I sit cross-legged on the vanity stool, the bristles dragging through my hair in long, soothing strokes. My reflection stares back at me—honey-brown eyes, the slight flush of warmth still lingering from the shower, the baby blue nightgown slipping off one shoulder. I look like I belong in a cottagecore aesthetic, not a vampire fortress.
Behind me, Eryth's reflection flickers into existence half a second after he moves. He's standing at his closet, actually browsing through the rack of identical black garments like he's looking for something specific. I've never seen him do that before. He usually just grabs the first collared shirt and calls it a day.
"Sooo..." I drag the word out, letting it hang in the air. "Any important family members I should know about?"
His hand pauses on a hanger. The silence stretches, just long enough to be deliberate. "No." Flat. Final. He pulls out a black shirt—surprise, surprise—and disappears into the bathroom without another word.
I lean back, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of him through the crack in the door before it clicks shut. The angle is useless. I huff and turn back to the mirror, catching the faintest movement of him shrugging off his collared shirt. Damn it. I snap my attention back to my hair, pretending I wasn't staring.
The door opens a minute later. I don't turn around, but I watch his reflection carefully now, timing the delay. There he is—baggy black shirt, loose lounge shorts. No collar. No buttons. He looks... comfortable. Soft. His hair is slightly mussed, like he ran his fingers through it and couldn't be bothered to fix it.
My mouth goes dry. I quickly look down at the bristles in my hand, brush, brush, brush like I'm getting paid for it.
"Awh." I force my voice back to teasing. "Nobody close to you?"
He walks to the window, arms crossing. "My father is the only one I talk to."
That's... something. A crack. I file it away carefully, turning on my stool to face him properly. He's standing with his back to the glass, the muted gray sky catching the sharp lines of his jaw, the silver rings glinting on his fingers.
"What about Oculan?" I ask, letting the name roll off my tongue with deliberate sweetness.
He stops. Slowly, like a horror movie monster, he turns his head to face me. His crimson eyes are flat. "I dislike his name on your lips."
I pucker my lips, making a kissy face. "Kiss me then."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then he turns back to the window, dismissing me entirely.
I frown, but it's mostly for show. I swivel back to the vanity and pick up the brush again, working through a tangle at the nape of my neck. I'm going to braid it tonight—a neat, single braid that won't get tangled while I sleep. My mother always said braiding your hair before bed keeps it healthy.
The silence settles around us, not uncomfortable but present. I hear the faint clink of metal—he's taking off his watch. I watch his reflection in the mirror. In the reflection, his hands are busy unbuckling the silver band. In real time, he's still staring out the window, motionless.
I tilt my head back to look at him upside down. "Do you have friends?"
He blinks. The question catches him off guard, I can tell by the slight furrow of his brow. Then he looks at me, and shrugs. "Hm."
"Can I meet them—"
"No." Flat. No room.
"Why not?" I pout, turning fully around now, brush still in hand. "I'm a delight."
"They're all vampires." He says it like that explains everything. "Not the good kind. The stupid kind."
I perk up, curiosity sharpening my voice. "What kind is that?"
He doesn't answer. Instead, he turns from the window and crosses to the bed, sinking onto the edge with the practiced grace of someone who's been sitting on the same spot of mattress for decades. He's looking at his hands now, the watch dangling from his fingers.
"Vampires who don't understand why I'd submit to a human," he says quietly. "They'd see you as prey. Nothing more."
Oh.
The playfulness in my chest softens into something warmer. I set the brush down and stand, padding across the floorboards to where he sits. I stop just in front of him, close enough that my nightgown brushes his knees.
"You submitted to me," I say, tilting his chin up with two fingers so he has to meet my eyes. "That took guts."
His throat works. "That took addiction."
"Same thing, different packaging." I smile, and it's not my teasing smile. It's the soft one, the one I save for when I catch him looking at me like I'm the only light in the room. "I think it's brave. To trust someone the way you trust me."
He doesn't pull away. His hand lifts, almost involuntarily, and brushes a strand of hair from my shoulder. The touch lingers, his knuckles grazing the strap of my nightgown.
