There was something about this morning.

You were an early bird. Always up at the crack of dawn, finding something to pass the time with. Today was no different.

You tended to your thriving garden, proud to see how strong they were growing. Your yarrow and coneflower were blooming, almost bending over to meet your gentle touch. You complimented their petals, and you could've sworn you saw them smile.

As if to make themselves heard, your mint let off an extra potent odor, making your nose instinctively cool. You didn't let them feel left out for long.

Brushing a caressing hand over your culinary plants as you passed, you settled in front of your aloe vera. They were new arrivals to your garden and clearly feeling the love. The leaves were plump, firm, and upright. You gave them a gentle squeeze to acknowledge them and check their texture, giggling at the pricks they teased you with.

And yet, you couldn't shake the feeling that something was... off.

The mourning doves, typically cooing as if only to you, were silent.

There were no bullfrogs curiously watching you from the swamp, engaging in a one-sided staredown.

The cicadas, too, joined the other animals in this strange hush.

You shook yourself out of your unaware daze and made your way back inside your house.

It was a humble home, really.

The kind that held heat in the winter and every memory you'd ever made in the summer. The walls, painted by hand, bore the soft fingerprints of time, smudged and faded from where you leaned, laughed, or wept.

Herbs hung from the walls and ceiling, bunches of rosemary and thyme swaying idly. The scent of lavender clung to the air like it paid rent.

Your floors creaked with purpose, every step a reminder of those who walked here before you. A wood-burning stove sat snug in the corner, its black iron belly cold for now, but always ready. Your cast-iron pots gleamed with the pride of something well-used and well-loved. The shelves were lined with mason jars. Roots, tinctures, and teas you brewed with your own hands.

A worn quilt lay draped over your rocking chair, patchwork squares made from old dresses and scraps your Mama found and stitched together. The rocking chair, too, was a product of your Daddy's handiwork, and you remember all too well how excited you were to be the first person to use it.

Your Bible, which you didn't read much these days to the would-be chagrin of your parents, sat next to a leather-bound notebook, full of hand-scrawled recipes and forgotten dreams.

And even now, with the silence pressing in from outside, your home felt like it was breathing with you. Watching. Waiting. Holding space for whatever was coming.

And that's when you heard it.

It was a relentless pounding.

Fist, no, fists on wood, over and over. Wild, desperate, like a storm had taken the shape of a man and found its way to your doorstep.

You froze where you stood, one hand hovering over your table, the other reaching for nothing. The pounding didn't stop. It grew louder, faster, until it wasn't just a knock, it was a plea.

“Please!” the voice cracked. “Please, somebody help me! Please!”

A man's voice. Frantic. Wrecked.

You couldn't place it. Didn't recognize the tone, the rhythm, the panic laced inside every syllable. The man's accent was different, too. Certainly southern, but there was an unfamiliar undertone that backed his voice.

Your heart skipped. Once. Twice. Your home felt smaller, as if it was slowly, agonizingly imploding.

You glanced to the small window by the door, curtain still drawn, light slanting through it as if God's eye was watching you. You didn't move. You just listened.

“I'm beggin' you, please, open up! I don't- I don't got nowhere else!”

Something in you bristled. Not fear, not yet. But something deeper. That ancient, gut-deep knowing passed down through bloodlines. Something your Mama called a warning.

The house, for the first time in years, didn't feel like it was breathing with you.

It was holding its breath.

Your eyes were locked on the door like it might open by itself and save you the trouble.

The pounding had stopped, but the voice hadn't.

It was lower now, cracked and ragged as if supported by a throat made of gravel. “It burns, please, it burns! I c-can't- I need-”

You stepped forward, just one foot. Then another.

There wasn't fear in your body, but there was weight. Heavy weight. Like your bones knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet.

You reached the door but didn't open it. Not yet.

Instead, you spoke, low and even. “Who are you?”

There was a pause. A very long pause.

Then... thud.

It sounded like someone had collapsed against the door.

“...Miss,” the voice came again, quieter now, hoarse like he'd been screaming for days, or just minutes in your case. “Please... I don't got long.”

You placed your hand on the doorframe, fingers brushing the edge. You didn't open it. Not yet. Just leaned in, pressed your ear close.

“...hurts,” he breathed. “It hurts.”

The pain in his voice was palpable, and you'd be lying if you said it didn't pull at your heartstrings. He sounded as if he was on the verge of death. And by all you knew, he was.

Your fingers twitched. Then, slowly, you undid the lock. The door creaked open. Just an inch. Then two.

And there he was.

Lord have mercy.

He was crumpled on your porch, face completely covered by his hands. His skin was blistering, no, boiling. Red, raw patches covered his arms and face, angry welts clawing across every inch of him the sun could reach. With each small movement, smoke came forth.

He wore a filthy wifebeater that clung to him in hatred. Loose pants, torn and streaked with mud. Neither fabric looked like it had known clean water in weeks. A gold chain hung from his neck, glinting in the same sun scorching him.

He didn't look at you at first. Instead, the begging continued. Relentlessly.

“Please... let me in. Just- just let me in.”

Then his eyes met yours. Blue, sharp, ancient.

They held a kind of agony you weren't used to seeing. Not even in death. It made you instinctively crack the door further, against your better judgment.

He clawed himself forward, but stopped just short of the doorframe.

Didn't stumble inside, didn't even try.

He just knelt there. Beseeching you.

There was something else that surprised you, too.

It wasn't the bubbling skin, or the filthy clothes, or even the way he clung to your porch like a dying man gripping the edge of heaven. It wasn't how he hissed at the sunlight or how his body stayed frozen at the threshold like the house itself had drawn a line.

It was his skin.

Pale.

A white man in Mississippi. Begging you for help.

The sight alone could've gotten you dragged out of your own house and blamed for whatever mess he brought with him. White men didn't knock. They didn't ask. They didn't plead. And they certainly never begged.

Trouble always followed a white man, especially one burned in the light.

Still, he looked up at you like you were the only thing holding him to this earth. His voice cracked again, choking despite only uttering one word. “Please...”

And despite everything, your gut, your fear, your history, you opened the door wider.

“Come in.”

The moment those two words left your lips, he collapsed forward like a string had been cut.

His body hit the floor with a sickening slap, smoke curling off his skin like meat left too long on a flame. He didn't scream this time. Just groaned, soft and guttural, as if even his pain had worn itself out.

You moved fast, the way you did when a snake bite came through your door or an infected wound that gnawed away at flesh.

“Chair,” you said, pointing to the stool near the stove. “Sit if you can. Don't touch nothin' yet.”

He tried. Lord, he tried. Arms trembling like saplings in the wind, he dragged himself up bit by bit. Sat slumped, head down, that glistening gold chain now dull against his blistered chest.

You were already gathering. Mortar and pestle. Clean rags. A sharp knife for cutting fresh aloe straight from the stalk. The herb practically hummed in your hand, full and green and ready.

“It's like you're burnin' from the inside,” you muttered under your breath, though you didn't try hard to be inaudible. “Not just sun-sick.”

You sliced through a thick leaf, watching the gel ooze out like honey, thick and cool. You grabbed the peppermint oil next, then yarrow for the swelling, and comfrey for the sores. You didn't pause. Didn't ask questions.

Not yet.

“Strip that shirt off,” you said, not unkind, but firm. “Let me see what I'm workin' with.”

He didn't argue; clearly didn't have the strength. Just nodded, weakly peeling the ruined fabric from his body. Skin came with it in some places. You winced but didn't let it show.

You dipped your fingers in the aloe and started to work.

The gel clung to your skin, cool and thick. It spread easily across his shoulder, where the burns had bloomed the worst. Red turned near-black, skin puckered and peeling like old bark.

His muscles twitched under your touch, lean and long, the kind of frame that had seen many hard years but held strong through all of them. One that had moved. Run, maybe. Fought, more likely.

You didn't flinch when you reached the boils on his neck. They pulsed like tiny hearts, angry and hot, and the gold chain pressed into one of them. You worked around it with care, fingers sure and slow, your breath steady as you hummed under your breath. It was one of Mama's songs.

“Easy now,” you said, pressing a damp cloth against a split on his rib. “Aloe's drawin' the fire out. You'll feel a sting.”

He nodded faintly, lips cracked and dry.

You could hear the strain in his breath. Short, sharp, like every inhale had to fight through a thousand splinters.

“I'll get you water.”

You rose and moved to the basin. Poured from the cool jug you kept shaded on the windowsill. Found a clean tin cup and filled it to the brim, watching the water catch the light as you turned.

When you pressed it into his hand, his fingers barely curled around it. Still, he drank like a man who hadn't seen a drop in weeks. The water spilled over his lips, soaked his chest, but he didn't stop until it was gone.

“More?”

He shook his head, just once, leaning back against the wall behind the stool. You could see the tension leave his shoulders piece by piece, breath slowing, eyes half-lidded now.

You returned to his chest. Worked in a fresh layer of aloe with a touch of peppermint oil, just enough to cool the heat curled beneath the skin.

Every now and then, he made a sound. Low, not quite a word, but not quite a groan either. You didn't ask for stories. Didn't pry for the answers you desperately needed.

There'd be time for that.

For now, you just tended to what you could touch.

“Thank you,” he said, voice like gravel wet from rain.

It came out quietly, but it settled in the room all the same. You were just finishing the last bit of aloe, smoothing it across his lower side where the burns were thinner, more tender. His skin jumped under your fingertips, but he didn't pull away.

“Mm,” you replied, washing your hands in the basin beside you. “I don't do this for gratitude. I do it 'cause somebody needed it.”

You picked up on the way his eyes followed you. Slow, deliberate, like he was trying to memorize the way you moved. Or maybe just remind himself he was still here.

You dried your hands on the edge of your apron, glancing out the window. Morning was still hanging on, soft and gold through the cypress trees. The world hadn't turned upside down, even if it felt like it should've.

“You eaten?” you asked, already turning toward the stove. “Ain't no point in mendin' skin if your belly's hollow.”

He blinked, surprised, as if the idea of a meal hadn't crossed his mind.

“No. I don't think so, at least,” he admitted, scratching lightly at the side of his neck where a fresh scab was forming. “Think I forgot what that feels like.”

You gave a little laugh, not mocking, just gentle.

“Well,” you opened your pantry. “I don't forget how to feed a body. Burned up or not.”

You made your way to the stove, brushing past the dried bundles of thyme and safe hanging from the walls, the scent of them catching in the air. You could feel his eyes on you, though he tried, and failed, not to make it obvious.

The pan sizzled to life as you dropped in a pat of butter. You reached for the cornmeal, then the basket of eggs you’d gathered just yesterday. Behind you, he shifted in the stool, the wood creaking beneath him, but he didn’t move much more than that.

“Ya always up this early?” he asked, voice a little clearer now, a languid drawl present in each word.

“Always. Plants don't wait on nobody, and neither does the sun.”

You didn't turn when you said it, but you could feel him smiling behind you. Not wide. Just a small pull at the corners, like his face was trying to remember how to shape one.

The grits bubbled thick and soft, and you stirred them slow, adding salt, pepper, and a touch of dried rosemary.

“You can rest here a while,” you said, finally glancing over your shoulder. “Ain't nobody gonna bother you way out here.”

Again, your eyes met his.

And for a long breath, neither of you looked away.

