a scoff as you glance over at the group she means—her friends, the groups full of polished images and curated aesthetics. All around…bland. And that’s you putting it nicely. Four of them were literally wearing the same sort of dress in different colors, and not in a cute coordinated way.

Lucy’s friends were nothing like you. They were honestly nothing like Lucy either.

You grew up in small towns—in Brazil, then in the U.S.—where individuality was both currency and a curse. Back then, you were judged for your family, for the whispers that your grandmother was some witch. And they weren’t wrong, but no little girl wanted those types of accusations at the time.

Lucy had been different. She’d met you with a compliment. She liked the way you always wore your hair in braided pigtails, and you liked her bangs. You also shared your love for rainy afternoons and ballet, and somehow you’d been inseparable since. Which makes seeing her now—corporate, precise, dressed in a life that doesn’t seem to fit her—feel strange.

“Yeah… your friends aren’t really my crowd.” You winced slightly with an unsure gaze placed upon your best friend.

Lucy let out a loud sigh, looking at you. “Oh, come on…” She practically whined your name. “You don’t even give them a chance.”

“I have.” You stated. You were about to explain for what felt like the hundredth time as to why you didn’t feel accepted and invited into her rag tag crew of copy cats but you couldn’t when you saw the pleading look on her face.

You two have a bit of a stare off then but you can’t seem to keep your resolve when she gives you that pleading look. Those big dark eyes that made you feel welcomed all those times ago. So you smile, just as the bartender returns with your drink.

“I’ll meet you over there in a bit.” You said softly, giving her a smile, which caused Lucy to beam at you, her hands still on your arm.

“Leavin’ me already?” The bartender asked, drawing your attention to her as she placed a straw in your drink. You smirked at her, gaze turning lustful as you brought the martini up to your lips. “Oh, don’t worry, baby, she’s a married woman. We still have time for our fun.” You said, smirking over the rim of your glass.

You then winked, causing the woman to chuckled before her eyes went over to Lucy. “Hey, I’m not judging. A married woman knows what she’s doing.” She uttered, giving your best friend a suggestive look. You held the glass at your lips, covering your grin as you watched Lucy hide her blush as she ducked her head. She let out a nervous giggle before turning back to you. “See ya.” She whispered, sending the woman a polite smile before leaving the two of you with a pat on your arm.

You didn’t have time to watch her walk away before a napkin was being slid your way. You looked back at the bartender. “Here’s my number, in case I can’t see you again. Gotta get back to work.” She said and sent you a wink before moving away back into crowd of bottles and thirsty patrons.

You chuckled, tucking it into your hand. You only enjoyed the bits of silken drink before a new voice slides into your space.

“Aren’t you just the diamond of the ball.”

You turn to find him—a light-skinned man a stool away. He raised his eyes from his drink to you, his green almost luminous in the dim club light. That stillness you’d noticed from the stage is even more palpable here, the calm coiled with something deeper. His smile is a subtle curve, but it draws you in like a hook latched onto your heart. “Trust me, I can see why.”

It’s quick, the way his eyes take you in, but catch it anyway.

You started at him for a bit, caught in the pure beauty and confidence the man exuded, before you let out a breathless giggle, glancing down at your drink. “Well, wouldn’t you know.” You added, staring into his eyes. “I say it takes one to know one and you are a sight to behold.” You smirked, and watched as his smile widened, letting out a genuine laugh.

His smile widens, and there’s genuine amusement in the sound of his laugh. You watched the man glance down at his drinks, almost bashfully, before glancing back up at you through his long eyelashes. “You really do like to flirt, huh?”

You squinted a little at him, recognizing the faint grin pulling at his lips, the suggestion in his tone.

“The chase?” He added.

“Oh.” Your voice was soft, tilted with amusement. You leaned slightly toward him, turning in your seat and head cocked, studying those impossible green eyes. “So you were eavesdropping?” You questioned with an arched brow. “Now, I don’t think that’s too kind, seeing as though I don’t even know your name, Mister…”

“Du Lac.” He finished smoothly, not breaking eye contact. His voice was low, deliberate. “Louis de Pointe du Lac.”

