#littlemsshoney

such a beautiful sight, naked in his bathroom searching for solace in his touch. He rolled up his sleeves and tested the water with his wrist before nodding. “Too hot?” He asked. He already knew it was perfect.

You shook their head, shoulders sagging as they lowered themselves into the tub. The tension didn’t leave all at once, but it softened.He took the washcloth dipping it in the water before carefully working on your body from your neck down your legs, pausing when you tensed and resuming when you relaxed again. Each movement was slow and deliberate like you were a fragile artefact of his collection.

You didn’t complain. Only kept talking about how horrible your day was.

Everything was disappointing outside of this house, away from him. you didn’t say it out loud but Hannibal knew.

“Tell me if I’m too rough.”

he smiled when you laughed.

“I don’t think you could be even if you tried.” His hands moved to your hair, washing it with your favourite shampoo—something faint since you’ve come to adjust to his sensitive senses. He rinsed them clean, running his fingers through it and you closed your eyes. 

The water was warm and he could feel you felting under his touch.

so malleable, his sweet thing

“I don’t think I ever want to leave the house.” You murmured as he messaged your scalp.

In the morning everything is asleep, the kind of asleep that makes you wonder if it’s dead.

You put on something woolen and knitted and walk downstairs. The wooden floors are cold and ready to betray you. Each step is careful and gentle, as if your very existence at this hour deserves secrecy—and it does. You wouldn’t want anyone to wake up and steal this from you.

In the kitchen, your hands come around the round kettle. Still warm. You almost smile.

You make your way to the porch, and there you find him. You stop in the doorway, not daring to cross that threshold. Under the smoke of his cigarette, under the unripe morning light, you see him in all his glory.

It’s nothing godlike, not the kind of beauty he’d appreciate or write odes to. Dark circles sit under the hollow of his eyes, glasses off, scar vulnerable for the sun and you to see.

Ugly and clumsy in all its humanity.

When you finally feel brave, you move to the other chair.

He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even reach for his glasses. Your presence doesn’t disturb his equation of peace. This kind of stillness scares you.

On the table sit two cups of tea, steaming. Next to them lie two clean clementines, carefully peeled, their rinds resting patiently on the saucer.

You steal one like a raccoon. They’re yours; you just can’t prove it yet.

He always picks the sweetest ones.

You pull your cardigan closer.

“I will go into town later,” he says, taking a drag of his cigarette. His voice is hoarse from sleep—or the lack of it. “Francis says he needs some oranges.”

He looks at you as if checking the weather, as if to make sure you are and will always be the same as he remembers you.

A chill creeps up your body. You swear it’s the humidity.

“We should look for a new chessboard too.” You wait for him to correct you, to politely remind you there is no we.

He almost smiles.

“We should.” His breath comes out foggy—a mix of smoke and cold. “The last one didn’t know how to swim.”

You bite back a laugh and wrap frozen fingers around the hot cup.

“I read something last night.” With odd care he flicks his cigarette into some potted plant. “All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream.”

“Existential crisis at 7:40? Aren’t you punctual?”

The Earl Grey burns your tongue.

“It’s not that. It made me think of that dream you had, where you were the last Tsar.” Mild amusement or mockery drips from his voice. “I wonder what Poe would have said about that.”

“Oh, don’t remind me,” you sigh. You steal his cigarette with practiced ease. “I haven’t recovered from that day.”

He watches as you take a drag from where his lips were a moment ago.

“Missing your Fabergé eggs?”

You almost laugh.

He looks back out at the lake. A thin veil of mist hangs low over the water, blurring the line between lake and sky. The forest behind it is still asleep, dark.

“Henry?”

He hums. You pass him the cigarette. He takes it without looking.

“You can knock on my door when you can’t sleep. I mean, Edgar Allan Poe doesn’t count as company.”

He takes a drag. Your eyes flicker to the cigarette.

“I know.”

“About me or Edgar?”

“Both.”