It wasn't just the quiet of the room that wrapped around you; it was the weight of his stare. Steady and slow, like he was memorizing the shape of your face. His gaze drifted just enough to trace your cheekbones, your nose, your lips, your curls, then returned to your eyes, almost bashful in how bold he'd been.

He blinked first. Let out a low breath, maybe a sigh. Maybe something else.

“I believe you,” his voice was quieter now, but somehow firmer. “'Bout nobody botherin' me here.”

A pause.

“Ya got a way about you. Like the world listens to you, not the other way 'round.”

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you didn’t try to say much. Just turned back to the pan and scooped the grits into a wooden bowl, set two fried eggs on top, sprinkled a little salt, a little pepper, a touch of dill.

You brought it over and set it on the small table near his stool, then filled another tin cup with water and placed it beside the bowl.

“Eat,” you said, soft but sure. “Still got hours left in the morning, and you’ll need strength to face ’em.”

He looked at the food, then at you, then back at the food, then at you again.

And this time, when he smiled, it showed teeth.

You noticed it, not all at once, but enough to make your breath catch.

They were white, strikingly so for a man who looked half-melted an hour ago. Clean, but... off. His canines were just a touch too long, too pointed, like they'd been honed on something harder, no, more precise, than meat. Not cartoonish, not obvious, but sharp in a way your eyes couldn't unsee once they caught the right angle of them in the light.

Predator's teeth, hidden behind a beggar's smile.

But you said nothing.

Just tucked that little detail away, same as you did with the tone of a bird's call. Not fear, just curiosity. Observation.

And when he took another bite, careful not to scrape his lip, you could tell he knew you'd seen.

But he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t lie.

Just chewed slow, and said nothing.

He took another bite, slower this time. Chewed. Swallowed. Ran his tongue briefly over those sharp canines like he was trying to smooth them down before speaking.

Then, without looking up:

“Do you live out here all on your own?”

The question was soft, careful, but it hung heavy in the air between you. Heavier than it had any right to.

You could feel his eyes on you again before you met them, like his gaze had weight, heat, shape. When you finally did look, he wasn’t just curious. He was studying you, the kind of look a man gives a locked door he’s dying to open.

You tilted your head.

“I do,” you said simply, but there was something warm curling in your belly as you said it. Not shame. Not pride. Just a quiet truth you suddenly wanted him to understand. “Ain’t been nothin’ wrong with my own company.”

His fingers, resting beside the bowl, twitched just slightly, like he might reach for something. Maybe the cup, maybe something less easy to explain, but thought better of it.

“That don’t surprise me,” he said, voice low now, almost reverent. “Ya seem like you belong to yourself.”

That stirred something in you.

You didn’t smile, not fully, but your eyes softened, and you found yourself watching the curve of his jaw, the healed patches of skin just under his collarbone, the rise and fall of his chest now that he was breathing easier.

He shifted in his seat, eyes still on you, but with a touch more caution now, like he was stepping somewhere sacred.

“How'd you come to live on your own?” he asked. His tone was light, but the words carried something behind them. “'S not every day I meet a woman flyin' solo. Not out here, anyhow.”

He added it quickly, before you could bristle, his hand lifting, palm open, like he meant no offense.

“I mean that with respect,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “Truth be told, it’s a rare strength. I just… wondered what kind of road leads a woman like you to a place like this.”

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered on your hands, then your ring finger, bare as the rest. The question wasn’t just about how you lived.

It was about who you lived without.

You set your elbows on the table, leaning in just a touch, chin tilted like you were deciding how much of your truth he’d earned.

“My Mama and Daddy left me this place when they passed. Wasn't much of a question after that.”

He nodded like he understood more than you’d said. Maybe he did.

“I’m sorry to hear it.” he murmured empathetically, letting silence fall.

But the silence that followed felt different now.

Less like strangers making room for each other.

More like something in the air had shifted, tilted ever so slightly in your direction.

He looked down at his empty plate for a moment, fingers brushing crumbs that weren't really there. Then, something passed over his face. Not shame exactly, but close. Worse.

A furrow crept into his brow as he let out a low sigh, rubbed the back of his neck, and muttered, “Well, hell.”

You blinked.

He looked back up at you, face caught somewhere between apology and self-reproach, the edge of his accent rounding his words.

“Here I am, half-burned 'n beggin' on your porch like a fool, takin' your food, your kindness, 'n I never even asked your name.”

He exhaled, clearly bothered by it, his mouth pulling tight at the corners. “That's rude. I was raised better'n that.”

You felt something stir again in your chest, something warmer this time. Like the heat off a cast iron skillet, slow and steady.

He sat a little straighter now, eyes fixed to yours, and though his voice was low, the way he said it made your heart pick up all the same:

“I'd like to know your name.”

You paused, just a beat. Long enough to make sure the moment stayed. Long enough to feel the charge in the air, as real and tangible as the sunlight still spilling across the floor.

Then you told him.

Your name slid out like honey, at least in his mind. Slow, unashamed, yours.

And the way he repeated it?

Soft. Careful. Delicate. Like he didn't want to somehow shatter it on his lips.

“I'm Remmick,” he added after a moment, hand pressing lightly to his chest. “Just Remmick.”

And though he said it casually, like it wasn't worth much, the way his eyes lingered on you afterward said otherwise.

Said everything.

You broke the gaze first, not necessarily because you wanted to, but because you had to. Something about the weight of it, the softness, the pull, it was too much to sit in for long.

You stood up, hands moving on instinct, reaching for his dish like you'd done a hundred times before. It was second nature. Quiet, practiced care. A rhythm born of solitude.

But before your fingers could wrap around the bowl, his hand found yours. Not rushed, not rough. Just a gentle, callused palm over your knuckles.

“Let me,” he said softly.

His eyes were upturned, looking at you with something that wasn't pity, wasn't duty, just earnestness. A sincere desire to give something back.

“You've done more'n enough,” his thumb brushed faintly across your skin before pulling back, the break of contact seemingly equally hard for both of you. “I got two hands and a sink in front of me. Least I can do is clean my own mess.”

You hesitated, your hand still tingling where he’d touched it. But something about the way he stood, slow and deliberate, like he didn’t want to spook the air between you, made you let him.

You stepped aside, and Remmick moved to the basin, running a hand over his bare chest as if remembering the shirt that once clung to it. His muscles flexed under pale, healing skin, burn scars catching the light like thin rivers on a map.

He handled each dish like it might break in his hands. Careful. Thoughtful. A man who’d maybe forgotten what peace felt like, but still remembered how to honor it when it came.

And in the stillness of that little kitchen, the soft sound of water and porcelain, you watched him. This strange, scorched man with sharp teeth and gentler hands, trying to give something back.

Like he wanted to earn the space he’d been given.

Like he’d stay, if you let him.

He didn't stay.

Evening had crept in slow, lazy and golden at first, but it cooled quick once the sun dipped past the horizon. You'd made tea by then, set out an old quilt on the porch steps, and the two of you sat there in a hush, talking in spurts and falling into silence just as easily. The kind of silence that didn't press too hard. The kind that felt safe.

You'd asked if he wanted to stay the night. Not with any suggestion on your tongue, just plain hospitality. The offer of a roof. Clean linens. A second mug of tea.

“Thank ya,” he'd said, eyes low. “But I can't.”

You frowned. “Your skin's still healing, Remmick.”

“I know.”

“I could wash your clothes,” it was one of your most weakly veiled offers yet. You knew you were being too obvious, but you didn't care. “Get the sweat and scorch off'em. They'll dry by morning, fresh as can be.”

His smile was tired. Soft. “I've taken more'n enough of your kindness for one day. Besides, leaving you with the smell of me hangin' in your air all night? That'd hardly be gentlemanly.”

You stood anyway, brushing off your skirt. “I'll pack you something, then. Something for the road.”

Then, he reached out. Not to stop you exactly, just to touch your hand. Gentle again, thumb tracing the back of your fingers like a memory he wasn't ready to let go of.

“I'll be back,” he said, voice thick like molasses left too long in the jar. “I swear to ya, I'll come back. As long as you'll have me.”

You searched his face, and he let you. Even stood to give you a better look. Let you linger on the curve of his cheekbone, the hollows of his eyes with pupils that you could've sworn were glinting red, the hint of a regretful smile playing on his lips.

Then he leaned down, not to kiss your lips, but your hands. Both of them.

Held them between his own, like prayer.

And pressed his mouth, reverent and warm, to your dorsals. First the left, then the right.

It left you breathless. Still.

You didn't speak as he turned and stepped back into the deepening blue of dusk. Vanishing into the cypress and cottonseed mist like he'd never been there at all.

But the porch felt colder when he was gone.

You lingered there a while, arms folded, watching the trees sway like they were mourning something too. The screen door creaked behind you, and when you finally stepped back inside, the house met you like a hollow room. Still shaped by him, but quiet now.

You closed the door softly behind you, the latch clicking louder than it should've.

You told yourself it was fine. You were fine.

You gathered the dish towel from the counter, folded it twice, then again, smoothing out invisible creases. You adjusted the chairs at the table, even though they weren't crooked. Put the leftovers of lunch and dinner back under their cloth coverings. Remmick loved seconds and thirds. Straightened the salt jar. Wiped down the basin, though he had left it spotless.

The floorboards creaked differently now. Not heavier, just... lonelier.

You checked your herbs hanging near the stove, even though you'd checked them that morning. The mint looked limp. The rosemary had drooped a little at the ends. The lavender hung tired, like it had lost something too. Even your yarrow, usually so full of pride, drooped ever so slightly.

You ran your fingers along their leaves anyway, whispering comfort to them you weren't sure you believed.

You pressed your hand to the windowsill. Still warm from the sun, but not the same warmth. Not his.

You went to bed early, though you didn’t sleep. The moonlight slipped through your curtains and painted silver lines across the floor, and your mind drifted without permission. Back to the curve of his smile, the rasp of his voice, the weight of your name when he said it like it belonged only to him.

When the rooster crowed, it startled you. You’d only just begun to drift.

But like every morning, you rose.

The sun was shy today, peeking out slowly from behind a curtain of cloud. You wrapped your shawl tighter around your shoulders and stepped out to the garden. The dirt felt cool under your feet. None of your plants greeted you like usual. No quiet whispers of good morning to be heard.

You knelt beside the aloe, your most recent, most favored little patch, and brushed the plumpest leaf with a fingertip.

“He’ll come back,” you murmured, not quite sure if you were speaking to the plants or to yourself.

Either way, they didn’t answer.

Four days.

Ninety-six hours. Five thousand, seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred and forty-five thousand, six hundred seconds.

You hated that you knew the math. Hated even more that you’d counted.

It was foolish. Plain and simple. You had lived alone for years without a man’s company, without needing it, without asking for it, without even noticing the lack. The quiet had always been your comfort. Solitude your rhythm. But now... now it sounded hollow. Like a well too deep to draw from.

The nights stretched longer, like they were mocking you. You caught yourself reaching for an extra plate when setting the table, or pausing at the door before opening it, half-expecting him there with that crooked grin and boyish look about the eyes. You’d go to cut mint and think of how he’d inhaled it like it was the first clean breath he’d had in years. You avoided the basin, too, because every time your hands touched water, you thought of his bare back arched over the sink, washing your dishes like it meant something.

It shouldn’t have meant anything.

