Liez heard the lock click before he heard the door open. That was the thing about Dahlia—she never knocked, never announced herself, never gave him the two seconds it would take to prepare for the weight of her presence. The deadbolt turned with a soft, deliberate snick, and then the air changed, the close dimness of his entryway filling with something that made his chest tighten.

Night-blooming flowers. Jasmine, maybe, or something darker, something that only opened after midnight and only for the creatures that crawled through the dark. And copper underneath it, metallic and faintly sweet, the smell of blood that had been spilled hours ago and washed away but never quite forgotten.

The coat on the hook by the door swayed, disturbed by the draft she'd pulled in, and then she was there, filling the frame of his doorway like she owned it.

Dahlia.

Porcelain skin with that faint blue undertone, like she'd been carved from ice and left to thaw just enough to move. Burgundy hair falling in soft waves past her waist, catching the low light from his kitchen like spilled wine. Dark red eyes that found his in the dimness and held them, hungry and familiar and utterly unsurprised to find him standing there.

He opened his mouth to say her name, to ask what she was doing here—though he knew, he always knew—and then her hand was on his chest, and she was walking him backward until his shoulders hit the wall.

The damp coat swung again, brushing his arm, and he felt the cool wood of the doorframe against his shoulder blades. She pressed against him, slender and deceptively strong, and her fangs grazed the skin of his throat, not breaking it, just promising.

"I've been thinking about your cock all day," she murmured, her voice a low, velvet rasp against his skin.

His hands found her waist on instinct. The fabric of her dress was thin, almost weightless, and beneath it her body was cool to the touch, the way everything about her was cool, like she'd been stored in moonlight.

"That so?" he managed, and his voice came out rougher than he intended, already catching on the hook she'd set in him.

"Mm." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and there was something in her gaze that wasn't quite playfulness, wasn't quite hunger—something ravenous and old, a craving that had been building for decades and had only recently found an address. "I was arranging the night-blooming cereus. Seven pots of it, all opening at once. And all I could think about was your cock in my mouth."

Her hand slid down his chest, slow, deliberate, tracing the line of his sternum through his t-shirt, and then lower, palm flat against his stomach, and then lower still, until she was gripping him through his jeans.

He was already hard. He hadn't even noticed it happen, hadn't felt the shift, but there was no hiding it from her—her fingers curled around him, squeezing through the denim, and she smiled, a small, private smile that made his breath catch.

"Already ready for me," she said, and it wasn't a question.

"You make it hard not to be."

She laughed, a soft, breathless sound that stirred the air between them, and then she was sinking, dropping to her knees on the entryway floor with a grace that made the movement look choreographed. Her hands found his belt buckle, and her fingers worked it with practiced ease—no fumbling, no hesitation, like she'd done this a hundred times before.

Maybe she had. Maybe that was the thing he didn't want to think about, the parade of others who had knelt in this exact spot, in this exact pose, their mouths already open. But Dahlia wasn't like the others. Dahlia was a regular now, her visits a ritual she'd stopped pretending she could control, and there was something in the way her fingers moved that felt less like routine and more like worship.

The belt came free. The button of his jeans gave under her thumb. The zipper slid down with a rasp that sounded impossibly loud in the quiet entryway.

She pulled his jeans down just far enough, and then his boxers, and his cock sprang free, already aching, already leaking a bead of pre-cum that caught the dim light.

Dahlia made a sound low in her throat—a hum of appreciation, of recognition, of the particular satisfaction of finding exactly what she'd been craving all day. Her hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, cool fingers barely circling the girth, and she tilted her head to look up at him.

"You have no idea," she said, her voice dropping to something almost reverent, "how long I've been thinking about this."

"Show me."

She did.

Her mouth opened, and she took him in—slow, deliberate, her lips stretching around the head of his cock, her tongue flat and hot against the underside. The heat of her was a shock; her body ran cool everywhere else, but her mouth was furnace-warm, and the contrast made his hips buck involuntarily.

She moaned around him, a low, vibrating sound that traveled straight up his shaft and settled in his balls, and her hand worked the base, stroking what her mouth couldn't reach.

"Fuck," he breathed, his head falling back against the wall.

She pulled off just enough to speak, her lips brushing the head of his cock, her breath hot and damp against his skin. "You taste even better than I remembered."

"It's—" He lost the thought as she took him deep again, her throat opening for him, swallowing him to the root. "It's been two days."

She pulled off, a string of saliva connecting her lower lip to the head of his cock, glistening in the low light. "Two days too long."

Then she went back to work.

There was no hesitation in her, no learning curve, no tentative exploration. She knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to take it. Her tongue traced the vein on the underside of his shaft, following it down to the base, and then she swallowed him again, her throat working around him, her nose brushing the dark hair at his groin.

He fisted a hand in her burgundy hair, not to guide her—she didn't need guiding—but to anchor himself, to hold on to something solid while she took him apart.

"Dahlia—"

She looked up at him, her dark red eyes meeting his, and there was something in them that made his chest ache. Not just hunger. Not just satisfaction. Something deeper, something that looked almost like longing, like she was trying to memorize the shape of him from the inside.

She pulled off, panting, a thin thread of spit connecting her to him. "You like watching me choke on your cock, don't you?"

"Fuck, yes."

"Good." She licked her lips, slow and deliberate, savoring. "Because I like doing it. I like the way you feel in my throat. I like the way you taste. I like knowing that I'm the one making you lose your mind."