You hum and look ahead.

“Can you peel me another tangerine? I don’t want my nails to get all yellow.”

He nods. The cigarette shifts between his fingers, and when he brings it back to his mouth you feel the faintest sting of recognition; your lips were just there.

The smoke in your mouth still tastes like him, or maybe you like to pretend it does.

Then again, what else could you have worn when he only gave you a minute to get ready? There weren’t even socks under your boots.

You didn’t mean that when you said you liked it raw.

You glanced over at Henry again as he gripped the wheel and drove in dead silence. The streets were quiet and frosted, the town only now starting to wake up. The trees were bare, and you had passed enough dirty snow piles along the road to know you were out of town.

You’d been meaning to ask where you were going since the start. Now it had been over forty minutes.

You didn’t know why you went with him. Your compliance would have worried you if you weren’t still half-asleep.

“If you’re gonna kill me, don’t return the burgundy cashmere sweater to Francis.” He didn’t speak. Smoke from his cigarette curled around his face the way it would have done with Pythia—or with a stoner. Same thing.

“He swears it’s his, but that’s a lie.”

He sighed as if your voice had interrupted a thought. He looked tired, shadows under his eyes suggesting a lack of sleep or something else entirely.

“So you are gonna kill me?”

“I’m really not.” His voice had a certain sharpness in its flatness. He stared at you with audacious determination.

“Then what?”

“Then your silence and cooperation would be very much appreciated.”

“Noted.” You murmured, leaning back into your seat. The seatbelt pressed against your chest like a verdict. “I’ll be quiet like a samurai. Or maybe a ninja.”

“I thought you said noted.” He looked over, gaze lingering on your red nose.

“I did.”

“Then feel free to bless us with your silence.” His breath fogged up in the cold air. “And don’t even think of turning on the radio.”

He rolled down his window just enough and then threw his cigarette out with a certain hostility.

“That’s not very ecologically friendly of you.” You murmured

The parking lot was half-empty. You walked toward the diner in the same ceremonial silence, the one that creeped into your bones.

You pulled the coat closer to your face, the cold biting. The dirty snow sighed beneath your boots, and each step was a reminder of your nakedness.

He picked the table closest to the door, and you leaned against the wood-panelled wall, still sleepy. Something James Taylor hummed in the background as he ordered coffee for two.

As he sat down across from you, you saw it—he hadn’t dragged you here because he wanted you, but because silence was becoming unbearable.

“The early birds get the worm.” The waitress walked up to your table, bearing a pot of hopefully freshly brewed coffee.

“This bird only wants to get warm.” You mumbled and watched as the hot coffee filled your mug. “I’m sorry, what town is this?”

The waitress laughed. “Aren’t you cute?”

Henry glanced at her, disturbed, and she turned away.

“Guess who’s not gonna get a tip.” You hatched your mug like it was a lifesaver. Your knees rattled beneath you.

“Won’t you take off your coat?” he asked. A smile almost cracked his marble expression. Even with dark circles, he found amusement in your sight.

“I wasn’t paid enough for that.”

“I bought you coffee. Isn’t that more expensive than your usual rate?”

You hummed. “I see you’ve been asking around town for me.”

“Some things are common knowledge,” he said flatly, taking a sip of coffee. “Like the price of cigarettes.”

“That’s not very polite.” You tapped your fingers against the warm mug. His hand twitched at the movement. “Mind telling me what we’re doing here?”

“I need to go to the bank. I have to deposit a check.”

“You needed to go to the fucking bank?”

He looked outside the window as if he trusted the sky more than his clock.

“It’s the only bank that opens early,” he shrugged. “As I was saying, my mother mailed me a check and I need to deposit it. Now you’ll stay here and I’ll return shortly.”

“I’m not staying here,” you argued, looking around at the half-empty diner.

He sighed the way parents do at their spoiled children.

“Yes, you are. Otherwise you might be… underdressed for the snow.”