Not here. Not now. Not in a world that didn’t even let you walk on the same sidewalk as a man like him without stares and suspicion and violence.

But it had.

And you hated that, too.

By the fourth night, sleep didn’t come. You sat by the open window, quilt wrapped around your shoulders, watching the moonlight pool across the floorboards. The stillness wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was restless, pressing, waiting.

You nearly jumped when the sound came.

Knock. Knock.

Not the desperate pounding from before. Not the sound of pain clawing for entry.

Just two clean, confident knocks.

You blinked. Sat up slow. Waited, unsure if you’d imagined it.

Then:

Knock. Knock.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Remmick stood tall and calm in the doorway, bathed in moonlight and cleaner than you'd ever seen him. His skin had healed to a pale, healthy glow, no longer bubbling or cracked. His deep brown hair was brushed back, catching the silver glint of stars. A collared shirt clung to his frame, pressed and buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Trousers clean, belt buckled. A gold chain still hung around his neck, subtle under the open top buttons.

In his hands, held like something sacred, was a small velvet box.

“Evenin',” he said first, soft as the breeze curling around your porch. His smile was slow, a little shy, like he knew he was interrupting something sacred. Your silence, your steadiness, your hard-won peace, but he didn't know all that had gone out the window when he departed.

Then, after a beat, his sparkling, no, glowing eyes met yours and held. Beckoning you to entertain him.

“May I come in?” he asked, voice low and steady, but you could still hear the hope tucked inside.

As if on cue, the box in his hand gleamed under the moonlight.

You stepped aside without a word, but your fingers curled tightly around the edge of the door.

He entered slow, eyes sweeping the room like it was the first time all over again, though he didn’t say so. You didn’t offer him a seat. Not yet.

“You’re late,” you said, cool and plain, folding your arms so he wouldn’t see how your hands trembled. You were being difficult on purpose. He never gave you a time. But you felt the need to make him suffer for it anyway.

He looked at you then, properly. The tenderness behind those eyes made your breath hitch, but you held it down, buried it deep.

“You left me high and dry,” you went on, chin raised. “One day of amity and then nothin’. Not a note, not a whisper, not a soul to say you was all right.”

Remmick stepped in closer, just one careful pace, hands out like he meant to calm a storm that hadn’t made up its mind yet. Maybe that’s what you looked like to him. Thunder tucked behind your eyes, the kind of quiet that came right before something broke loose.

“I know,” he said, voice thick with regret. “And I'm sorry, truly. I should've sent word, should've come sooner. But I didn't want you seein' me the way I was. Still mendin'. Still not quite myself.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t flinch, either.

He reached up slowly and brushed his fingers against your elbow. Just the edge. Just enough to feel the heat of his touch ghost over your skin.

“I meant to come back sooner, I swear it on every bit of gold I own,” he added with a sad sort of grin. “But I needed to be well. Presentable. Worth standin’ in your doorway again.”

Your eyes flicked down to where his hand lingered near yours. The space between your fingers suddenly felt loud.

“You think a fresh shirt and a fancy box makes up for worryin’ me near to death?” you asked, sharp, but your voice cracked just a hair.

He didn’t shy from it. “No, ma’am. But I think it’s a start.”

He lifted the jewelry box, but didn’t open it. He waited.

Then, softer: “Can I sit?”

You gave him a long, measured look. The air felt close again, like it had that first morning. Finally, you gave a small, reluctant nod.

He smiled. Barely there, like he knew better than to press his luck, and moved past you. As he did, the back of his hand brushed yours. Light as linen. Deliberate.

You didn’t pull away.

The table between you wasn’t much. Scuffed wood, worn edges, a single oil lamp casting gold across the grain. But the way Remmick looked at you across it, you might’ve been seated on a throne. His elbows rested lightly on the surface, one hand folded over the other, but his eyes were doing the real work.

His eyes traced the full curve of your nose, the gentle round of your cheeks, the dark velour of your skin in the lamplight. He studied the slope of your shoulders, the proud set of your jaw, the way your coils framed your face like a crown. His gaze lingered on your lips. Soft, plush, shaped by truth and silence in equal measure. Every detail of you, he took in like scripture.

You pretended not to notice. Focused on the kettle, or the way your fingers tapped along your mug. But your skin knew. It prickled under his gaze, warm and drawn tight with something you hadn’t named just yet.

“I brought somethin’,” he said at last, his voice soft as cloth but thick with meaning, and it hit you low in the belly, that sound. Like he’d been holding the words close, warming them with care, waiting for the right moment to let them go.

You glanced up, just as he set the velvet box between you. It looked wrong there somehow, too fine for your table, too soft for your life.

He opened it slowly, carefully, like it was something holy.

Inside, nestled in dark blue satin, was a necklace. Real gold. Rich, gleaming, honey-warm in the lamplight, and spaced along the chain were pearls. Soft, perfect things, like droplets of cream suspended in air. You blinked once, twice, sure you were dreaming, or mistaking it for something else.

Your breath caught.

“I know it ain’t… customary,” Remmick said gently, watching your reaction like it mattered more than anything else in the world. “But when I saw it, I thought of you. The gold... warm, like your voice. And the pearls… well. I reckon you’d make ‘em shine brighter.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You’d never pictured yourself in a thing like that, never even dared. Maybe in a younger daydream or an impossible story passed from woman to woman. But not like this. Not real. Not placed in front of you by a man with eyes that held no expectation, only hope.

He didn’t push the box closer. Just sat still, hands open on the table, waiting.

Your fingers hovered over the box like it might disappear if you touched it too quickly. You weren’t used to fine things. Things so delicate, so carefully made, things that shimmered without asking for attention. You slid the box closer, slowly, hesitantly. But when you reached for the necklace itself, your hand stilled. You didn’t even know where to start.

The chain gleamed in the lamplight, catching against the darkness like a promise. It looked too lovely to belong to you.

Remmick noticed. Of course he did.

He stood without saying a word, the chair creaking softly behind him as he stepped around the table. His shoes were silent against the worn floorboards, but your heart wasn’t. It was loud in your ears, wild in your chest, thudding like it might beat right out of you.

He came to stand behind you, and you didn’t stop him.

Didn’t want to.

His fingers were gentle as they lifted the chain from the velvet. He didn’t fumble or hesitate. The clasp clicked open like it knew where it belonged. He cupped the curls at your neck with his featherlight touch, slow and warm, gently tucking them aside.

And then the chain touched your skin.

You swore you could feel every link. Every pearl.

He leaned in to fasten it, breath soft against the nape of your neck, and the whisper of it made you shiver. Not from cold, but from the sudden, aching nearness of him. His chest just barely grazed your back, not quite a touch but close enough to feel the heat of him, the weight of him in the air around you.

“Ya alright?” he murmured, voice barely more than a breath.

You nodded, knowing your voice had fled.

The clasp clicked shut. But he didn’t move right away.

He lingered.

His hands stayed at your shoulders, not gripping, just resting there, warm and steady. You let your eyes close for a moment. Just a moment. Let the feel of it wrap around you like the chain he’d laid across your collar.

“God…” he breathed, more to himself than to you. “You’re perfect.”

That broke something loose inside you.

You turned your head, slow, and found his eyes waiting. He was closer now, one hand rising from your shoulder to brush your jaw, soft and trembling. He looked at you like he’d been waiting years for this moment. Like he still didn’t believe it was real.

He leaned in, slow enough to stop. Slow enough to be stopped.

But you didn’t stop him.

And when his lips touched yours, it was like stepping into warm water after a long, cold night. Gentle, slow, full of heat that built from the center and spread until your whole body felt wrapped in it. His kiss wasn’t greedy. It asked. And you answered.

His lips moved against yours, soft and coaxing at first, but growing more insistent, more hungry. His hand, which had been resting on your jaw, slid down to your neck, thumb pressing gently against your pulse point, feeling the rapid beat beneath your skin. You could feel his other hand, still on your shoulder, tightening slightly, pulling you further back against him.

His tongue traced the seam of your lips, asking for entrance, and you granted it, opening for him with a soft sigh. His tongue met yours, tentatively at first, then with more purpose, exploring your mouth with a hunger that made your knees weak. You could feel the hard planes of his body against your back, the heat of him seeping into you, making you ache with a need that was growing more urgent by the second.

His hand on your neck slid down, tracing the line of your collarbone, then lower still, over the chain he had placed there, and lower, to the swell of your breast. He cupped you gently, his thumb brushing against your nipple, making it harden beneath your clothing. You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, his kiss deepening further, becoming almost desperate.

His other hand slid down your arm, then around your waist. You could feel his erection, hard and insistent, pressing against your back.

He broke the kiss then, only to trail his lips down your jaw, to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there. His hands were everywhere now, one still on your breast, the other roaming, tracing the curve of your waist, the flare of your hips, the softness of your stomach. You arched into his touch, wanting more, needing more.

His teeth grazed your earlobe as he whispered sweet nothings. His voice was hoarse, frantic, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your breast, only to slide down your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your skirt. He looked at you, his eyes dark with desire, asking for permission.

You nodded, your breath coming in short gasps, your body aching with anticipation. His hand slid into the fabric, cupping you through your panties, his fingers pressing gently, making you moan. He smiled against your neck, a creeping, wicked smile, and began to move his hand, slow and deliberate.

His fingers pressed and rubbed, the thin fabric of your panties doing little to hide the heat and wetness building between your legs. You could feel how soaked you were, your body responding to his touch with a desperation that bordered on madness. He could feel it too, his fingers rubbing slow circles, teasing you, drawing out your pleasure.

“Mmm, you're so wet for me, darlin',” he muttered, a rumble against your skin, his accent thick and sultry. “I can feel how much you want this. How much you want me. Lord knows I've been waitin' for this since I first laid eyes on ya.” His fingers pressed harder, more insistently, and you bucked against his hand, chasing the pleasure he was building within you.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against your back. “That's it, baby. Ride my hand. Take what you need.” His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finally touching your bare skin, and you cried out at the contact, your body trembling with anticipation.

He took his time, exploring you slowly, his fingers tracing your folds, spreading your wetness, circling your clit with a teasing touch that had you squirming and begging for more. “You're so fuckin' perfect,” he panted, voice hoarse with desire. “So wet. So ready for me.”

His fingers dipped lower, teasing your entrance, and you pushed back against him, trying to impale yourself on his fingers. He chuckled again, a low, knowing sound. “Eager, ain't we?” he hummed, his fingers finally slipping inside you, slow and deep. “Fuck, you're tight.”

He began to move his fingers, pumping them in and out of you in a steady, deliberate rhythm, his palm grinding against your clit with each movement. You could feel your orgasm building, your body coiling tighter and tighter, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Ya like that, darlin'?” he grunted, voice taunting. “Ya like feeling me inside you, stretchin' you, fillin' you up?” His fingers curled, hitting a spot inside you that made your eyes roll back in your head, your body convulsing with pleasure.

“You're so fuckin' beautiful when you come undone like this,” he growled into your ear. You'd never imagined a man could speak like this, let alone hear it. “So fucking perfect. My perfect, wet, little mess.” His fingers moved faster, his palm grinding harder against your clit.

But just before you could cross that euphoric threshold.

He stopped.

Your body instantly ached, desperate for release. You whimpered, a sound of pure need and frustration. He returned the sound with a pleased, smug chuckle.