"I don't trust you," he says, but his voice is hoarse.
"Liar."
He makes a sound—half scoff, half something else—and drops his hand. "What do you want, Ophelia?"
I tilt my head, considering. "I want to know more about you. The real you. Not the brooding vampire act."
"That is the real me."
"Nope." I settle onto my knees in front of him, perched on the floor like a child. My nightgown pools around me. "The real you is the one who took me to a secret garden. Who told me I'd look good in pink. Who stayed on the bed even though he wanted to run."
He's silent. His jaw tightens.
I reach out and take his hand. His fingers are cold, but they curl around mine, reflexive. "Tell me something. One thing I don't know."
He stares at our joined hands. The seconds stretch. I can feel the tension in him—the desire to pull away, the stronger desire to stay.
"I don't know how to do this," he finally says, and his voice cracks at the edges. "This. Us. I don't know how to be..." He gestures vaguely with his free hand. "Soft."
I squeeze his fingers. "Then don't be. Be whatever you are. I'll figure out the rest."
He looks at me then, really looks, and something in his eyes shifts. Like a door cracking open. "I never wanted a wife. I never wanted anyone."
"And now?"
He doesn't answer. But he doesn't let go of my hand either.
I rise to my feet slowly, keeping hold of him. "Come on. Let's braid my hair."
He blinks. "What?"
"Braid my hair. It's a domestic activity. Very bonding." I tug him upright, and he follows, bewildered. I guide him to the vanity stool and push him down onto it. Then I hand him the brush and turn my back to him, settling onto the floor at his feet, my hair spilling behind me.
He holds the brush like it might bite him. "I don't know how."
"Figure it out." I lean back, letting the weight of my head rest against his knee. "I trust you."
I feel him tense. Then, slowly, his fingers thread through my hair, tentative at first, then steadier. The brush follows, dragging through the tangles with surprising gentleness.
I close my eyes and let myself be touched.
The brush drags through my hair again, slow and steady. His fingers follow the bristles, smoothing the strands, and I let out a long, sleepy exhale.
"What's your favourite food?" I ask, yawning.
His hand pauses for half a beat. Then the brush continues its path, dragging from scalp to tip with that same unexpected gentleness. "Your blood."
I almost forget he's a vampire. The warmth of his touch, the domestic rhythm of the brushing—it's so normal. So human. Then he opens his mouth and reminds me exactly what he is.
"Besides that," I say.
"Nothing."
I crack one eye open, peering up at him sideways. His face is unreadable, those crimson eyes fixed on my hair like it's a complex engineering problem he's solving strand by strand. "What about animal blood?"
"I prefer rabbit blood." The brush finds a tangle at the base of my skull. He works it out with painstaking patience, his knuckles grazing my scalp. "It's similar to yours. Sweet. But it's nothing compared to yours."
A shiver trails down my spine and settles somewhere in my lower belly. I close my eyes again, letting myself sink into the feeling of his hands in my hair, the low rumble of his voice so close to my ear.
"It's weird that you guys have a whole menu of just blood," I mumble.
"You humans eat cardboard."
I snort. "We have variety."
"So do we."
I tilt my head back further, letting it rest against his knee as I look up at him properly. His jaw is sharp from this angle, the hollow of his throat visible above the loose collar of his shirt. "But you just like my blood. Nothing else."
His hands still. The brush hangs mid-stroke, suspended in the air. Then he sets it down on the vanity and I feel his fingers thread through my hair instead—slower, more deliberate. He tilts my head, positioning it just so, and resumes brushing each strand with excruciating care.
"Think of it as..." His voice drops, going husky at the edges. "Cocaine. Alcohol. Cigarettes. I can drink other animal blood, but I'd rather drown in yours. If not blood, then your scent. It's intoxicating."
The last word curls through the air like smoke. I feel it in my chest first, then lower, a tight pull that makes me clench my thighs together without thinking.
"How romantic," I mumble, but my voice comes out breathier than I intended.