He extended his hand. Without thinking, you placed yours into his, his palm rough, his long fingers curling firmly over yours. You felt the faint scratch of sharp nails grazing your skin as he brought your ringed fingers to his lips, placing a quick kiss against your knuckles. The sensation sent a shiver racing up your arm to your heart, causing it to thump as you tried to hide your amused smile by nipping at your lip.

“Mmm.” Your hum was half a sigh, not breaking eye contact with him. “Such a beautiful name. Sure does match the looks.”Your lips then curved into a smirk, watching the way Louis chortled at your words. You gave your own name in return, and he nodded, repeating it under his breath like he was trying out the taste of it. Your hand still rested in his until you pulled back slowly, fingers reluctant to part, before you reclaimed your martini.

But you didn’t linger long on him. Instead, you leaned against the bar, gaze sliding past Louis, over his shoulder, to the man sitting beside him.

“And what’s your name?”

Louis followed your eyes, and though his expression was carefully composed, a flicker of surprise shone there.

The man you addressed had been quiet until then, nursing his drink with a kind of detachment that made the sight of him more startling once you truly looked. Dark curls framed a face both youthful and ancient, fire flickering in his eyes, a fire that burned brighter than the amber drink in his glass. His gaze flicked first to Louis, lingering and unreadable, before it shifted to you.

The intensity of it should have chilled you. Instead, it lit something beneath your skin, a spark that leapt to flame in your chest. Your heart thudded hard. And what you didn’t know was, that they could hear it.

“Armand.” He said at last. His voice was soft, almost lost under the club’s pulsing bass, threaded with an accent that carried no distinct origin, as if it belonged everywhere and nowhere at once.

You hummed, toying with the rim of your glass before looking back at Louis. He smirked faintly at the exchange, stealing a glance at Armand, before returning his hawk-like gaze to you.

“And you two are… together?” Your question was light, teasing as your eyes flickered between them curiously.

“What makes you say that?” Louis asked, one brow arching, amusement sharpening the edges of his words.

“Well, for one.” You began, lazily stirring your drink with the thin skewer it came with. “You’re sitting right next to each other. Not that it’s a big deal, but considering there’s a space between you and I, one could only assume…”

You trailed off, but Louis was already moving. His chair scraped faintly against the floor as he shifted, sliding into the empty stool beside you. He leaned close, the subtle musk of him enveloping you. His proximity was dizzying.

Your body was angled toward him, your breath caught at the nearness, your eyes flicking instinctively to Armand beyond him. And Louis saw it—the spark of interest that leapt when your gaze met the fire of Armand’s.

Wow. That was all you could think. That was all he could hear within your mind.

You looked back to Louis, into those luminous green eyes. “And I also saw the way he slid you your drink when you were… so distracted speaking to me.” Your smirk deepened, squinting playfully at him. Louis’s eyes gleamed with quiet interest. You glanced back at Armand again.

“Which I assumed he also ordered and paid for, since I never saw you do it. But,” You added with a shrug, “I could be wrong.”

Your gaze lingered on Armand now, tracing the angle of his jaw, the faint open V of his dress shirt where his chest peeked through, skin golden and impossibly smooth with traces of chest hair. His waves of raven-dark hair caught the faintest glint of light.

He was gorgeous. Too much so. And you, you could feel your pulse quicken. You were insatiable. And this time, you couldn’t blame it entirely on the alcohol.

“Now, tell me, Mister Louis de Pointe du Lac.” You began, saying his name with a playful French lilt. You let the syllables linger, sweet on your tongue. “Armand.” You added his name next, savoring it.

You then moved, and the pair watched your every step. Sliding from your stool and easing your way over to the one in the middle, placing yourself directly between them. You didn’t look at either of them as you lifted your glass, sipping delicately, but the act itself pulled them closer, as though the three of you were locked in orbit.

Something about you called to them. They couldn’t explain it—not beyond your beauty, beyond the warmth of your mortal pulse that sung in their ears. You radiated a magnetism, a pull they could not resist.

“What else of my conversation did you hear?” You asked at last, your tone light but edged with curiosity. Their eyes swept over you again, slower this time, drinking you in as if the repetition of their names had given you power over them.

“Nothing much.” Louis’s voice was lazy, casual. “You know, I wasn’t eavesdropping as much as you think.” A faint smirk ghosted over his lips. “But I do know you hate your best friend’s work friends.” He stated, and watched as your face morphed into one of slight disbelief.