“Shh, darlin',” he cooed, planting a loving kiss on your neck. “I've got ya. I'm not gonna leave you hangin', promise.” His fingers slid out of you, and you mourned the loss, your body already missing the fullness, the pressure, the pleasure.

Then his hands were on your hips, turning you around, and you found yourself face to face with him, his eyes dark with lust, his breath ragged and uneven. He pushed you gently, urging you to sit on the edge of the table, and you complied, your legs shaking with anticipation.

He knelt before you, his hands sliding up your thighs with a deliberate slowness, pushing your skirt up with them, exposing you to his hungry gaze. His touch was firm yet gentle, his calloused palms rough against your soft skin, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body.

“You're a sight,” he whispered, worship on his tongue. “All swollen 'n soaked for me.”

He began to kiss his way up your thigh, slow and deliberate, his lips soft and wet against your skin. He took his time, lingering, tasting, exploring every inch of you as if you were a delicacy he intended to savor.

When his hands reached the apex of your thighs, he paused, his thumbs brushing against the sensitive skin just below your hip bones. You shivered, your body aching with need, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He leaned in, his lips pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your inner thigh, just above your knee. You could feel the scratch of his stubble, the heat of his breath.

He looked up at you, his eyes dark and hungry, and then, without warning, he leaned in and bit down on your inner thigh, hard enough to draw a small amount of blood.

You cried out, a sound of surprise and pleasure and pain all rolled into one. He sucked gently at the wound, his eyes locked on yours, a slow, wicked smile spreading across his face as he watched your reaction. You could feel the blood trickling down your thigh, warm and wet, and it sent a primal shiver down your spine.

He released your thigh, his chin glistening with a mixture of your blood and his own saliva. He wasted no time licking away what remained of you on his lips.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your core, and you could feel the promise of what was to come. Your body ached with anticipation, your mind racing, your heart pounding in your chest like a drum, urging him on, begging for release, begging for more. And he obliged, his tongue snaking out, tasting you slowly, deliberately, from your entrance to your clit, and back again, his hands gripping your hips, holding you in place as he devoured you, as he claimed you, as he worshipped you.

He started at your entrance, his tongue pushing inside, tasting your depths, fucking you with his tongue in slow, deliberate thrusts that had your body convulsing and your hands gripping his hair, holding him to you, urging him deeper.

“Ya taste like heaven,” his words came through muffled and damp, but the meaning was never lost. “So sweet. Like honey. Like nectar.”

His lips closed around your clit, sucking gently at first, then with more insistence, his tongue flicking and circling, driving you wild, making your body shake and tremble and buck against his mouth. You could feel his stubble, rough and scratchy against your inner thighs, a contrast to the soft, wet heat of his mouth, the sharp, tantalizing sensation sending you spiraling even further.

He pulled back, his chin and lips and neck glistening with your wetness, his eyes locked on yours as he licked his lips, tasting you, savoring you, a low, appreciative growl rumbling in his chest. “I could feast on you for fuckin' hours, darlin',” it seemed like he couldn't go even a second without talking you through it. “Like a fuckin' drug.”

He dove back in, his tongue pushing inside you, fucking you with long, slow licks that had your body convulsing. He pulled back, his tongue flat against your flesh, licking you from your entrance to your clit and back again, over and over, the rhythm steady and unyielding, driving you towards the edge of sanity.

He focused on your clit again, his tongue flicking and circling, his lips sucking gently, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. He could feel your body tensing, your muscles coiling tight, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. He redoubled his efforts, his mouth open wide, taking in as much of you as he could, his tongue and lips working in tandem.

“That's it, darlin',” he purred, tone almost pleading, reminding you of how you first found him on your doorstep. It all felt like a distant memory now. “Come for me. Let me taste that sweet nectar. Let me drink it all up.”

With a cry that seemed to tear from your very soul, you came undone, your orgasm crashing over you in waves of pure, unadulterated pleasure. He drank you up, his tongue lapping at your folds, his lips soft and gentle against your sensitive flesh, his breath hot and ragged against your skin.

He slowed his movements, his tongue gentle and soothing, his lips pressing soft, reverent kisses against your flesh.

His chin and lips and neck were absolutely drenched, eyes locked on yours, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face. He leaned in, his lips pressing softly against yours, and you could taste yourself on him, musky and sweet and intoxicating. He kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring your mouth, sharing your taste with you. Only you.

He pulled away unhurriedly, his lips glistening with your essence, a satisfied smirk playing on his mouth. His eyes never left yours as he stood up. You could see the rise and fall of his chest, his breath still ragged.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and wiped his face with the back of his hand, a gesture that had you following his every move. He brought his hand to his mouth, licking and sucking your taste from his skin, his eyes rolling back slightly as he savored every last drop.

“You're somethin' else. Somethin' real special.”

He stepped closer, his strong hands gripping your hips and lifting you effortlessly off the table. You let out a soft gasp, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck for support as your legs, weak and trembling, struggled to find their strength. He held you tightly against him, your bodies pressed together, and you could feel his heart pounding in his chest, matching the rhythm of your own.

“Easy, lass,” he soothed. “I've got you.”

He started to walk, his steps steady and sure, carrying you with an ease that belied your boneless state. You rested your head against his shoulder, your breath hot against his neck, as he navigated the room, his destination clear.

Gently, he laid you down on the bed, his body following yours, enveloping you in his warmth.

He hovered just above you, arms braced on either side, his eyes tracing every line of your face like they were reading scripture. His breath fanned across your cheek, warm and steady, and the way he looked at you, like you were something holy, made your chest ache.

One hand came up to fondle your necklace, rough knuckles grazing soft skin. “I’ll take ya up on that offer this time,” he mumbled, voice husky with something between gratitude and want. “To stay the night.”

He leaned in, kissing your forehead slowly, then your cheek, then your mouth. Each one a promise, a vow wrapped in silence.

And when he finally settled beside you, pulling you close until your bodies fit together like roots twining beneath the soil, the world quieted. The night wrapped around you both like a shroud.

You run through the woods as far as your feet can take you. He’s gone out to feed and now is your time.

The moonlight shines on the darkened path, while you run through it barefoot— stepping on every branch, vine and flower in your way. Your nightgown tears in several places from getting snagged, but you don’t care.

The branches have cut your skin in multiple places, blood running down your legs.

The pathway twists and curves, you can’t even tell if you’re still on it or not.

Your heart feels like it’s in your throat— thump, thump, thump.

The night is quiet—too quiet. Not a cicada hum, not a dog barking, not even a sound from the street lights —nothing.

You notice towards the end of the pathway that you can see your house, you run like your life depends on it—because it does.

You push through the trees at the edge of the woods, you can see your mother in the window. Someone you’ve longed to see for so long now. You start to make a run for the front door and you’re grabbed.

An arm wraps around your waist and a hand over your mouth.

“You runnin away from me?” The familiar voice whispers in your ear.

Your blood runs cold, tears painting your cheeks, and panic coursing through your body.

You kick and try to scream to no avail.

“Please, please let me go. I want to leave.” You scream, muffled by his hand.

You chomp down as hard as you can on his hand— drawing blood and surprising him.

“Motherfuc—“

“If you don’t stop this nonsense and she sees us, I will kill everyone in that house. If you run to the door, I will kill everyone in that house. If you do anything other than what I’ve told you, I will kill everyone in that house and make you watch.”

Your breath hitches in your chest, bringing everything to a halt. Even if you wanted to keep going, you know he’s telling the truth.

He would kill all of them brutally, bring you back a souvenir and tell you that it was punishment for betraying his trust.

He continues to hold you as he walks back into the woods—hand over your mouth and the other hand over your waist, like a ragdoll.

You’re not sure how long it took to get back to his cabin, but you doze off— awakened by him dropping you on the floor and shutting the door behind him.

You pull yourself up— staring at him with contempt. His shirt is covered in blood and sweat, pants ripped, and his hair is a mess.

“How did you find me?” You mumble.

He looks up at you after analyzing the bite on his hand, running his fingers over it.

“You got me good.” He chuckles.

He walks beside you, taking his shoes off and paying you no mind. Lighting the candles on the stand near the door, placing them throughout the house— while you just stand there watching.

He holds one candle in his hand as he walks back towards you, the hardwood floor creaking underneath him.

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to grab it.

You grab his hand as he guides you back to the bedroom— shutting the door behind him, you sit on the bed.

“I’m gonna run you some bath water, baby. Get you all cleaned up.”

You nod your head and just sit there twisting your ring, waiting on the other shoe to drop.

He waves for you to come in the bathroom—you walk in, seeing him on a stool beside the tub.

The bathwater steams in the tub.

You strip out of your nightgown— toss it to Remmick and sit down in the tub.

“Ever since I first tasted you, I can feel you—“

“ I can feel all of your emotions. So, when your heart was beating fast while I was feeding— I figured something was wrong.” He admits.

“Remmick, I’m sor-“

“Shh, shh.” He whispers, rubbing the warm rag over your body.

“Don’t apologize, Mo ghrá.”

The blood washes off into the water changing the color.

Remmick is very calculated and with him, there’s always more. What you did won’t go unnoticed and it surely won’t go unpunished.

He glides the rag over your body with precision and comfort, taking his time to make sure that you’re clean.

“I love you, Remmick.” You mumble.

He grins, rubbing the rag in between your fingers.

“I love you too, Darlin. More than myself, really.”

He says he loves you, but it almost feels wrong— it feels distorted.

“I ran earlier, because I miss home..”

“ I love you, I really do and nobody could take me away from you— but I just wanted to go home for a bit.” You confess, sitting in the water with your knees to your chest.

Your confession catches him off guard, he stops rinsing you off and seems to be thinking something— but he doesn’t respond for a few minutes.

“You could’ve said something, anything. What you did ain’t a good look, I don’t appreciate it. You put everything at risk and you know we can’t have that.”

Your hand shakes a bit, just out of sheer nervousness.

“Don’t be scared, baby.” He assures you, but it comes off taunting.

You lean back in the tub, Remmick drops the rag back in the water with you.

“I’ll be back in a second, darlin.”

He walks out, leaving the door cracked.

You lay there, unsure what to think or how to feel. Always in fear, never knowing what his next move is.

He’s gone for a while, long enough for you to doze off.

You wake up in a state of panic— your hands gripping the side of the tub and feet thrashing in the water as Remmick holds your head under.

You see him through the water, staring at you with such anger and contempt.

The water is filling your lungs— a painful and burning sensation.

A few seconds longer and Remmick finally lets go of your head, you come up from the water gasping for air.

“.. what the hell is wrong with you?!?”

He kneels down beside the tub, a smirk on his face as he pushes your hair out of your face.

“You. You’re what’s wrong with me, honey.”

“I give you everything you could need and you still want more? You are selfish, greedy, and a liar.”

You cough up more water, grabbing Remmick’s hand.

“I said that I was sorry.. you are enough for me, Remmick.”

He shakes his head like he doesn’t quite buy it.

“I don’t believe I am.”

He walks out of the bathroom, leaving you there— reeling from what happened.

You climb out of the tub, the water falling off you.

You grab a towel, wrapping yourself up and heading into the bedroom.

The bedroom is quiet— even with the window open, there’s no noise from outside.

You finish drying off— putting your newer nightgown on and crawling into bed.

Who knows where he went and you aren’t trying to go figure it out.

The night continues on and you continue to sleep.