I pause. Something he said snags in my brain.
"Scent?" I twist to look at him over my shoulder. "Like pheromones?" I mean it as a joke. A tease. Something to deflect the heat crawling up my neck.
He meets my eyes. Holds them. "Yes."
I almost choke.
His fingers continue their work, methodical and unhurried, as if he hasn't just dropped a bomb in my lap. "Your blood type. Mixed with your genetics. Your chemistry." He says each word like he's tasting it. "It creates an amazing scent that draws vampires."
I shiver. Full-body, visible, can't-help-it shiver. The kind that starts at my shoulders and ripples all the way down to my toes.
Is this vampire flirting?
I turn forward again, staring at my reflection in the vanity mirror. My cheeks are flushed. My eyes are wide. Behind me, Eryth's reflection shows him focused entirely on my hair, his brow furrowed in concentration, his fingers moving with a tenderness that seems impossible for someone who once called humans cattle.
"So what you're saying is," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel, "I'm basically a walking perfume ad. For vampires."
His lips twitch. The smallest movement, barely there, but I catch it in the mirror. "You're the only perfume I want to smell."
I press my thighs together harder. "That's—" I swallow. "That's a lot."
"You asked."
"I didn't ask you to be smooth about it."
His fingers pause. He looks up, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "You think I'm being smooth?"
"You know what you're doing."
"I don't." His voice is quiet. Honest. "I'm telling you the truth. That's all."
The honesty catches me off guard. I look away from the mirror, down at my hands folded in my lap, at the pale blue fabric of my nightgown pooled around me. My heart is beating too fast. I can feel it in my throat, in my wrists, in the space behind my ribs.
He finishes the section he was working on and reaches for the brush again. I watch his reflection pick it up, adjust his grip, and begin the next panel of hair with the same methodical patience.
"You're good at this," I say quietly.
"I've never done it before."
"You're a natural."
He doesn't respond, but I feel his fingers pause for just a second before continuing. A tiny acknowledgment. A crack I can slip through.
I let the silence settle. The rasp of bristles through hair fills the room, punctuated by the occasional soft click of the brush against the vanity. Outside, the muted gray sky has deepened toward evening, casting long shadows across the floorboards.
"How long have you been a vampire?" I ask, keeping my voice casual.
"Three centuries."
"That's a long time to not be good at brushing hair."
He makes a sound—half scoff, half something warmer. "I had staff."
"Ah. The aristocratic approach." I nod sagely. "Very on-brand."
I feel the brush drag down the final section of my hair. He sets it aside, and his fingers take over, dividing the damp strands into three sections with surprising precision. He's actually going to braid it.
The first crossover is clumsy. His fingers fumble, the strands twisting wrong. He pulls them apart and starts again, slower this time, his brow furrowing in concentration.
I hide a smile. "Need help?"
"No."
"You sure? Because that looked like a knot, not a braid."
His fingers pause. "I said no."
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. "God, you're stubborn."
"I'm three hundred years old. I can learn to braid hair."
"By all means. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere."
He works at it in silence, his fingers moving with increasing confidence. The second crossover goes better. The third, smoother still. By the time he reaches the middle of the braid, his rhythm is steady, his touch sure.
I close my eyes and let myself be held by the feeling. His knuckles brushing the back of my neck. The gentle tug as he weaves the strands together. The weight of his attention, focused entirely on me, on this small, domestic act that means more than he probably realizes.
When he reaches the end, his fingers fumble with the elastic. He tries twice to wrap it around the tip of the braid, failing both times. On the third attempt, I reach back and guide his hand, my fingers pressing the elastic into place.
"There," I whisper.
His hand is still at the nape of my neck, the braid complete. Neither of us moves.
I open my eyes and look at our reflection. The braid is imperfect—loose in places, slightly crooked at the crown—but it's real. He made it. He tried.
"It's terrible," he says.
"It's perfect." I catch his eye in the mirror. "Thank you."
He looks away first. His hand drops from my neck, and he stands, suddenly restless, moving toward the window like the intimacy of the moment has burned him.