Your face shifted, the look flickering across. “I don’t hate them.” You protested lightly, a laugh slipping from you.

“No, you do.” Louis countered smoothly. His voice was velvet, but precise. “You think they’re pretentious copies of one another. Nothing but a group of facades, perfect only in appearance, where all they care for is the perception of their wealth.” He explained.

His words had froze you. You sat there, martini lifted halfway to your lips, eyes blinking as if you’d been caught. Slowly, you brought the glass down, licking the last drop of vodka mixture from your mouth.

Louis worried, briefly, that he had driven you away. Your mind had closed off somehow, no longer open to him, and you wouldn’t meet his gaze. But then you let out a huff of air through your nose, disbelief curling into the sound.

“If you could see that from this bar, in a half-lit club, about a group of people you don’t even know…” You shook your head, groaning softly. “Then I don’t know what the hell is not clicking with Lucy.”

Your disappointment was clear. Your words slurred slightly now, the alcohol loosening your tongue. It was obvious to them that you were a bit intoxicated, even prior to the drink you were currently nursing. But now it seemed as though the floodgates have opened. “I mean, come on. I try, you know? But I don’t think I can sit through another conversation about their boring careers again. It sucks the life out of me.”

You tipped your glass, draining the last of it.

“None of them are anything of taste. Not even a doctor with a story to tell—because let’s be honest, those bitches are messy and no one really gives a fuck about HIPAA.” You waved your hand, dismissive, before groaning again. “They’re just lousy accountants and stock brokers and losers that either went to MIT or married someone who did.”

You pointed suddenly at Armand’s untouched glass. “Are you gonna drink this?”

Armand had been silent, watching you with an intensity that never wavered. When you spoke, his eyes dipped to the Boulevardier in front of him. Without a word, he slid the glass toward you.

“Thank you.”

You lifted it quickly, unaware of the way both men tracked the motion of your throat as you drank, the faint slip of liquid escaping the corner of your lips, trailing down the column of your neck. Their gazes flicked together briefly, sharp and knowing.

You yelped softly, startled at the sensation, before fumbling for napkins. Rising slightly from your seat, you leaned over the bar, back arched, hips lifting as you stretched for the stack of paper squares. Louis smirked, while Armand turned abruptly away as if he were holding himself back, but not before the sight burned into him.

“Sorry for the rambling.” You muttered when you sat back down, blotting your neck. “I think I’m a little drunk.” A nervous laugh escaped you, one hand rubbing at your forehead.

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Louis said, moving to place his hand lightly against your back, and you almost jolted at the sudden chill of his touch. His smile was faint, polite. “You’re just fine. We’ve all been there.”

“What are you?” Armand’s voice cut through suddenly.

You turned toward him, amusement sparkling in your eyes. “A Scorpio.” You quipped, letting out a small laugh, leading to a soft snort, as Louis laughed along with you.

You waved your hand before Armand could respond further. “No, seriously though. I’m, uh… a dancer.”

“I think we could tell that from how you were on that stage back there.”Louis’s voice curled through the air, velvet and amused, and it pulled your gaze immediately. His dark eyes glinted beneath the dim light, his mouth curved into a smirk that held both praise and something deeper, dueling the hunger within you.

You tilted your head at him, caught between curiosity and embarrassment. “You saw that?” You asked, your voice breaking into a laugh, though your cheeks betrayed you, blooming with warmth.

His gaze sharpened on that very blush, following the rush of blood that climbed up your neck. He drank it in like wine, and though he said nothing of it, his silence burned hotter than words could. He gulped.

“Better question is.” Louis murmured, leaning closer, “Who didn’t.” The smirk widened, baring just the faintest edge of teeth. “You were the life of the party.”

You smiled, rolling your eyes softly, leaning on the rim of your glass as though it might shield you from his stare. “Diamond of the ball.” You echoed back, teasing, repeating the words he had used earlier when he had first taken your hand.

That earned a low laugh from him, dark and warm, before your eyes dipped to your drink again. You swirled the liquid absently, shaking your head. “That was just for fun. I’m not that type of dancer.” You admitted, almost shy now that the stage’s veil had dropped.