You wake up to a feeling of pressure on your legs, your eyes open and Remmick is on top of you.

His eyes red and fangs out.

“Remmick.. what are you doing?”

He leans towards your face, sniffing you like a dog.

“You’ve been hiding something from me?”

Your hands grips the sheet as you can feel the panic setting in.

“What?”

“I think I deserve a treat after what you did.” He chuckles.

Your eyes start to water, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“Aw, don’t cry sugar. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”

His tongue glides up your cheek, tasting your fear and relishing in it.

“Mhmm.” He groans.

“I just want the one thing I haven’t had in a while— it’s bleeding and aching for me.”

His hands glide up your body— fingers swirling your nipples and teasing you.

“Remmy.. I—“

You can barely form a sentence you’re so distracted, your eyes rolling back into your head.

“Don’t cha think I deserve a treat, darlin? You wouldn’t deny me would you?”

He should repulse you, he should make your stomach turn— but, you want him to claim you. You want him to take your clothes off and make you his.

He pulls your nightgown up, exposing your blood soaked panties.

“I could smell you.. smell the thing that drives me crazy.”

His nail drags along the front of your panties, making you whimper.

“No claws, Remmick.” You mumble.

He retracts his claws as his hands hook into your panties and he pulls them down.

He scoots down further— raising your legs up and putting his head between them.

“My, my, my— this is such a beautiful sight.”

His tongue swipes your slit, blood coating it.

You arch your back, pulling his hair.

“You like that, baby?”

You nod, breathing heavy.

“Don’t stop.”

He glides his tongue up and down your clit, groans escaping his mouth.

He eats your pussy like a starved animal, like it’s a forbidden fruit.

Blood coats his mouth, dripping down his chin.

He starts sucking on your clit, driving you crazy and making you squirm.

His fangs sink into you, causing a shock of pain.

Although the pain should scare you and hurt you, it mixed with everything else brings a good sensation.

You can’t get enough of it.

“That’s it, darlin. I want this pretty pussy to cum for me.”

“Oh, my—“

“Fuck, Remmick.”

Your moans grow louder and more intense as your orgasm washes over you.

Your legs trembling around his head.

Remmick laughs, standing up and staring at you.

You can see him perfectly in the moonlight— blood around his mouth, dripping down his neck into his chain and white shirt. He looks terrifying, like the thing you should stay away from. Instead you’re drawn to him, in love with him.

Remmick comes up between your legs, getting face to face with you.

“You truly do taste delicious.”

You bite your lip, staring into his eyes.

He leans down kissing you, deep and ravenous.

Blood smears onto your face and down your chin.

He grabs your face, bringing your full attention to him. He licks the side of your face.

“Promise me, you won’t run away from me again. I love you too much to lose you.”

You lean up, licking more blood of his lip.

“I promise, honey.”

˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗

your whole body aches as you shift uncomfortably in your bed. you’ve been sick for two days now, it’s only gotten worse with time.

your head hurts, well, everything hurts. your vision is blurry from the headache and you feel nauseous. the constant sweating is the worst.

well, remmick is maybe the worst part of all this. he will not leave you alone for even a second, it’s like he’s afraid you’ll die.

he’s always been annoyingly clingy, but now it has gotten even worse.

he’s constantly checking your fever, putting his lips on your forehead. he keeps changing the wet cloth on your forehead, wiping your sweat. he feeds you, even helps you pee.

now he’s making some vitamin drink for you in the kitchen, giving you a minute of silence.

it doesn’t last long, though.

”baby, how y’feeling?” he asks, setting the mug on your bedside table.

”i’m fine”, you sigh.

remmick kisses your forehead. he frowns. ”no ye’re not, ye’re burning up”, he says.

”drink”, he says, giving you the hot mug. it smells of ginger and honey.

you take a sip, it tastes weird. ”what’s in this?” you ask.

”jus’ drink it, baby”, remmick says, helping you hold the mug. your hands are already shaking.

”my poor lil’ baby”, he coos, looking at you with pity.

he gives you another kiss on the forehead.

”i got ye this”, he says, taking something out of a bag. a teddy bear.

he places it on the bed beside you.

”someone to keep ya company”, he says. like he isn’t there 24/7.

you finish the drink. ”good girl”, remmick says.

he climbs into bed with you, taking you in his arms.

he starts giving you constant kisses. on your forehead, your lips, your nose, your cheeks. vampires can’t get sick, so he doesn’t have to worry.

then he takes out a book. ”lemme read f’ ya”, he says.

”you don’t have to”, you say, slightly dreading the idea.

”i know, but i wanna”, remmick says.

he starts reading to you. some children’s story book. he often treats you a bit like a child, like you’re his little girl.

you quickly fall asleep in his arms.

you wake up to remmick petting you.

”dinner time, baby”, he says.

”i’m not hungry”, you whine.

”ya gotta eat”, remmick says.

he goes into the kitchen. then he comes back, holding a hot bowl of soup.

he sits beside you on the bed, taking a spoonful of soup, putting it in front of your mouth.

”say ahh”, he says.

you hesitantly open your mouth, eating the soup. it’s actually really good.

he feeds you in silence, sometimes wiping some soup from the corner of your mouth. you feel like a kid.

when you’re done remmick smiles and gives you a kiss. ”such a good girl”, he says. ”daddy’s so worried ’bout ya”, he says, sliding his hand between your legs. he slightly caresses your folds, but stops.

he lets out a sigh. ”i won’t fuck ya now, baby, ya need to get better first”, he says.

thank god.

”daddy, can you please get me another painkiller?” you ask remmick with puppy-dog eyes. you know that playing along to his sick fantasies will slightly better your chances.

remmick lets out a sigh. ”ya can’t have them anymore, baby. ya already took like three”, he says.

”pleaseee”, you whine.

remmick kisses you again. ”shh, baby, go to sleep”, he coos.

you have some tears in your eyes, the pain is too much. remmick climbs into bed with you again, taking you into his arms.

he puts another cloth on your forehead and kisses your cheek. ”my sweet lil’ baby”, he purrs. ”my poor girl”, he murmurs, giving you another kiss.

”d’ya wanna listen to some music?” he asks.

you nod.

remmick gets up, putting on your favorite vinyl. then he gets into bed with you again, cuddling you.

you snuggle up into his arms, you feel tired. tired of resisting him all the time. so what he’s holding you captive? he loves you.

remmick kisses your hair. ”get some sleep, baby”, he says. ”daddy’s gon’ be right here with ya”, he adds.

you close your eyes, listening to the music and remmick’s breathing. you slowly fall asleep in his arms.

You were warm against him, so warm Remmick swore he could feel the sun on his skin again. He’d forgotten how lovely it was to bask in its light.

He made a vow, then.

He could run wherever he wanted like another demon of the night, but he was, irrevocably, forever yours.

The scene outside your window changed. The trees had traded green for red, and the sun set earlier in the evening, leaving him more time to roam the dark.

But before each sunrise, he returned to you.

The air of your cottage was colder in the mornings than before. You’d taken to throwing a sweater over your nightgown, a sight Remmick called áille.

With the sleeves rolled up to your elbows, your hands kneaded a mixture of dough against loose flour on the counter. You could see the gentle hue of the night bleeding into a glowing horizon.

There was a spot on your shoulder that pleasantly ached. A sweet treasure from the night before. You shuddered when you felt a weight press over it.

“Good mornin’, mo chroi,” he said so softly you would have believed you were lost in a dream.

“Mornin’,” you smile as his cheek touches yours, lips brushing past the corner of your mouth. He didn’t smell of blood. He’d washed himself clean to further keep you from his violent delights.

“Doesn’t this look sweet?” He drags a finger through a fresh batch of berry compote. Still warm in its pot.

You hum. “Had a bit extra, thought I’d make your favorite.”

Remmick carefully adjusts one of your sleeves that’d begun to fall down your arm, bunching it at your elbow. “Yer my favorite, a ghrá.”

He pulls your sweater away from your neck so the cold air bites at your skin. His fingers brush lightly over the tender skin on your shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

You smile, now using more force to knead the dough. “In the best way.”

Then, with his eyes focused on how skillfully you worked the mixture into the counter, Remmick placed his lips softly upon your shoulder. Warm and safe against the chill of the morning.

You draw the curtains when the sun threatens to pour its light through the window frames.

Within an hour, your cottage smells of warm, golden honey and butter melting into fresh wildberries and sugar. Edges curling into a thin crisp that Remmick would praise your talents for later.

For now, your mirrored footsteps pad against the floorboards in a gentle rhythm to the music of the songbirds outside.

Remmick didn’t run—couldn’t. 

He tumbled over his own feet, hands barely able to catch him before he hit the dirt. The sun left nothing untouched, even his palms blistered. 

The still air created a dance of light that wavered against the heat; a deceptive shimmer, a fleeting, false delight. Remmick followed it until he collapsed. 

The scene was explicit—nothing could be saved from the carnage. 

The gore set the air with dust that could never settle; a blood-warm heat had set into your marrow, never to be forgotten; Remmick had crawled to your doorstep like a cat bringing in fowl.

“Was always curious ’bout what happened to the fallen angel once he hit the ground…” Your shock was instantly buried so deeply that you doubted it would ever surface. “...here you are.”

The shade of the porch helped, but Remmick’s skin didn’t heal. It festered. His breath felt hot in his lungs as if he were burning from the inside out.  It had nearly burned the wit out of him. 

“Pretty, ain’t I?” Remmick squinted, afraid of more light entering his body. 

“Act like you have some sense—” You gestured for him to get up. Even if he couldn’t, he’d have to. “—c’mon, before I change my mind.”

You couldn’t refuse him, and in any case had no choice of doing so; your body reacted long before your mind did, and the meat of your meat and the flesh of your flesh invited him in. 

The door was left open, your words a lingering invitation that Remmick was slow to process. He wasn’t sure how many steps he gained from adrenaline alone, but he entered your home. 

Regardless, relief was found behind the lace curtains that hid you well from the outside world. 

Like lace, Remmick recognized you and your position in the very fabric of society, a tapestry of togetherness that consisted of holes, but also threats that tied you both together for what felt like until the end of time. 

“I was fixin’ to do some washin’...” You called from another room. Remmick’s daze continued, his posture adjusting to something entirely unfamiliar; an intrusion. “Reckon you could use some too.” 

Your voice was deep and warm. Remmick drank it in like sweet wine, its lure willing him to worship anything he could taste. He moved slowly, like every inch of him ached, and maybe it did. 

The doorframe caught his weight as he leaned there, eyes on you. You were kneeling by the tub, fingers curled under the faucet, testing the water. The pipes groaned. The water was cloudy, untrustworthy. But you didn’t flinch.

“You hearin’ me?”  You prompted again. “Clean up, quick. The pipes are rusty and the water runs cold.”

“Pity don’t suit you, darlin’.” He rasped, rough but quiet, like he didn’t really mean for it to sting.

You moved past him gently, your shoulder brushing his arm. Not a tease, not a challenge. Just contact. Real.

“Mercy neither.” You confirmed. “You’re barkin’ up the wrong house if that’s what you’re hopin’ for.”

“I ain’t askin’ for mercy,” he said, voice low, brittle. “Just… somethin’ that don’t hurt too much.”

You paused, but you didn’t pull away. And the silence you eventually left him with held more than anything else could.