I stay where I am, perched on the floor at his vanity, my braid hanging over one shoulder. The air between us has changed. It's charged now, humming with something unspoken.
I rise slowly, turning to face him. He's standing with his back to me, one hand pressed flat against the window frame, his shoulders tight.
"Eryth."
He doesn't turn. "What."
I cross the room on bare feet, the floorboards cool against my soles. I stop a foot behind him, close enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curl against the wood frame.
"Turn around."
He doesn't move.
I reach out and touch his back. Just my palm against the fabric of his loose black shirt. He goes still beneath my hand, every muscle locking.
"Please."
He turns. Slowly, like it costs him something. His crimson eyes find mine, guarded and raw all at once.
I step closer. Close enough that my chest almost brushes his. I have to tilt my chin up to hold his gaze, and I see the war happening behind his eyes—the instinct to flee, the hunger to stay.
I lift my hand and press it flat against his chest. His heart isn't beating. I knew that. But beneath my palm, I feel something—a vibration, a warmth, a pulse of a different kind. His body reacting to mine.
"I want to kiss you again," I say quietly. "But I want you to kiss me back this time."
His jaw tightens. "I don't know how—"
"You don't have to know how." I rise on my toes, bringing my lips close to his. "You just have to want to."
I pause there, hovering, giving him space to pull away, to deflect, to retreat into sarcasm. The silence stretches between us, taut and fragile, like a thread about to snap.
His hand lifts. Trembling slightly. He cups my jaw, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone, and his eyes search mine like he's looking for permission he's afraid to find.
"I want to," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word.
I close the distance.
The kiss is soft. Tentative. His lips are cool against mine, unmoving at first, as if he's forgotten what to do. I don't push. I just stay there, my mouth pressed to his, my breath mingling with his, until I feel the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
The kiss is soft. Tentative. His lips are cool against mine, unmoving at first, as if he's forgotten what to do. I don't push. I just stay there, my mouth pressed to his, my breath mingling with his, until I feel the tension in his shoulders begin to ease.
His hand lifts slowly, hesitantly, and cups my face. His palm is cool against my cheek, his fingers threading into the hair at my temple. The touch is gentle—surprisingly gentle—like he's handling something fragile. Something precious. His thumb brushes along my cheekbone, and I feel the tremor running through his hand, the barely restrained hunger that he's holding back.
I lean into his touch, my lips parting against his, and I feel the exact moment something shifts in him. His breath catches—a sharp, jagged sound—and his fingers tighten in my hair, just barely.
Then his hand moves. His finger brushes the bandage on my neck.
He stops. Pulls back. His crimson eyes drop to the white patch covering the twin punctures, and something in his face closes. His hand falls from my cheek.
"Eryth—"
He shakes his head, already stepping back. "We shouldn't."
I step forward, closing the distance he tried to create. "It's okay—"
"It's not." His voice cracks. He won't look at me. His hand is pressed flat against his chest now, like he's holding himself together. "I hurt you. I nearly—I can't—"
"Kiss me."
He doesn't move. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking beneath the pale skin.
"Kiss me," I say again, softer. I reach up and take his hand, pulling it away from his chest and pressing it to my waist. "I'm not afraid of you, Eryth."
"You should be."
"But I'm not." I step closer, until my chest brushes his, until I can feel the cold radiating off him through the thin fabric of my nightgown. "You want to kiss me. I want you to kiss me. That's all that matters right now."
He looks at me then. His crimson eyes are raw, vulnerable in a way that makes my chest ache. "I don't deserve—"
"Stop." I rise on my toes and press my lips to his, cutting off the protest. "Just kiss me, Eryth."
For a long, agonizing moment, he's still. Then I feel his hand at my waist, tentative at first, then firmer, pulling me against him. His lips move against mine—still hesitant, still learning—but there's something new in it. A purpose. A decision.
Then he sighs against my mouth, a sound of surrender, and leads.
His hand slides to the small of my back, pressing me closer. His lips part mine, and I feel the cool sweep of his tongue against my lower lip, tasting, testing. The kiss deepens, and I gasp at the sudden intensity, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He's good.