You sent him a glare, and he took a final look at your flushed face before standing up. “Behave.”

When he returned, you were not nearly warm.

“Took you a good while.”

It hadn’t been more than thirty minutes.

He glanced at the Panis me iudicat you’d written with your fingertip in the fogged-up window, then at the table.

“What’s all that?” he frowned, brushing snow off his coat.

You looked at the plates you’d ordered out of boredom: two untouched pancakes, a bowl of oatmeal cooling in neglect, something involving sausage you hadn’t meant to order. “Why, it’s an all-American breakfast.”

“How quaint.” He murmured, checking the bill. He searched his pockets, and you quietly sipped your coffee. You wouldn’t bother offering to pay—not when he’d glare at you to hush you.

He placed a few dollar bills beneath his mug, then nudged a small velvet pouch toward you. His fingers lingered only a second too long.

“What is it?”

He said nothing.

Curiosity got the best of you and you took it into your hands. Inside was an ivory-coloured cameo hairpin, slim and heavy in its elegance.

He picked up his coffee with feigned indifference.

You tried to keep a straight face as he grimaced in disgust. In your boredom you played potions, adding sugar to his coffee.

“It’s from a small shop here. I know you have a collection or something.” He didn’t meet your gaze.

You turned the hairpin between your fingers, the gold edge catching the flat morning light from the diner window. It was pretty and useless—exactly your weakness.

“Financial responsibility is a foreign term to you?”

“Says the woman who ordered food for a family.”

Your hand hesitated before you carefully placed the hairpin in your unbrushed hair. He pretended he didn’t notice.

“That served educational purposes. I was proving a point.”

He scoffed, lips twitching in what resembled a smile. “That you’re a child? Point taken.”

You sighed with theatrical annoyance and stood. “I wonder how you feel knowing you’ll die bitter and alone.”

“I don’t know. How does it feel being half-dressed in public?”

His hand hovered at the small of your back, not to touch but to guide you out of the diner.

“To my surprise, it’s oddly familiar.”

He hummed. “Past life?”

“Maybe. Maybe that’s where I know you from. Old loners went to whores for company.”

The bell over the door rang and the cold breeze hit like a slap.

“Bet you drove away every customer with that tongue.”

You stopped at the car and turned to him. “I have something to say, but your Catholic upbringing wouldn’t allow it.”

He smirked, that infuriatingly patient smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He opened the passenger door and murmured,

“Hey!” you said from the floor where you were trying, desperately, to focus on your paper. “You can’t walk in like this. I could have had someone in here.”

Henry glanced down at the mess of papers and books around your feet, regarding the chaos with disinterest. “Don’t you barbarians put a sock on the door when that’s the case?”

You tilted your head. “Aren’t you informed on the topic?”

He shrugged off his coat as if it had offended him. He almost placed it on your bed before noticing the pile of clothes.

“Don’t you ever clean in here?” His voice was unforgiving, yet he picked up your top like it was something fragile. His hands lingered on the fabric before, with obsessive neatness, he folded it and placed it aside.

“Aren’t we getting a tad too comfortable?” you asked, but he paid you no mind.

“I need to speak to Camilla.” You tried not to make a face. “She’s still at Julian’s. Your dorm room is closer, I figured I could wait here.”

“Nice way to use me.” You murmured, and he looked over his shoulder. He waited for you to ask. You stubbornly refused.

You opened your mouth “Do you think—”

“We’re going to the cinema.” He cut you off.

For the first time he looked like a deer in headlights, dumbfounded. Your lips curled into a smile.

He cleared his throat and set the folded clothes aside.

“I didn’t ask.” Your voice was oddly calm. Even a hint of laughter could startle the wild animal.

“But you would,” he said, mostly to convince himself.

You shook your head, staring at his back, pleased. “Not really.”

“You’re too curious not to.”

“I’m only curious about things that are worth it.”