“Oh?” Louis’s tone lifted, curious.

“I do ballet.”

That caught him—and the man to your other side—like a hook in the chest. Louis’s brows arched in interest, his hand, which had long since found its place resting against the small of your back, flexing slightly as though rediscovering itself there.

“Ballet?” Louis repeated, his voice low, intrigued. “That’s nice. What a beautiful art form. Isn’t it, Armand?”

His called to his partner, but his gaze never left you, pulling the presence beside you into the moment.

Armand’s reply was soft. “It is.” He replied steadily.

You turned toward him, your eyes searching his face, but his gaze was elsewhere, focused not on you directly, but on the glass in his hand—your empty martini glass—on the curl of condensation, before he spoke again. His voice was deliberate, every word weighted like silk across your skin.

“It is an art form that has evolved for the better since its conception.” He said, almost musing. “But it still keeps its classical beauty within its music, its movements and stylistic choices. That refinement.” His eyes shifted then, the barest cut of a glance sliding to you through the corner of his lashes. “It is a pleasure of mine.” He added, pausing, letting his words hang. And then, softer. “To watch.”

The flame that shot through you at that word was instant and merciless. A sharp and consuming heat boiled deep within you, coiling low in your belly until your thighs pressed together instinctively, chasing the friction you were suddenly starving for.

You set your head on your hand to disguise it, though the tension sang from you in waves. The lust that radiated off of you was apparent to the both of them. They sensed the way your pulse stuttered, the flush that deepened on your neck, the way your eyes flicked back toward the quieter man on your left as though dragged there against your will.

“Hm.” You hummed, a weak little sound, masking desire in something that only made it more obvious as you eyed Armand.

Louis’s hand shifted lower on your back then, his nails barely grazing skin where your top had shifted, and you snapped back to him with a soft breath.

“We would love to see you dance sometime.” He murmured, so close now you could see the faintest reflection of light in his newly dark eyes.

Your eyes bounced between his, your drink forgotten about as you bit your lip to ease your smile. Your lips parted, voice hushed. “Would you?”

His smile tugged at one corner, restrained but electric. “Yes.” His voice dropped lower, intimate, meant for you alone. “Would you dance for me?”

The question landed like a brush of lips against your lips, sending another rush of heat downward. You could feel his breath on your cheek now, the impossible closeness making the air thicken around you. “For us?” He added, that smile dimming into something quieter, more careful, though his eyes betrayed him—wild, hungry.

You flicked your gaze downward for a moment, catching the gleam of sharp, perfect teeth at the edge of his smile. Your heart leapt, pumping hard in your chest, each beat so strong you swore he could hear it, feel it beneath his hand.

The ache between your thighs clenched again, harder this time, and you shifted in your seat. “Mm.” It was all you could manage, all you wanted to say. Keeping them on their toes.

You reached for him then, finally, your hand sliding up the arm that still rested around your back, following the strength of him, the line of muscle beneath the smooth fabric of his expensive shirt. Your breath hitched when you reached his collar, fingertips brushing warm skin.

Your other hand rose, pressing flat against his chest. It was hard and solid. You bit your lip, gaze lowered, tracing the shape of him with your fingers. Louis never moved, never interrupted the flow of your hands, his gaze locked on your face as though memorizing the sight of your hesitation crumbling into desire.

When your hands glided back up, tracing the skin around his neck, you finally looked at him again, catching those endless eyes with your own. You stopped at the lapels of his shirt, holding them between your fingers. For a moment, neither of you breathed.

“I have to go to the ladies’ room.” You whispered, your voice breaking the spell, though your eyes never left his.

And with one slow, deliberate movement, you popped open a button of his shirt. Just one, enough to expose more of the sculpted chest beneath, your eyes flicking down to admire the glimpse you’d stolen before dragging back up to him.

You rose then, slowly, deliberately, letting your hair cascade behind you as you turned. The sway of your hips, the curve of your stride, the way you didn’t look back—it was all performance, all power reclaimed. Because you liked to get just as much as you gave.

Louis watched, the muscle in his jaw tightening, his gaze tracking every line of you. His shirt gaped open slightly at the chest, a reminder of your touch, and your teasing.