No—he's way too good.
His mouth moves with a confidence that wasn't there a moment ago, finding the right angle, the right pressure, the exact rhythm that makes my knees weak. He tilts my head with his hand on my jaw, and the new angle sends heat pooling low in my belly, spreading through me like warm honey.
"Mph—"
I try to break the kiss, to catch my breath, but his arm tightens around my waist and he pushes me backward. My calves hit the edge of the bed. I fall back onto the mattress, the air leaving my lungs in a startled rush, and he follows me down, one knee on the bed, hovering over me.
I look up at him, panting. His hair has fallen forward, dark strands framing his sharp face. His crimson eyes are blown wide, pupils dilated, fixed on me like I'm the only thing in the room. In the world.
"Y-you're a good—" I swallow, my voice breathless and thin. "A good kisser."
His lips curve, just barely. "Years of practice."
I pout, a mock offense that feels absurd given my position—sprawled beneath him, nightgown rumpled, chest rising and falling too fast. "Don't make me jealous."
He leans down, his mouth hovering a hair's breadth from mine. "Don't make me want to."
Then he kisses me again.
There's nothing tentative about this kiss. His hand slides into my hair, angling my head back, and his mouth claims mine with a hunger that steals my breath. His tongue sweeps against mine, deep and searching, and I moan against his lips, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer, closer, needing more.
He kisses me again. And again. Each one deeper than the last, his mouth never leaving mine for more than a heartbeat. A string of saliva connects our lips when he pulls back just far enough to breathe, and the sight of it—silver-bright in the dim light, stretched between us—makes something hot and desperate twist in my chest.
I'm drowning.
This is amazing.
His hand slides down my side, palm skimming over the curve of my waist, my hip, pressing me into the mattress like he's trying to memorize the shape of me through the thin cotton of my nightgown. His breathing is ragged, uneven, and when he pulls back to look at me, his eyes are dark with something I've never seen in them before.
He looks like he's addicted.
Not to my blood. Not to my scent. To me.
His pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the crimson. His lips are parted, slightly swollen, wet from mine. His chest rises and falls with breaths he doesn't need to take—mirroring mine, syncing to my rhythm, as if his body is learning to be human again just by being close to me.
"Ophelia." My name on his lips sounds like a prayer. Like a question he's afraid to ask.
I reach up and touch his face, my fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw, the hollow of his cheek. He leans into my touch, his eyes fluttering closed, and the vulnerability in that small gesture makes my heart clench.
"I'm still here," I whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."
He opens his eyes. For a long moment, he just looks at me—really looks, like he's seeing me for the first time. Then he lowers his head, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my lips.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he admits, his voice rough. "I've never—" He stops, swallows. "I don't know how to be what you want."
I slide my hand to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the cool strands of his hair. "Then just be what you are."
"And what if that's not enough?"
I pull back just far enough to meet his eyes. "It is."
He searches my face, looking for doubt, for the lie. He doesn't find it. Something in his expression shifts—cracks, maybe, or opens—and he dips his head, pressing a kiss to the corner of my mouth. Then my cheek. Then the curve of my jaw.
A shaky exhale escapes me. My fingers tighten in his hair.
He trails his lips down the column of my throat, featherlight, avoiding the bandage with deliberate care. His mouth finds the hollow at the base of my neck, and he presses a kiss there, soft and lingering, like he's tasting my pulse through my skin.
I arch beneath him, a sound escaping my throat—half gasp, half whimper.
He freezes. Lifts his head. Those crimson eyes meet mine, dark and searching. "Did I—"
"No." I pull him back down, my arms wrapping around his neck. "Don't stop."
He hesitates for a fraction of a second. Then his mouth finds mine again, and the kiss is softer this time, slower, but no less consuming. His hand slides up my side, fingers grazing the thin strap of my nightgown, and I feel the question in his touch—is this okay, can I, should I stop.
I answer by pressing closer, my body molding against his, my lips parting beneath his.