He walked to the window, gaze lowered, hands sliding into the pocket of his long coat, reaching for his saviour. The red bull. He placed the cigarette between his lips—unfiltered, pure tobacco, real hell—and lit it.

You would have taken a picture had Bunny not borrowed your camera and forgotten to return it. At last you decided to put him out of his misery.

“What movie?”

“It’s a retro feature. Something called Charade, I think.”

You perked up, smile faltering.

“That’s with Cary Grant.”

“Might be.”

“And Audrey Hepburn.”

He shrugged and took a drag. “Might be.”

You looked down at your half-written paper. His gaze lingered on your profile, satisfaction curling in his chest like a serpent.

He found an odd symmetry in your pout.

“I thought that wasn’t Camilla’s style.” You hugged your knee, suddenly feeling too exposed on the floor.

“It isn’t.” He blew smoke toward the ceiling and nudged your jelly lamp an inch to the right. “She would like something more… sophisticated.”

You almost flinched. It was your favourite movie.

“But since you know she won’t like it, then why bother asking her?” Your voice was steady. You pretended it didn’t matter.

“If you like that movie, you should go.” He looked down at you like you were something small—an insect, perfectly fitting in his palm. “I’m certain some of your friends might be interested.”

He knew they weren’t.

“I doubt it, but I’ll see what I’ll do.”

The smoke curled between you like a secret, you both knew.

“I’d tell you to come with us, but Camilla isn’t fond of your… commentary.” He spoke as if it were distasteful.

“Peculiar quirk,” you muttered.

Your jaw tightened and you turned back to your paper. “I hope you guys find something else to do tonight.”

You scribbled down a sentence, anything to avoid looking at him, nonsense, just noise.

His gaze burned into your back. The smoke now heavy, more like fog.

“Why don’t you go find her?”

“And you?”

“I’ll ask someone for a ride.”

“It’s Friday night. No one will give you a ride.” He said it a beat too quickly.

“I’m sure I’ll find something.”

His jaw tightened. “I’ll drive you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And Camilla?”

He sighed, putting out the cigarette.

“It’s Friday. She stays at Julian’s only on Thursdays.” His lips twitched, half-amused at what you didn’t know. “I must have confused the days.”

You stared at him. Of all the insults, that was the cruelest.

Coward.

“CHARADE” was spelled on the marquee with crooked plastic letters. Outside the converted town hall, couples and film students lined up, laughing in clouds of white breath. You pretended not to care.

The worn navy velvet seat squeaked in protest when you sat. You placed your bag in the seat beside you, saving it for Henry. You didn’t think he’d sit next to you. You didn’t think he ever would.

The thick smell of popcorn—real Vermont butter, the owner had proudly informed you once—settled like a memory. No wonder Henry liked the man so much; retired, lonely, waiting for someone to talk about movies with.

A woman in front leaned over and kissed her husband’s cheek. You looked away.

Henry appeared with a bucket of popcorn and an expression that looked like victory.

“Couldn’t you have chosen worse seats?”

“sit down, Henry”

 He squeezed past your knees, the cold fabric of his coat brushing your skin. He sat. You smiled, reckless, hopeful.

“I forgot my Twizzlers.”

He exhaled sharply. “In my pocket.”

“You’re a treasure.”

Your hand reached into the bucket resting on his lap. The butterfly kernels shifted and rustled as you searched for the perfect handful.

Henry leaned back. “Remind me again when you asked me to buy you your own bucket?”

You shoved popcorn into your mouth, triumphant. “I thought you knew about my communist background.”

“Forgive me,” he murmured, voice dry. “It must have been your spending problem that confused me.” He leaned in, words brushing your ear. “Tell me—did you mourn Che Guevara?”

You pretended not to flinch. “Every day.”

you held his gaze for a second before leaning away.

You rubbed your hands together. “It’s freezing in here.”

“It’s mid-November and you brought a jacket.”

“It is winter to me and it has fur.”