Armand’s eyes, unreadable in the dim light, followed you too, though unlike Louis, he did not lean forward or smirk. His stillness was its own kind of hunger, a burn that festered with patience, and it was piercing. It lingered long after you disappeared toward the back of the lounge.

Your heels clicked against the sticky, dimly lit floor as you made your way down the narrow hall, the muffled pulse of the club vibrating through the walls. The hallway smelled of smoke, sweat, perfume and traces of liquor, corners heavy with secrets and touchy couples. You already knew, from the very nature of this place, what you might stumble across in the single unisex bathroom.

The knob turned easily in your hand. Unlocked, surprisingly. You pushed the door open and were greeted by exactly what you expected—two women tangled together, their mouths fused, their hands clawing at one another’s clothes as they kissed feverishly against the far wall.

The music from the hall spilled in, startling them. Their heads turned toward you, flushed faces meeting your lazy smile.

“Get out.” You said simply, the command soft but edged, leaving no room for argument.

They hesitated for the briefest moment, but something in your tone—or perhaps something far more intangible, some current of will you didn’t recognize in yourself—pushed them into motion. Without protest, they straightened their clothes and brushed past you, their faces dazed as though compelled by something stronger than reason.

The door clicked shut behind them, cocooning you in a quieter darkness. The bathroom was hazy with sweat, the mirror above the sink slightly cracked, reflecting a fractured version of your face back at you. You set your palms against the cool porcelain of the basin and leaned in, studying yourself.

Your hair had tousled during your time on stage, the remnants of your wild and tipsy affair still present in every imperfect strand. You smoothed it out, tilting your head, fixing what needed fixing. Lipstick reapplied, liner sharpened, you popped your lips together with a small, satisfied sound. A picture restored.

The door creaked open.

You caught him in the mirror before you even turned. Louis. The silhouette of him filled the doorway, striking, though it was his eyes that froze you. Dark, endless and rimmed with hunger so tangible it could have devoured the room whole. Lust, yes, but threaded with something more dangerous, a longing. Restraint worn thin.

You smoothed the last trace of your lipstick, watching him through the reflection, before turning with a small, playful gasp, a hand flying to your chest.

“Mister du Lac!” You exclaimed, faux scandal dripping from your voice. “What are you doing here? You could’ve caught a lady such as myself in a very compromising position.” Your lips curved into a teasing smile, playing the part of the damsel who was anything but.

Louis smirked at that, slow and devastating, his gaze dragging over you with deliberate slowness as he began to stride toward you. The way he moved was unhurried, predatory. “Shut up.” He breathed, and then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss hit you hard and soft. It was firm and demanding. His lips tasted of whiskey and something darker—something intoxicating. You melted into it, instinctively winding your hands up to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his soft coils as his tongue slid against yours, deepening the kiss.

His body pressed into yours, solid and consuming, the counter at your back trapping you. His hands roamed boldly, tracing the line of your waist, the curve of your hips, before gripping your ass with startling hunger and pulling you flush against him. You gasped against his mouth, the hardness of him undeniable, and your own desire flared sharper.

You moaned softly, the sound muffled by his mouth. It drew a low growl from him, primal and reverberating in his chest, and then his teeth grazed your lip—just enough to sting, just enough to break skin. The copper taste of blood bloomed, and he licked it away with a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan.

When you broke for air, breathless, he did not relent. His lips found your throat, soft at first before they turned desperate, nipping and sucking at the tender skin of your neck. You tilted your head back without thinking, offering yourself, and he took advantage of it, his mouth hot and relentless as he traced every vulnerable inch.

Your nails dug into his back, scratching through his shirt, feeling the play of muscle beneath. You wanted more. You wanted skin, the drag of him bare against you, the endless expanse of him pressed fully to your body. He lifted you onto the counter with ease, his hands gripping you as though you weighed nothing at all.

Your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist. He ground into you, hard, insistent, and the friction made you moan aloud, a sound swallowed into the thick air of the bathroom. His hips rolled in slow, deliberate movements, dragging pleasure through you with every grind.

His teeth scraped against your neck again, sharper this time. Your breath stuttered, your body arching in anticipation. His fangs pushed forward at last, gleaming, drawn by the pounding pulse beneath your skin. He hovered there, your blood singing to him, every beat of your heart filling the room.