His thumb traces the strap, pushing it down my shoulder just a fraction. The cool air hits my skin, and I shiver, but not from the cold. His mouth follows the path his hand made, kissing the curve of my shoulder, the hollow of my collarbone, and I feel the world narrowing to the points where his lips touch me.
He pulls back again, breathing hard. His hand is trembling against my ribcage.
"We should stop," he says, but his voice is hoarse, unconvinced. "Before I—"
"Before what?"
He doesn't answer. But I see it in his eyes—the fear. The fear of losing control again. Of hurting me. Of becoming the monster he thinks he is.
I cup his face in both hands, forcing him to meet my gaze. "You won't hurt me."
"You don't know that."
"I do." I hold his gaze, steady and sure. "Because you'll stop if I tell you to. And I'll stop if I need to. That's what trust is, Eryth."
His throat works. His eyes are bright, too bright, and I realize with a jolt that he's close to something I've never seen from him before. Tears. The arrogant, sarcastic vampire who called humans cattle is close to tears, hovering over me, his body trembling with the effort of restraint.
"I don't deserve you," he whispers.
"Too bad." I pull him down and kiss him, soft and deliberate. "You're stuck with me."
He makes a sound—half laugh, half sob—and kisses me back. Desperate now. Hungry. Like he's trying to pour everything he can't say into the press of his lips against mine.
I let myself fall into it. Into him. Into the warmth spreading through my chest, the heat pooling low in my belly, the dizzying sensation of being wanted by someone who has spent centuries convincing himself he doesn't want anything.
His hand slides into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and he kisses me until I can't breathe, until the world outside this room ceases to exist, until there's nothing left but the cool press of his mouth, the weight of his body against mine, and the quiet, staggering realization that I'm falling for him.
When he finally pulls back, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, his eyes closed, his hand still tangled in my hair.
"I'm in trouble," he murmurs.
I smile, my lips brushing his as I speak. "Good."
He huffs a laugh—a real one, warm and surprised, like he forgot he knew how. Then he opens his eyes and looks at me, and I see something new in them. Something fragile. Something hopeful.
"You're dangerous, Ophelia Castellano."
"I know." I press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "That's the point."
He shakes his head slowly, wonder and defeat mingling in his expression. Then he lowers himself to the mattress beside me, one arm still around my waist, and pulls me against his chest. I feel his cheek press against the top of my head, his breath stirring my hair.
"Can we stay like this?" I whisper. "Just for a while?"
His arm tightens around me. His lips brush my hairline, featherlight. "As long as you want."
I close my eyes, listening to the silence of the room, the stillness of his chest where a heartbeat should be. But I feel something else—a warmth radiating from him, a vibration against my skin, a pulse of a different kind.
I trail my fingers along his collarbone, tracing the collarbone through his shirt, then hook my thumb into the collar of his shirt, pulling it down just enough to see the pale skin beneath. My fingers graze his shoulder, soft, exploring. I watch his throat move as he swallows, feel the tension ripple through his frame. He turns his head, and his lips press against the crown of my hair again.
"Stay," I whisper.
He doesn't answer. But he doesn't leave either. His grip on me tightens, and I feel him exhale, long and slow, as if he's finally, impossibly, letting himself rest.
Outside, the muted gray sky has deepened to charcoal, the first stars pricking through the darkness like tiny silver wounds. The cool air from the window brushes my skin, and I shiver against him. He responds immediately, pulling the corner of the duvet over us, cocooning me in warmth that has nothing to do with temperature.
I tilt my head back to look at him. His eyes are closed—actually closed, lashes dark against his pale cheek, his face slack and peaceful in a way I've never seen.
"Eryth?"
"Hm?"
I trace his jaw with my fingertips, a slow, deliberate path. "Thank you."
His eyes open, catching mine. "For what?"
"For staying."
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then his hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together, and he brings them to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles.
"Thank you for letting me," he says, his voice rough and raw and real.
I smile against his chest, tucking myself closer, and let the silence settle around us—warm, and full, and waiting for whatever comes next.