Silence. Your jacket’s green fur tickled your jaw; you pulled it closer, refusing to shiver. Vermont wasn’t very tolerable to fashion.

he watched, quiely judging.

“It goes with the outfit.” You defended yourself

“it goes with hypothermia.”

He sighed, handed you the popcorn. With an elegance that no ballerina could ever mimic, he slid out of his coat and set it over your shoulders. His hands brushed the back of your neck, fixing the collar, trying to get your hair out.

Your breath caught. It smelled like cigarettes and cotton, something bitter and comforting and Henry.

It sat heavy on your shoulders, like someone pushing you underwater.

You dug blindly through the pocket until the plastic crackled and you pulled out a red rope of candy.

“Still ‘not cold at all’?” he muttered.

“I’m not made for winter.”

“November isn’t winter.”

“It is to me.”

The sweetness stuck to your teeth, cloying, nauseating. you thought your teeth would rot and fall right that moment.

You wanted to say something, anything, just to stop the silence but then the image of a toothless mouth came to mind and you quietened.

“You look disturbed,” he observed, like reporting the weather.

“Waiting for the movie to start.”

He looked at you—really looked. Something tightened inside your ribs.

“Don’t go quiet on me now,” he whispered, fingers catching the candy where it hung from your mouth. His thumb brushed your chin, and though the candy was stolen, the nausea stayed.

He ate it, jaw working methodically, obscene in the glow of the projector starting up. You almost forgot how to breathe. 

Even two hours later that image was stuck in your mind.

“Okay, once again, phenomenal.”

“Certainly,” he murmured, hand on the small of your back, guiding you out of the theatre.

“That is, of course, if you ignore how Cary Grant switched identities every other scene. Like, sir, pick a name and stick with it.”

You looked up at him—hopeful, excited, waiting for participation.

“Also true,” he offered.

“No, but that was the charm. It was like, ‘I might be a villain… or I might be the love of your life… who knows!’”

His hand pressed more firmly against the small of your back, a reminder to keep walking. You passed a group of teenagers lingering in the lobby to avoid the cold.

“And Audrey?” Your eyes never left his face. “I gasped every time she was on the screen.”

Your smile widened and you took off his coat. He stopped mid-step.

“What are you doing?”

You frowned, coat half-removed. “I’m better now.”

He shook his head and stepped closer, the idea visibly disturbing him. “No, you’re not.”

He grabbed the collar, pulling it back up toward your throat.

“Yes, I am, and we’re getting in the car anyway.” You insisted, lacking the courage to step away. “I mean it, Henry. Take it.”

He wanted to argue. He really did.

“No.”

His expression twisted sour, tightening something in your stomach.

“I kept it warm for you,” you tried to tease, like that would soften him.

He hesitated—just a flicker—then shook his head.

“Don’t be disgusting.”

His hand returned to your back—less gentle now, more directive. You leaned into it anyway.

“Henry?” You halted, and he did too. You knew it was right. It had to be. You leaned forward, tilting your head.

“Don’t.”

Your smile fell apart. He meant it.

“Okay.” You nodded once, small. The warmth of his hand vanished. He stepped away.

“I wasn’t going to—”

“No?” His voice was sharp enough to cut. You’d never heard him like that.

“That’s all it takes? A movie and a package of Twizzlers?”

It was hostile. Something rotting beneath the surface.

You stepped back. Your stomach plummeted.

“Don’t go.” His voice broke, barely. The coat hung heavy on you, drowning you.

“I’d rather walk.”

He flinched at how soft you said it.

“Don’t,” he repeated, not commanding this time, pleading.“Just get in the car.”

he unlocked the car

Your Ancient Greek was catastrophic enough to make Achilles swear off prophecy. Henry had offered private study sessions after class at his apartment, a very selfish kind of kindness. 

You perched on the edge of his bed like a minor goddess awaiting petition.

The desk, he claimed, was too cluttered. The lamp too inconvenient. You almost believed him the first time.