But just as he leaned in—just as you felt the razor edge of them press against your skin—you pushed him back, your hands on his face, breath ragged.

“Wait.”

Louis froze, dazed, eyes blown wide and lips swollen. He blinked at you, caught between frenzy and restraint, every muscle in his body coiled.

“Where’s your friend?” You asked breathlessly, your chest heaving in front of his face. Your nails dug into his cheeks, tilting his face toward you, forcing his gaze to yours.

He blinked again, confused, lost in you. “Huh?”

“Hold on.” You whispered, sliding off the counter, steadying yourself on your heels. The click of them on the floor filled the silence as you moved toward the door.

You looked back once, catching the sight of him, turned towards you, his hips pressed against the sink and his hands gripping the counter behind him, chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths. His stare was molten, locked wholly on you.

“I’ll be right back.” You promised softly before slipping out into the hall.

The music surged around you again, but you hardly noticed it. You didn’t make it far, since the person you were looking for was right down the hall. Your eyes found him immediately.

Armand.

He leaned against the wall just down the corridor, a shadow cut against the neon glow. A cigarette hung between his fingers, smoke curling lazily from his lips as he watched the world with detached interest. The crowd pressed and pulsed, but he stood outside of it.

You approached him without hesitation, walking up behind him and placing your hand on his arm, softly as to not scare him. But he didn’t seem phased by your appearance, simply turning his head to look down at you. Those fathomless eyes catching you in their orbit, pulling you in like a tide you could not resist.

You couldn’t speak for a second, simply looking into his striking eyes as he blew the smoke from his lips and in accidentally in your direction. You licked your lips before speaking. “Come with me.” You whispered, the plea slipping from your lips before you realized it, never once breaking eye contact. “Please.” You uttered, and you weren’t sure why you were pleading, why you ever even said those words, but they slipped out of lips almost desperately.

But something twinkled in Armand’s eye. His eyes glinted, something unreadable sparking in them, and he took one last drag of his cigarette before dropping it to the floor. His boot crushed it with a final twist.

Without a word, he stepped toward you, one foot in front of the other. Which was all you needed to begin your way back to the bathroom.

You walked backward, never breaking his gaze, guiding him toward the room you’d just left. He placed his hands on your hips as you backed into the door, opening it. The music receded again as the door shut behind you, sealing you both inside. And as soon as it closed behind him, you pounced, crashing your lips against his.

Armand kissed you back immediately, his hands sweeping up your body with an urgency that stole your breath. His hands traveled up your figure as he continued to walk you into the bathroom, backing you into Louis arms. You were so engrossed in the heat of the moment, that you didn’t even hear the door lock, though none of you were near it.

You gasped into Armand’s mouth, the realization hitting a split second before Louis’s arms closed around you from behind, pulling you tight against him.

You were now sandwiched between the two of them, their bodies pressing against yours from both sides. Armand's hands roamed your body, tangled in your hair and gripping at your neck while Louis fingers traced the curves of your hips and waist and dug into your flesh, pulling you closer. You moaned into Armand's mouth, the sound muffled by his lips, as the sensation of being surrounded by their desire sent waves of pleasure through your body.

Armand broke away from your lips, trailing kisses down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You moaned as you tilted your head back, giving him better access, and he took full advantage, his teeth and tongue grazing your throat. At the same time, Louis's hands slid up your sides, cupping your breasts through your sheer and thin, his thumbs brushing over your exposed nipples, sending sparks of pleasure straight to your core, which only causing you to moan louder.

You reached behind you, your hands finding Louis's hips, pulling him closer. You could feel his hardness pressing against your ass, and it only served to heighten your arousal. The dual sensation of their touches was intoxicating, and you found yourself losing yourself in the moment, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.

Louis's lips found your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he murmured. “You're so responsive, so beautiful." His words sent a shiver down your spine, and you turned your head, capturing his lips in a deep, passionate kiss. Armand's hands slid down to your hips, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours. You gasped, clutching at Louis behind you, and his low groan vibrated against your ear as his hands kneaded your breasts with reverence, thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples.

“You smell devine.” Armand whispered against your throat before dragging his tongue over the place where your pulse thundered.