—

Remmick hung his head low, his condition catching up to him. 

It was rare, but he was tired. Exhausted. His body begged for reprieve, for comfort, for something that he no longer required. His skin puckered, sensitive and raw. His breathing hadn’t calmed. It refused to.

The day was quiet, giving time for Remmick’s skin to recover. Each layer he removed revealed every minute it took for him to arrive in one piece.  

The blood was so ingrained in his nails that it looked like birthmarks on each of his fingers, ten reminders, ten crucifixes.  His fingers trailed the old wood of the bathroom, not quite ready to drown himself in your scents. He wondered its history. 

Your home was smaller than quaint, fitting for someone alone.  There was very little Remmick knew about you, but your home told him enough; everything was in the right place, even the towels were folded with awareness. 

Remmick watched the oils separate in the tepid water of the bath, floating away in bubbled clusters. The impromptu serenity became too sacred to disturb. This was an indulgence you hadn’t realized you provided. 

This place was too real. It didn’t belong in the world he knew. He kept staring at the frayed rug, the chipped tile, the bar of soap whittled to a sliver. The intimacy of your life. The places your feet had touched.

He couldn’t see you, but knew you soaked in the remaining sun as you took down your laundry. The domesticity made him ache. Normalcy mocked him, and it hurt. It made something depraved sit deep in his chest. It mimicked hunger—thirst. But Remmick didn’t want blood.

The water threatened to spill from his intrusion, making his breath tight. The porcelain was old, cracked in places, but it held him steady. 

The water was cold like you promised. The sting felt righteous. The frigidness made him feel. Alive? Alert. 

The grime was ready to leave his skin as he pressed his palms to his eyes. It reminded him of the fresh-water streams that mazed through the forests he once knew. 

Then, he was able to find the minotaur at the center, but it had been long enough that he had taken its place; Remmick no longer trusted his own memories. There was a lingering thought in the back of his mind that his instincts were the next to go. 

Remmick overlooked how that feeling in his chest weighed further, settling in his stomach. 

No, further than—

Remmick stopped himself. He dampened his hair, brushing it tidily like it mattered. 

Eyes closed, he tried to feel you. Hear you. 

You hummed lightly. The tune didn’t belong to a hymnal or any blues he’d heard before. It was something light without a consistent beat. It kept your mind busy while your hands continued to work. 

The sunset was warm and reflective. It wore you down quickly, but you didn’t give way. You hummed. It was something that had been stuck in your mind, lurking and prodding when you were both asleep and awake. 

Just a few notes you chased. You’d never thought to run from them. 

Remmick rested his arms on the lip of the tub. He repeated your weak notes, attempting to remedy the concoction. Only he could hear the harmonization that was created. 

It took a few adjustments, but once it had clicked, the song revealed that you listened closely to Remmick. 

It was a song he’d brought to you. 

Heat had bloomed in Remmick’s stomach to cultivate lower and lower.  That thirst grew wild, his hand now gripping the rim of the tub. His other hand was still slack in the water—adrift, shamed, unsure of what it had asked for.

The shame settled slowly, crawling up his spine like a rash. The kind that stays hidden until it's too late to treat. It laced with every flicker of memory, the way your laugh caught between your teeth, the scent of your skin after hours in the heat, the hollow in your throat where he’d once pressed his mouth and almost begged.

Something twitched deep in the water. 

His skin pricked. 

Remmick felt no longer bloody. Nor broken. But…breathing. The moment stretched, his breathing split between frenetic and flustered. 

He refused to move; there was satisfaction in the self-torment, in the way the water suddenly turned warm, so warm…too warm. 

The window was propped open, not with purpose but because the hinges were another thing rusted. A breeze came in carrying the humidity and your heartbeat. There was a little preemptive truth-telling to the way it beat; it trilled at the company you had. 

Remmick had disappeared for months. The days blurred together, and at times, you felt enough time had passed for him to be nothing more than a fairytale. You had crossed a line that you both teetered from the start. 

It wasn’t something fast and all-consuming. It was something always present and consistent. You didn’t realize you’d feel his absence. It was something different than missing him.

That shared feeling brought him back against his better judgment. A feeling that he’d hoped would never get old. Every time he’d admit that to himself, he felt like he’d just been handed a secret. 

Needful. Cathartic. A moment of weakness—None of those sounded right.  Remmick sat there, water up to his ribs, hands limp, breathing uneven, like some pathetic martyr bathing in guilt instead of blood.

The water lapped softly at the porcelain walls, whispering sins Remmick didn’t remember speaking. It sounded like your voice when you said his name—quiet, curious, uncertain if you should say it at all. 

The echo of it licked his ears like flame.

A throb had finally won him over. 

Remmick’s hand submerged, trailing down apprehensively. 

The weight of his hand felt unfamiliar, as if it weren’t his own; a softness was in the touch, a gentleness that couldn’t belong to him. He ached to recognize it as yours. 

His free hand clutched at the edge of the tub while the other continued to search for sensitivity. Remmick had to be delirious from the sun, it felt too good the way his thumb circled his tip, not quite touching its point.

Stuck in his own hold, Remmick rolled his hips. He was sure his cheeks were just as ruddy as his excitement. He moved his hand once, twice, and then stopped.

Shame bloomed red-hot across his neck. His stomach turned. He wasn’t doing this because he wanted to. He was doing it because you had touched him without touching him.

Then, once more, twice more, he moved against himself. Up and down. Up. Down. Up down. 

The pain he had slowly melted into syrupy sweet pleasure, and everything quickly became overwhelming. He leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to get more; it was impossible to pull away. 

The water had rippled at his repetitive motions, at the confidence in his hold. At the faint memory of his hold around the soft skin of your neck. 

Remmick’s lips still burned at the memory of the salty skin he found under your jaw.  He remembered restraint and how much it had cost. 

He was hungry; a man so starving he imagined the heady taste of more of you. 

It was the gentle offer of trust he didn’t deserve. The steady hum of your presence on the other side of the wall. It was the mercy of clean towels and cold water, of folded linens and a house that smelled like rosemary and sun-warmed wood. 

It was everything he had been denied—everything he had forfeited—and now, held like a sacrament in the small, careful ways you lived.

He moved without pattern, without pride—just pressure, just friction, chasing something nameless that built in the pit of him like floodwaters against rotted levees. 

A picked up force. A raw need. Strokes of desire.  Slick and hot. The ache deepened. His breath hitched. Solid. Warm. Present. 

Muscles drawn taut, his hips moved on their own accord, driven by a dangerous mélange of frustration and lust. The next thrust was rougher than intended, forceful in a way that bordered on needy.

Remmick pressed deeper. Edged further. Harder. Thumb stroking exactly where it was needed. 

A choked breath escaped him as his release overtook him—sharp, voiceless, spent.  It was grief made physical. He let it come, whatever it was: sorrow, want, remorse, hunger.

You had undone him, and you hadn’t even touched him.

The tension shattered like old bone, leaving only the aftershocks to ripple through his limbs. 

Remmick’s forehead fell to the edge of the tub, and he gasped like he’d drowned and come up begging.

The water shifted, swirling in soft spirals. It took him a long moment to look down—too long. When he did, his breath caught.

The water had changed.

 Not violently, not obviously. But something delicate now drifted there, pale and suspended in motion like a prayer released into the wind. He watched it coil and dissolve in slow, ribboning threads, weaving into the bathwater like it belonged there. Like he belonged.

Remmick’s chest ached. It should have felt vile. Contaminated. A defilement of the clean you’d drawn for him. 

Instead, it looked… joined. Blended. Something of him, something living, swirling with what could only be imagined as the essence of you. The oil from your soaps, the faint trace of your skin, the quiet peace that had settled into the room simply because you had touched it.

It shouldn’t have been possible.

You and he, your warmth, his ruin—should never have touched. But here it was, suspended in front of him, proof that even in his solitude, something had mixed. Become inseparable. 

Shared.

Remmick leaned forward, his hair dripping into the water as his chest shuddered. He watched the ripples distort his reflection, the surface stained with a milky swirl that turned the bath into something shameful. Sacred.

A flutter of wind pushed through the broken window hinge. The scent of the outside world drifted in—laundry soap and cedar, wild grass and the faint salt of your skin—and with it, the cruel reminder that you were close. Just beyond the wall. Humming.

The water stilled.

Remmick stared down into it, unable to look away from what lingered there. It felt like evidence, like he’d left a part of himself behind, like he had shattered something so delicate. It unraveled him more than violence ever could. 

Suddenly, to be made of flesh was humiliation. 

—

“That new?” 

The cross hung short, like the chain had belonged to you since you were a child. It was never long enough to reach true redemption. It was created to be plain, to ward off vanity, and to remind you that sin was innate. 

“Old.” You shook your head. “Been collectin’ dust.”

“Silver?” 

“Look like I can afford gold?” You narrowed your eyes, wary of the sudden prodding. “What, plannin’ on robbing me?”

You came into your home and were met with quiet. The sun was gone, and you assumed so was your guest. Until you saw how his face was pale and without expression, like that of a man submitting to fate.

Remmick’s skin was as fresh as your environment would allow. You read the effort he took to pull his hair back evenly, like a boy meeting his maker. Vulnerable and boyish. Must have been the sun, you told yourself. 

He seemed drained to the point of melancholy, like his presence was wrong. Like he had a chestful of regret. It was easy to read when his suspenders hung at his waist, soiled shirt ridden and lost forever, only an undershirt to hide his sensitivity. 

You stalked towards him now, always audacious. 

“Or what? You don’t like that I’m displayin’ my sin?” You pushed, necklace looking forlorn. 

“Prefer a locket.” His smile seemed…innocent. Unfitting for a mongrel dog like him. Unfit for someone addicted to the unholy. “At least that holds meanin’.”

Remmick met you with a few steps. 

Your eyes flicked to his neck. The knotted gold chain was wound up together, left to right, top to bottom. You couldn’t see the end or the beginning because it had been tangled by the water into a ball that let no light through the crevices. 

It was useless the way it was and not fulfilling its intended purpose. It begged to know who would take the time to gently rub it between their finger and thumb to loosen the sphere so that little by little a small portion could be freed; once that piece was free, the rest was sure to follow as long as patience was applied. 

Then, the snarled mess could begin to add beauty to what it was placed upon. 

“I prefer this one.” You said, brushing your fingers along the edge of the gold at Remmick’s collar. 

The metal caught the low lamplight, warm and ancient. But it wasn’t the gold that held your gaze, it was the skin beneath it. Worn. Weathered. Touched by time that hadn’t been kind.

“Nothin’ gold can stay,” Remmick warned like he was reciting something older than scripture. Something fleeting, even for him. “Nature’s first green was gold, but it’s her hardest hue to hold.”

Your fingers ghosted over the chain again, teasing the space between closeness and invitation. You tugged, just a little. Not enough to break, but enough to tempt.

Remmick came closer, fingers twitching to invite you to finish what he had started. Instead, he stood there and offered only silence.

“You’re no fun tonight.” You admitted. “No fussin’, no fightin’. What’s gotten into you?”

You didn’t say the rest, but it lived there, thick between you: Isn’t this what you wanted? 

He had finally crossed the line, left carnage behind for something like calm. You should’ve felt relieved, but you didn’t. You waited with bated breath for something lethal. You waited for a flicker of something cruel in his eye; the thing that made you feel alive. 