He knelt on the soft antique carpet with practiced ease, sliding your stockings down as if undoing a delicate ritual. He’d ruined too many pairs not to be careful now.

maybe he liked the sound—the soft gasp of nylon surrendering—whether torn by his hands or, depending on the color, by his teeth.

Your calves were adorned with bite marks: some hungry, some thoughtful. You felt like an antelope that had agreed to be devoured by wild animals. 

You never complained.

“Artistic intervention,” he always said.

Then the bruises—two on your left inner thigh, three on the right. He knew how to pull color from your skin until you whimpered,until it burned, until red blushed into violet, then blue.

His arm curled around your leg like a serpent as he guided it aside. Your thighs opened for him, like petals of a flower, patient, expectant. A long awaited gift he unwrapped again and again.

His breath lingered long enough to make your skin raise to meet him. He placed a kiss to the inner knee, always loyal to the beginning of his liturgy. 

His lips brushed an old bruise, tasting, licking it as if ensuring it was still his.

“Read. Greek reveals its spine when spoken,” he murmured, enamoured by the mere sight of you.

Fucking tease.

You sighed, his teeth nipped warningly. You tightened your hold on the book, frustrated that you couldn’t see the dark-haired nuisance worshipping your thighs.

“Τὸ πλοῖον… ἐπλέει…” you managed.

His hum vibrated against your skin as you butchered the language. You liked him between your legs, skirt raised up to your hips. His mouth wandered higher, his other hand squeezing that tender spot on your calf, only recently discovered yet ruthlessly exploited.

“It’s η. Think of it like ‘ayee,’ not ‘eh,’” he muttered against your thigh.

“You should hear how identical they sound,” you whined, almost leaning back against the soft mattress. 

“Sit up straight. Greek breath starts in the chest, not the stomach.”

He often wondered why you let him do this. Maybe you’d been raised in a house too open-minded about bodies. Maybe he simply knew how to ask without asking.

His breath warmed the inside of your thigh. Your breath hitched against your throat. His lips formed a smile against. You could feel it against your skin—of course he had noticed.

He stopped just shy of where you needed him. He rested his cheek there, letting you feel the softness of him, the restraint. 

Heat curled low in your stomach, traitorous and slow. He’d give in eventually, when your Greek improved or when your patience was worn thin and you were a begging mess.

“Look at me.”

You lowered the book.

He looked up at you, not even remotely mortal.

“Do you think I’d be better,” he asked softly, “if Achilles had just sailed home? Even if he’d died without glory?”

A smile spread across your face.

“I think he missed that dick.”

He groaned and slapped your other thigh, red blooming under his hand. Your startled yelp dissolved into laughter. You set the book aside and caught a glimpse of the faint scar above his brow.

“Achilles didn’t stay for glory,” you said. “He stayed because living without Patroclus wasn’t a life worth living.”

Henry hummed, nose nudging the hem of your skirt. He’d drag Hector around the walls himself if it meant you moaning his name.

“He also knew how to throw a tantrum,” you added. “Now can we talk about ω?”

You walked down the cobblestone streets, your boots clicking in a rhythm of their own. The air was thick with burnt chestnuts and chimney smoke. It was almost welcoming.

That night, however, it was quiet.

The streets were empty. No singing poets, no eager harlots, no drunks playing three card monte.

The fog wrapped around you like a heavy cloak. The weak yellow light of the lamps refused to help your vision. 

It didn’t matter anyway. 

You hadn’t known where you were going for some time. Your legs carried you on their own, and that seemed enough. 

You didn’t question it—not even when the echo from the St. Vitus Cathedral sounded as though it were rising from Hades.

A reckless girl, your father called you. 

Fear was meant to keep people alive.

The mouth of a narrow alley opened ahead of you, dark and unmarked, and you stepped toward it without thinking.

It wasn’t on your map—and you knew these districts better than anyone.

You halted. The place looked familiar and foreign at the same time.