The room was filled with the sound of your heavy breathing, breathy moans and the soft rustle of fabric as you all worked to undress each other a little further. Louis's lips trailed down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin, and you could feel the sharp points of his teeth grazing your throat. You moaned, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through your body, and Armand's hands roamed your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh.

Armand's lips found yours once more, his kiss deep and passionate, his tongue exploring your mouth with a fervor that matched Louis's. You could feel the heat building between your legs, the ache of need growing more insistent with each movement of their hands and lips. Louis's hands slid down to your ass, pulling you closer, grinding his hardness against you, and you moaned, the soft sound echoing into the air, the sensation sending waves of pleasure through your body.

He pressed harder against your back, his erection rigid against you, his breath shaky. His lips brushed your shoulder, then your neck, and then you felt the wet heat of his tongue.

Just as you were about to lose yourself completely in the moment, you felt a sharp, sudden pain in your neck. You gasped, your body tensing for a moment before a wave of pleasure washed over you, replacing the pain and lighting your body aflame. Armand's lips were on your neck, his teeth sinking into your flesh, and you realized with a start that they were biting you. But the sensation was unlike anything you had ever experienced, a mix of pain and pleasure that left you gasping for breath.

You gasped, the sensation so dizzying, so unlike anything else, that it sent your knees buckling. If not for Louis’s strong grip and Armand’s arm around your waist, you would have crumpled. Instead, you were held, consumed between them.

They drank deeply, and you felt it—not as loss, but as exquisite ecstasy. Your whole body trembled as the pull of their mouths synchronized with the ache building low in your belly. You could feel a strange, intoxicating sensation washing over you. It was as if every nerve in your body was on fire, every touch, every kiss, every bite sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. You moaned, your body arching into their touches, your breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. The pleasure spiraled, cresting so suddenly you cried out, your climax crashing through you as they fed.

Your nails bit into Louis’s hips. Armand’s hand cradled your jaw as he drank, his thumb stroking your cheek in tender contrast to the hunger in his mouth. Louis groaned against your skin, his body trembling as though your ecstasy poured into him, fed him as much as your blood.

The world went hazy at the edges, your heartbeat slowing, your body trembling with the aftermath of release. You slumped against Louis, weak but glowing nonetheless, a blissful smile tugging at your lips.

When at last they tore themselves away, small drops of blood staining their lips, both vampires froze. You were breathing—a bit shallow, but steady. Your pulse still throbbed beneath the bruises on your neck.

Armand’s eyes were dark and unreadable as they flicked to Louis. She should be gone.

Louis’s brows furrowed, gaze on his companion as his hand tightened on your waist, as if to anchor you, to confirm you were still warm and alive.

But you only laughed breathlessly, eyelids fluttering half-closed, a lazy grin curving your lips.

“God… you two are fucking freaky.” You whispered, voice wrecked but playful. “But damn… I think I like it.” You giggled, leeting out your soft signature snort.

Louis swallowed hard, his hand trembling against you. Armand, usually so composed, stared as though he was trying to unravel a mystery he hadn’t encountered in centuries.

A witch’s blood sang in your veins, though neither of them knew it yet. All they knew was that you were supposed to be dead—yet here you were, all soft and alive in your divine light, weak only from pleasure, not from death.

You broke away from them both, stumbling your way over to the paper towel dispenser. You pulled a few out, wiping at the bits of blood that gathered at the two spots on your neck. It wasn’t much, and which was shocking to them since feeding usual got a bit messy around the mouth. And you didn’t seem to be phased, wiping away the small drops with a dazed smile. Once you were finished, you trashed the napkins and looked over at them.

“I gotta go.” You smiled, looking between the two men, who lips were a bit red from your blood and eyes were quite shocked, but you didn’t seem bothered at all. “I’ve been away from Lucy for too long, she’s gonna come looking for me sooner or later.” You said, looking between them. They watched as sick smile mad its way onto your face. “Maybe we can do this again sometime, yeah? I had fun.” You grinned, and was exiting the door before the could think on it.

The vampires stood there, eyes locked on the door and as it swung after you. After a few seconds, Louis and Armand shared a look before moving over to the door, bursting out into the hall. They were intent on finding you again, and it didn’t take them long, because there you were, the same spot at the bar, speaking to Lucy.