Instead, he tilted his head, a mockery of reverence. “And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us…” 

A conditional request for forgiveness, tied to your willingness to forgive him for his state. Maybe forgiveness would mend his wounds more than his own touch. 

“But deliver us from evil.” A smirk curled your lips before you could stop it. “Guessin’ that makes you the devil?”

Remmick’s eyes darkened. “Depends who’s prayin’.”

Your laugh was light, but it skimmed the edge of dangerous. It carried something unintentionally provocative straight to his core.

“I been nothin’ but good to you. Reckon a ‘thank you’ is in order.” Your voice was a little too close to a dare. “Or are you really no fun?”

Then—a knock.

Not gentle. Not polite.

A harsh, heavy-handed bang against the door, cutting clean through the air like a threat.

You froze like a sinner caught mid-confession.

Another knock. Not unlike a summons. Not unlike a warning. The rhythm of someone who didn’t care if they were welcome.

Another knock followed—slower, heavier. Like the hand behind it wasn’t just asking for entry. It was declaring its right to take it.

You muttered something under your breath and moved toward the door. Something sharp. Something that sounded like a plea, a prayer. 

Behind you, Remmick didn’t stir. But you felt him shift. A presence too vast for his frame, like the weight of judgment itself, had stood up inside him.

You cracked the door open.

“Evenin’, sugar—”  Your landlord slurred, breath ripe with bourbon and whatever cologne he thought masked it. 

His eyes dragged over you like molasses spilled on hot pavement. Slow, sticky, unwanted. 

“Sorry to come knockin’ so late, but the Lord don’t wait for the righteous, and neither does rent.” He continued, eyes flicking into the room behind you. “But seems rent’s still sittin’ in the red. A few months now, ain't it?”

You said nothing. You didn’t need the reminder.

“Now, I been patient…” His tone tightened. “Gave you time. Sympathy. Hell, I gave you grace, didn’t I? Let you wallow after whatever loss you was nursin’. But grief don’t pay the bills, sweetheart—”

He tsked and leaned in a touch too close.

“—that little mourning period of yours? Over and done with. Ain’t my job to carry it.”

Your jaw clenched. Pride and shame curled in your belly like twin serpents, both too stubborn to back down. Behind you, Remmick shifted just slightly, and the air grew colder.

“I don’t have it tonight.” You replied flatly.

“Well, then, maybe I come inside, see if there’s anything I can… take in trade.” His eyes dipped lower.  “Collateral, y’know? Just ’til you catch up.”

Your spine stiffened, hand tightening on the doorknob. 

Before you could speak, the door creaked wider, not by your doing. Remmick stepped into the light. Slow. Measured. The kind of movement that didn’t feel rushed because predators didn’t need to be.

He stood just behind your shoulder, posture relaxed.  His body was a cross between temptation and wrath, framed like a prophet at the end of the world. His expression didn’t change, but the atmosphere around him did. Suddenly too still, too sharp. Like God holding His breath.

Your landlord blinked, taking a small, instinctive step back.

“Friend of yours?” He asked, voice faltering, his bravado slipping lamely. 

You didn’t answer, nor did Remmick. Rather, he looked at the man as if measuring his worth and finding him painfully mortal. 

Remmick’s voice, when it came, was low and smooth. “You’ll take what’s given.”

The landlord tried to puff himself up. “Now hold on—this is between me and her. You can’t just—”

Remmick reached into his pocket. What he pulled out didn’t belong in this century: three gold coins, not modern, not clean. They gleamed with old weight, marked with symbols that no nation claimed anymore. Coins you paid with when souls were the currency.

He didn’t hand them over. He dropped them into the landlord’s palm—

Clink. Clink. Clink.

Each coin fell with finality. Each one louder than the last.

“Paid,” Remmick said, voice soft and dark, like a secret meant only for the dead. “Don’t come round knockin’ like this again.”

The landlord looked down at the coins, confused, then up at Remmick. And for the first time, he saw him.  Not the coins, not the charm, but something else; something ancient that had survived wars and winters and worse. 

Red eyes gleaming, Remmick smiled. No teeth, all intimidation.

“If you’ve got horse sense, you’ll be forgettin’ tonight…” Remmick added, voice like smoke curling under a door. “If not, you’ll come back, and we’ll see what else I’ve got in my pockets.”

The landlord’s mouth opened, then closed again. He backed away, fast this time.

“Right. Well—appreciate’cha.” He muttered. And then he turned, nearly tripping over the bottom step of your porch in his hurry. “Didn’t mean no offense. Just business.”

You closed the door. Not fast. Not loud. Just steady. Controlled. But your fingers were trembling at the latch.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You said without turning. 

“Didn’t do it for you,” Remmick said from behind you. “Did it so I wouldn’t have to bury another fool.”

When you did turn, when you saw the way he was looking at you, jaw tight, eyes still shadowed from whatever almost broke free, you knew he had done it for you. And that was somehow more terrifying than if he’d snapped the man’s neck. 

Because whatever line Remmick hadn’t crossed…he would. For you.

“I don’t need protectin’. ” You turned on him, pride rising like fire on dry kindling. “I’m not helpless.”

“No—” There was something in his tone that almost hurt, like he knew you’d take it wrong. “Just broke and cornered by a man sniffin’ at your door after dark like a dog.”

“Ain’t that what you do? All those nights, showin’ up, askin’ for something…” You snapped harshly. “...just don’t like it when it’s someone else’s doin’, that’s rich comin’ from you…”

The silence between you hung thick, heavy with all the things neither of you had the guts to admit. Not yet.

Finally, Remmick glanced toward the window. The dark pressed up against the glass like a beast trying to sneak in. He should’ve left by now.  The night didn’t bother him, but it whispered to him. Called him elsewhere. Still, he didn’t move. 

He always lingered. You watched him, arms crossed, war still in your chest.

“You can go now.” Your fingers curled at your sides. Not from fear, not exactly. Frustration. Shame…Something too close to want. 

It was arrogant, assuming he’d listen.

Remmick didn’t look at you. Just ran a slow hand through his hair, fingers catching on the drying knots near the nape of his neck. His movements were sluggish, heavier than usual, like something primordial was settling back into his bones.

“Reckon I’ll stay the night.” He said it almost offhandedly, like he was commenting on the weather. 

You narrowed your eyes. “That right?”

“Feel like hell.” He shrugged. Non-committal for his benefit only. “Tired.”

Your brow rose. “You expectin’ me to believe that?”

“No…” Remmick started. “...but you’re gonna anyway.”

You let the silence stretch, just long enough to prove you didn’t buy a word of it. The way he said it wasn’t casual. It was heavy. Like the weariness he claimed wasn’t about sleep at all, but something deeper.

You hated the way his voice sounded in your home. Low and warm and wrong. Like a hymn sung backward. Like temptation, you’d already failed to resist.

“Plannin’ on killin’ me in my sleep?” Your gaze cut to him like a blade. 

That finally earned something from him. It was a flicker of amusement, faint but real.

You stared at him. Waiting, wanting something—you weren’t even sure what. A fight, maybe, or an apology. But all he did was exhale through his nose and glance toward your couch, like the conversation was already over. 

You both knew the answer to your question. It made something hot rise in your chest. Anger again, but not clean or simple. It rubbed against all the places in you you kept carefully buried.

“I don’t need your help, Remmick.” You said, voice flatter now, quieter but not softer. “Not with that fella. Not with money. Not with anything.”

He didn’t flinch. “Didn’t say you did.”

You blinked. Thrown by how simply he said it. No sarcasm. No challenge. Just the truth. It disarmed you in a way you weren’t ready for. So, you looked away first.

The pride in you roared, still burning fiercely, but the rest of you, the tired part, the one that’d been clawing to survive the last few months like a sinner begging for a second chance, let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.

Remmick cemented his presence further in the house. Quiet as dust settling. He didn’t ask where to go, didn’t need to. Just drifted toward the couch like it was something he’d earned.

You hovered in the hallway, half-turned, pretending not to watch. It was a strange thing, watching a man come undone in your house. A stranger once, dangerous once. Now barefoot and standing in your domain, unsure where his edges ended.

He didn’t look at you, but maybe that’s because he felt you. Felt your eyes on him.

You didn’t realize how tightly you’d been holding your arms around yourself until they ached.

“There’s a—” You started, but stopped. Your throat felt dry. You tried again, trying not to show how rattled you were. “There’s a blanket over there, in that basket. Couch can be stingy with warmth.”

Remmick wasn’t looking at you,  just toeing off his boots with an unceremonious practice. Not rushed. Not cautious. Comfortable, like he meant to stay.

That made it worse, or better, you couldn’t decide. He wasn’t posturing, wasn’t making a show, just coming undone in your space with the quiet confidence of a man who knew you wouldn’t send him back out into the dark.

Something inside you twisted—not fear, not want, but something sharp.

He looked smaller here. Not weak, but stripped. And you, quiet and still as the grave, just stood there and watched him ease himself down onto the edge of your couch.

The room stretched long between you.

You tilted your head, just slightly, studying him. The way his shoulders curved inward, hands resting heavy between his knees. A man shedding armor he hadn’t even realized he was still wearing.

You watched him become something less. Not weaker—no. But softer. In your house, that made him more exposed.

“…don’t haunt the place too bad.” You offered, leaning against the frame of your bedroom door. The words came out quieter than before, but they held a weight, a subtle kind of dare.

He didn’t answer at first. Just sat there, elbows on knees, hands clasped, like he was waiting for judgment or absolution.

Then, after a breath:“...I’ll try not to.” 

Remmick drew on his southern twang, nodding politely with promise. Soft, almost reverent, like the house might spit him out if he lied.

And you, in turn, didn’t close the door behind you. You left it open. Wide as an invitation scrawled in blood and fire. A choice Remmick couldn’t unsee.

You disappeared into the bedroom, knowing he’d notice the absence of a latch clicking into place. That he’d sit there in your quiet little living room, in the dark hum of the house, wondering what it meant.

Wondering who, exactly, was safer with the door like that.

—

The hours slid by like oil over water, slow and thick with silence.

The house held its breath. Only the occasional groan of old wood marked the passing of time, the weary bones of the place shifting under the weight of night and memory.

Remmick sat still, shoulders hunched in the half-light, his fingers twitching like they itched for violence or prayer. His eyes were open, unfocused, fixed on a point no one else could see—seeing nothing, and seeing everything.

His thoughts were a fever dream: snarled things with teeth and thorns, looping endlessly through want and warning, desire and dread.

You haunted them. Not you exactly, but the shape of you. The myth of you. The altar you’d become.

He reached into his pocket. Not for the gold coin, not the one that bought him your landlord’s silence. This one was different. Older. It came out like a secret — dull with time, warm with the ghosts of worn edges and too many nights like this one.

A worry piece, polished by regret.

He turned it between his fingers, slow and methodical, the weight of it a tether. A small ritual to keep the dark inside from spilling out. From blooming sharp beneath his skin.

Your scent still clung to the air, low and stubborn. Not perfume, not false sweetness —no, it was you. Soap. Sheets. Skin. That stubborn, ordinary risk of the living.

It stirred something feral in him. Not hunger, not just hunger, but hollowness. Like he’d missed a thousand meals and forgotten what fullness was supposed to feel like.

Remmick stood after a long while, slow as a man trying to outrun his nature. 