You should have walked away, come tomorrow, when the sun would be bright enough to drive away anything sinister. 

Your frozen breath rose in the cold night air. The air seemed to shift, tightening as you stood there. 

Suddenly your heartbeat felt out of sync. You didn’t know with what—only that it was misplaced. 

“Hello?”

A faint scrape answered you.

Leather against stone.

You turned, the fog parting just enough to reveal the silhouette of a man—or something wearing the shape of one. 

The gaslight behind him flickered, as though shrinking from the task of illuminating his features.

“Pardon,” you managed, your voice a brittle thread in the silence. “Sir, it appears I’m lost.”

“Lost?” He stepped forward. “I wouldn’t say so.”

It was almost taunting. His accent wasn’t Bohemian. It wound through the vowels, something older than the city itself.

He stepped closer, and your knees weakened.

You forced a polite smile.

The sculptured putto on the baroque facade now seemed to pity you.

“Would you be so kind as to give me directions?” You laughed at your own foolishness. The sound was cacophonous. “Somehow the alley is not in my map.” 

“No map will chart the places I walk.”

Your grip tightened around the leather strap of your map. 

A pale hand rose, gloved in shadow rather than cloth. He reached toward your face, not touching, merely hovering, as if feeling the heat the skin carried.

The fog thickened.  “You should not have come here,” he whispered.

You swallowed. “I didn’t intend—”

“You were called.”

He was close enough now that you could see his eyes: not red, not glowing, worse. They were empty of reflection, blank as though light was scared to be caught in them.

A sudden gust shoved through the alley, extinguishing the nearest lamp. The world dimmed.

And then—

A cold pressure against your shoulder. His grip was iron—elegant, inescapable. He tugged you close.

Your breath hitched, 

He leaned in, his breath cold against your face.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but I am so very thirsty.”

His lips brushed the pulse that hammered helplessly beneath your skin. 

And then you felt it—

Sharp teeth pierced your neck, tearing delicate flesh as if it were a thin fabric. A bite.

 It was nothing like the tavern stories. It wasn’t animalistic. It wasn’t a tearing but a claiming, deliberate and dreadfully precise.

A shiver ran through your body: down your arm, across your shoulder, into the chambers of your heart.

Then a sudden wince. It wasn't yours. He pushed you back with a force your body could barely withstand.

You stumbled, hand instinctively palming your neck. Warm, sticky blood coated your hand. In horror you watched.

Under the dim moonlight, he jerked back, coughing, gagging. His chin was streaked with blood—your blood.

Dizziness clouded your mind. You stepped back without realizing it. Your heels clicked softly against the cobblestones.

His gaze snapped to you—shock, fury, something else. 

Shame coiled in your chest like a serpent, sudden and unearned.

“What have you done—?” His voice rasped. Coughing, breath ragged, he trembled in a way that should have been impossible for something undead.

Your heart drummed like a caged bird. You started running without even realising. 

You just had to make it out of the alley.

Your throat was hoarse. You wanted to scream for help but he had sucked any liveliness out of you. Clumsily, you ran ahead.

You would survive. You had to.

You saw the dim lamp at the alley’s end. A return to a world not ruled by shadows.

A hand clamped around your waist before you could step out of the alley.

He dragged you back into the darkness. His hand covered your mouth, muffling any sound. 

A scent of old earth clouded your senses.

His breath caught — sharp, uneven — as though he had not meant to make a sound at all.

His hold was startlingly gentle. 

You tried pulling away but now every movement felt heavy. Your limbs were like stone, knees buckled. His hand tightened around your waist —not to harm, but to anchor. 

Warm blood dripped down your neck. He inhaled sharply, the scent not lost in him.

The hunger, insatiable for centuries, twisted, recoiling from something so human, so achingly familiar.

You stared at the lamp across the road. The light was dim, burning away. 

Each breath was a struggle. The world narrowed— shadows closing, darkness pressing in— and you leaned into him to keep from falling. 

Still he didn’t bite.