“Where were you? I’ve been looking all over?” She asked as you wakes up to her.

“Oh, I went to the bathroom. Just had to tinkle.” You quipped with a shrug, picking up her drink from the counter without a second thought, and they could hear Lucy’s heart Mich as she watched you sip from her drink. But then something else caught her attention. “What’s that on your neck?” Lucy questioned.

You brought your free hand up to the spot, teeth punctures still there. “Oh, probably a mosquito bite or something.” You shrugged. Lucy nodded with a him, watching the way you avoided her eyes as you continued to drink her beverage.

Armand and Louis then walked over, and that’s when your attention snapped over to the two as they stalked over, and they saw you close your eyes, letting out a sigh while Lucy quirked a brow. “Oh!” She chimed in before turning back to you. “I thought you said you were just using the bathroom?” She questioned, noticing the way you all came from. And knowing you, and the bucked on your neck, she knew what had to have happened.

“I was.” You shrugged, placing your hands on your hips. “With…my new friends.” You stated.

“Oh, that’s good to know.” Lucy said sarcastically. She then nodded, pursing her lips as she glanced between the three of you in amusement. You sanding before her, arms crossed in confidence while Armand and Louis felt embarrassment for the first time in a long time under the scrutinizing gaze of your best friend. “How delightful.” She said, and by simply reading her, you wouldn’t be able to suspect that there was jealousy there, lingering as she gazed at the men. But with a glimpse into her mind, the vampires were able to hear the thoughts she head, the ones full of doubt and judgment of them in particular.

“Yup.” You cheesed. Lucy looked back at you, pouting your smile with a hum.

“Well.” She began, clasping her hands in her lap. “In honor of your new friends, I have a little gift.” She said before her eyes moved to the men behind you. “For them.” She grinned.

“For us?” Louis parroted with a raised brow.

“Yes.” Lucy said. “You two should come to my wedding.” Lucy said, causing you to almost choke on your drink.

“What?” You asked.

“Excuse me?” Louis and Armand questioned at the same time.

“Yeah!” Lucy chirped, looking between the three of you.

“Lucy, what? What are you talking about?” You questioned.

“Well, I saw you guys talking and thought it’d be a good idea.”

“That’s a stupid idea.” You hissed before quickly glancing at the men. “No offense.” You laughed nervously, snapping your head back over to Lucy. “What are you thinking?” You hissed.

“I’m thinking you need a date.” Lucy grinned before glancing at the men. “Or, some friends. Or whatever the hell you have going on.” She said, her perfect face dripping halfway through. “I’m just trying to be spontaneous like you always wanted.” She whined.

You squinted your eyes at her, fitting on rage and confusion. “Lucy, are you drunk?” You scoffed. You say the half drunken drink back in the counter, really looking at your best friend to now see the red tint in her eyes, causing you to sigh. “Okay, you’re cut off.” You said before grabbing her arm to raise her from the seat. “You fucking lightweight.” You muttered. You then began to drag her away, not even noticing that you tulsi was was no longer there, alcohol no longer lingering within you system. You glanced back at the men who still stood stunned near you, feeling the effects of your previous intoxication. “Sorry about her. And sorry about, all of this.” You said a bit frantically. “Uh, I had a great time! See ya!” You called out as you began to walk away.

“Come to my bridal shower!” Lucy slurred over her shoulder. “It’s in three months, September 8th. It’ll be here in Cairo on a yacht sailing the Nile!” She yelled to them, all while you led her away.

You groaned, shoving her toward the exit.

Armand and Louis stayed where they were, silent, watching as you guided Lucy into the arms of a pale man with reddish hair and ocean-blue eyes. He kissed Lucy like she was his world, and you grimaced, averting your gaze.

That was enough for them. They turned back toward one another.

“You always know how to get us in weird situations,” Armand muttered with a scoff, which caused Louis to copy him with an arched a brow. “You didn’t seem to mind when your tongue was down her throat.”

“Yours was down hers first.”

“I thought we were going to feed.”

“And you did!” Armand hissed. “We both did, and she didn’t die.”

Louis ran a hand over his face, exasperated. “Like I was supposed to know that was going to happen?”