The movement was slow, like a man not rising, but unraveling. His shadow stretched long behind him, and his body moved with the silence of something that knew how to stalk without being heard.

Your door was still ajar, left open like an omen.  You were there. Curled in sleep, soft and folded into yourself like something untouched by the rot of the world. Breathing steadily, chest rising and falling like the tide.

His hand clenched the coin until his knuckles gleamed pale in the dark. He hadn’t expected to still be here, standing in front of your door, watching you as though you were a rare treasure he’d found—and then just as easily destroyed.

Remmick had seen sleep before. He’d seen bodies stilled by time, by death, by the quick flick of a blade. But not like this. Not you.

Remmick could feel the heat of your blood, the soft hum of life just beneath your skin—God, he could feel it. That slow, molten throb beneath your skin, the rhythm of your life calling to the worst in him.  

The hunger was raw, clawing at him. He could do it, he could cross the threshold and sink his teeth into that sweet warmth. It would be easy. 

So easy.

The temptation burned behind his lips, pooling in his throat. His tongue brushed against his teeth, slow and deliberate, measuring the hunger that rose in him like a tide he couldn’t hold back. 

But then—

He stopped. And the words scraped out of him like gravel: “But I won’t, will I? Not this time, not last time.”

Remmick’s gaze roamed over you again, slower now. Reverent. Like he was standing before a holy thing he had no right to touch.

That kiss—your skin against his lips—it could’ve been more. It should’ve been much more. 

He could’ve taken your life that night, could’ve hollowed you out and made you part of him forever. Should’ve. But instead, he hadn’t. Not because of you, but because some crooked, crumbling thing inside him had whispered that to do so would damn him beyond saving.

And Remmick knew damnation. Lived close to it. A place he feared, even if he belonged there.

That had been months ago. And he hadn’t come back. Not since. You made it too hard.

“You made it too hard,” Remmick whispered, barely louder than the wind nudging the windows. “I thought if I stayed gone long enough, it’d bleed out of me. I thought it would rot and die.”

He had told himself it would be enough; the distance, the time away, the silence, but none of it had worked. The weight of you, of your breath against his, the pulse of your heart beneath his lips, it was still there. 

He’d made it months. Months of wandering through the wilderness of his own thoughts, his soul a barren landscape where nothing could grow. But it didn’t matter how far he ran, how many nights he spent in the dark, trying to outpace his demons. They always caught up.

And now, now he was back, but it hadn’t.

He gripped the coin so tightly that the ridges biting into his palm, sharp enough to sting.

“Yet, here you are.” He muttered, eyes pinned to you like a confession. “Like a wish I never should’ve made.”

Remmick’s eyes fell to you again, softer now, the hunger turning in on itself, folding into something heavier. Lonelier. He lingered there, just long enough to memorize the shape of you against the dark.

There was reverence in him. A violent kind, the kind that hurts at the touch of anything else.

And so, he walked away.

— 

The night stretched on, thick and suffocating. The moon hung low, thin as a grin carved into the dark. The air outside was cool, but inside Remmick’s mind, it burned.

The town was a quiet blur in his peripheral, the houses crammed together like teeth in the mouth of a corpse. Before him, the trees stood like sentinels, ancient and unmoved, their limbs clawing at the sky in supplication or threat.

He didn’t bother wiping the blood from his hands this time. Let it dry. Let it crust beneath his nails like penance. His boots sank into the mud where old rain hadn’t yet dried, and every step he took left a print that something might follow. Something hungry.

Remmick welcomed it.

His breath caught in his throat, ragged and wet, and the copper tang of violence lingered thick on his tongue. He leaned against a tree slick with moss and memory, its bark biting into his spine like it knew him. Like it had grown tall watching men like him rot from the inside out.

The cold bit at his cheeks, sharp and clean, but the heat beneath his skin throbbed with something else—something primal. Something wrong.

He’d carved his way through the night, through flesh and fear, looking for a place to set it all down. The hunger. The ache.

But nothing had sated it. Not the pleading. Not the blood. Not even the kill that had started it all. 

The sound of the man’s voice still echoed in his mind as he stood over the limp body, the familiar wetness of blood staining his hands. The landlord’s death had been a spark, not a balm. A reminder that the line between control and chaos had always been thinner than he’d liked to admit.

And now it was gone.

The line was gone.

Remmick wasn’t a fool. He knew what he had done. The death of the landlord had been easy. Too easy. But it hadn’t cleared the mess in his mind. The mess of you. Of your laugh, of the way your body had shifted under his touch, of the way you had made him feel in ways he couldn’t explain. 

Still, the rage gripped him just as you bloomed inside his chest like a stubborn weed in a field of bones.

His teeth ached.

He needed more.

Remmick had never truly wanted to kill you, not like the others. You were different, a reflection of everything he had lost. Everything he shouldn’t want. The hunger for your life was almost unbearable, but the act of taking it would mean something worse than death.

“I should’ve…” He rasped to the trees, to the night, to himself. “I should’ve ended it.”

You, he meant. But he couldn’t say your name. Not here. Not like this.

The wind sighed low through the pines, carrying with it the scent of honeysuckle and smoke. It reminded Remmick of you. Of your skin warmed by sleep, of your breath on his throat when he lingered too long outside your door.

You were in everything now. That was the cruelty of it.

He had broken the world trying to cut you out of it, and still, there you were—woven into the marrow of his ruin.

“I keep trying to bleed you out…” His voice cracked. Not from weakness. From truth.. “...but you just keep coming back.”

Because no matter how far he walked, how many lives he poured into the thirsty earth, your shadow stretched longer. You hadn’t tamed him. God no. But you’d marked him.

And now he was more beast than man, more hunger than heart.

Remmick looked up, through the latticework of limbs and stars, and his jaw clenched so hard it clicked. Somewhere behind him, the town would stir. The sun would rise. The bodies would be found, but none of that would matter.

Not if he went back. Not if he touched you again. Because the next time, he wouldn’t stop. And he didn’t know if that would ruin him—or set him free.

Remmick closed his eyes.

He could still feel your warmth in his bones, like the last fire he ever sat beside. And he made himself a promise—quiet, dark, and cold.

If he couldn’t burn the memory of you out, he would burn everything else down trying.

—

Morning came like a mercy.

Soft light seeped through the curtains, casting pale gold on the floorboards. The air held the hush of a chapel after mass, something sacred, something hollowed.

You blinked against it, slow to rise, limbs heavy from sleep—or whatever passed for it. The blankets clung to your skin. You felt too warm. Too watched. 

You reached instinctively for the chain at your throat. 

Your breath hitched. You sat up. You remembered taking it off last night, just before lying down, the clasp stiff from disuse. You’d laid it on the nightstand, right beside the lamp with the crooked shade and the half-drunk glass of water. The necklace, gone.

In its place, on the smooth wood surface, right where your necklace should’ve been, was a coin. Gold. Warming lightly from the weak light. Gleaming like a sun dropped from heaven.

You stared at it.

Not the same kind Remmick had pressed into the landlord’s palm, but not different either. It had weight. Presence.  It knew it didn’t belong there.

You picked it up. Held it in your hand carefully as if it had a pulse of its own.

A tithe. A token. An intrusion.

You swallowed. Stood. Moved through the house barefoot and slow, like stepping through a dream you weren’t sure would hold.  Remmick’s boots weren’t by the door. Not a trace left—except everything.

Your laundry, the pile you’d left forgotten, had been folded and stacked with the precision of something ritual. The front door was closed, but not locked.

You hadn’t dreamed of him. He had been here.

You should’ve felt safe. You should’ve felt honored. Instead, the stillness of the house pushed in on you like pressure behind the eyes, like a headache before it bloomed.

You looked again at the coin in your hand. You didn’t want to close your fist around it, but you did. It felt like it belonged to him, but it felt worse knowing he’d given it to you.

Your gaze drifted to the window, to the tree line in the distance, quiet and bristling in the breeze. You should go. You should move. But your legs didn’t listen.

Something had shifted in the night, and you couldn’t name it. Couldn’t touch it, but it was in the walls now. In the air. In you.

And yet... A part of you—deep and secret and wrong—wasn’t afraid.  Because Remmick had been here. And whatever else that meant, it meant something.

You whispered his name into the silence, just to see if it answered back.

It didn’t.

You lay between Remmick’s legs, perched stomach down, running your fingers over the outline of his jaw. He had some dried blood cracking around the edges of his lips and a streaked smear close to his ear where he tried to wipe away the evidence and failed.

His fingers trace up the indent of your spine, pressing down in each divot of bone, cherishing just how much your human body sings with his touch.

His skin was pleasantly warm tonight, coated in a layer of sweat from your activities just moments ago. He was flush, ears painted red on the tips, eyes hooded with something sickeningly sweet in them. You heard the purr, felt the vibration in his chest just under your own as he watched you – content, calm – with his human.

You slip your fingers over his lips, remembering just how good they felt wrapped around your skin, pressed into your thighs, sucking hard on the softened flesh of your stomach. They loved to mark, they loved to claim and praise, but they held back his secret.

You separate his lips to look over the sharpened fangs hidden away. This was a normal event for you – the fascination in his vamperic form. He has come to know this curiosity and no longer asks why you want to look or for how long. He slumps back further into the couch, reaching back only to cast a blanket over both of you. His hands rest back on you, one capping your hip, the other brushes circles on the side of your ass.

“How do these feel?” you ask, pressing the pad of your thumb into the front two teeth, taking in the way they threaten to break your skin. Really, he could tear you apart right now, but the sickened love in his eyes tell you otherwise.

“Just like they do when I bury them in your cunt,” his lips quirk for just a second. “Sharp, hot….” His nails press into the softness of your ass. “Dangerous.”

You hear the honey and lavender in his tone, the way it’s coated in continued want – for you, just for you.

“Do you ever bite your own self?” you continue on, attempting to ignore the blatant reply he’d just given you. “Like when you eat too fast? Do you bite yourself?”

He exhales slow, the heated breath swirls around the fingers still slipping past his teeth. “Not often. You come to get used to their nature and how to move around em,”

You wiggle further up, just so you can examine further, so your eyes rest in his view. Your breasts flatten against the plain of his chest, over the softened layer of hair between his pecs. He inhales the scent of you that wafts off your skin when you move. Sex and powder. Just how he likes it.

Your pointer finger meets the far-left canine, smiling as you trace the outline of it with your thumb nail.

“I like this one best,” you tell him, your tone soft. “I like how it sticks out more than the others. Reminds you that you were human – your imperfections are so beautiful.”

His brows flick, eye adjusting to you and the kindness you’d just offered. As a child - so far back he can barely remember at this point- he was teased for his teeth. How they bent and swayed and capped so wildly in his mouth. And now, in his vampire form, his teeth are seen as murder weapons. When he brandishes them, that means your end. He’d never had anyone admire them before – not until you.

His hands swiftly fold you into a tight caress, pressing you deeper into him. You felt his heart as it lapped under you, you saw the softness of his features as they adjusted to the love you offered him.

“When’s the last time you were told you were beautiful?” you move your hand to cup his cheek – his eyes flutter.

“My mama was the only person who thought me beautiful.”

“Well,” you brush the tips of your noses together, resting there for a moment, breathing in each other. “You can’t say that anymore.” You kiss him full, feeling those fangs shift under your lips as he kisses you back with love.