She took him again, deeper this time, her throat opening around him with a wet, obscene sound that echoed in the close entryway. Her hand worked the base, stroking in rhythm with her mouth, and her other hand slid up his thigh, nails raking lightly across his skin.

He was close. He could feel it building, the familiar coil of heat tightening in his gut, the pressure mounting behind his balls. But he didn't want to come yet. He wanted to stay here, in this moment, with her mouth hot around him and her eyes locked on his and the scent of night-blooming flowers and copper filling the air.

"You're close," she murmured, pulling off just enough to speak, her lips brushing the head of his cock. "I can feel it. You're so close."

"I don't want to—"

"Yes, you do." She swallowed him again, deeper, her throat working around him, and her hand moved faster, stroking him with a practiced rhythm that made his vision blur. "Come for me, Liez. Come down my throat. I want to taste every drop."

The words undid him.

His hips bucked, and he came with a groan that tore out of his chest, his cock pulsing as he spilled down her throat. She swallowed, and swallowed again, her throat working around him, and when he finally softened, she pulled off with a wet, satisfied sound, licking her lips clean.

She rose, slow and graceful, and pressed her mouth to his.

The taste of himself was on her lips, salty and familiar, and he kissed her back without thinking, his hands finding her waist, pulling her close. She melted into him, her cool body pressing against his warmth, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the press of her mouth and the scent of night-blooming flowers and the weight of her against him.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and there was something in her gaze that made his chest tighten—something raw and unguarded, a vulnerability she only ever showed him in the quiet after.

"I'm going to keep coming back," she said, her voice soft, almost wondering. "I don't think I can stop."

He didn't argue. He just kissed her again, slow and deep, and let himself feel it.

The kiss went on longer than it should have. Longer than either of them needed it to, certainly—she'd already had what she came for, and he'd already given it, and by any reasonable accounting the transaction was complete. But Dahlia didn't pull away, and he didn't push her, and so they stood there in the dim entryway, her cool body pressed against his warmth, the damp coat still swaying gently on its hook like it was keeping time for them.

When she finally broke the kiss, she didn't step back. She stayed close, her forehead resting against his, her breath warm against his lips despite the coolness of the rest of her. Her hands had found their way under his shirt at some point, palms flat against his stomach, and he could feel the faint chill of her fingers seeping into his skin, raising goosebumps in their wake.

"You know what I realized?" she murmured, her voice still soft, still wondering, like she was telling him a secret she'd only just discovered herself.

"What's that?"

She pulled back just enough to look at him, and her dark red eyes were unguarded in a way he'd never seen them before. No hunger, no playfulness, no mask. Just her, looking at him like he was the first thing she'd seen in decades that wasn't a ghost.

"I don't come here because I need to." She said it slowly, carefully, like she was testing the weight of each word before she let it leave her mouth. "I come here because I want to. And I don't think I've wanted anything in a very long time."

The confession landed somewhere in his chest, a warm weight that settled between his ribs. He knew what she meant—knew the particular numbness that came from going through the motions of living without ever actually feeling it. He'd seen it in a hundred spirits, a thousand creatures, all of them going through the rituals of existence while something vital had gone quiet inside them.

"That's not nothing," he said, and his voice came out rougher than he intended, catching on the weight of what she'd just given him.

"No," she agreed, and a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth, something almost shy in it. "It's not."

She let her hands slide out from under his shirt, but instead of stepping away, she reached up and traced the line of his jaw with one cool finger, feather-light, like she was memorizing the shape of him. Her eyes followed the movement, watching her own hand like it belonged to someone else, like she couldn't quite believe she was allowed to touch him like this.

"I've been alone for a long time," she said, quiet, almost to herself. "Not lonely, exactly—I had the shop, the flowers, the creatures who came and went. But alone. And I'd gotten so used to it that I'd stopped noticing." Her finger trailed down his throat, pausing at the hollow where his pulse beat, warm and alive. "Then you walked in, and you saw me. Actually saw me. And I realized I'd been starving without knowing it."

He caught her hand before she could pull it away, lacing his fingers through hers. Her skin was cool against his palm, but her grip tightened, holding on like she was afraid he might disappear.

"You're not alone anymore," he said, and he meant it, meant it in a way that surprised him with its force.

She looked at him for a long moment, something shifting in her eyes—something that might have been disbelief, or hope, or both. Then she leaned in and kissed him again, softer this time, almost tender, like she was trying to pour every unspoken thing she couldn't say into the press of her lips against his.

When she pulled back, her cheeks were faintly flushed—the first color he'd ever seen in her porcelain skin—and she was smiling, a real smile, not the practiced curve she wore like armor.

"I'm going to hold you to that," she said, and there was a promise in it, a warning, a vow.

"I'm counting on it."

She laughed, a soft, breathless sound, and stepped back, her hand slipping from his. The air between them cooled instantly, the absence of her a physical thing, and he watched her cross to the door, watched her fingers find the deadbolt she'd turned not twenty minutes ago.

She paused with her hand on the lock, looking back over her shoulder at him. The low light caught the burgundy of her hair, the curve of her cheek, the dark red of her eyes, and for a moment she looked less like a creature of the night and more like something he'd conjured from a dream.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asked, and it wasn't really a question—it was a statement of fact, a ritual already established, a promise she was making to herself as much as to him.

"Same time tomorrow," he agreed.

She smiled, and then the lock clicked, and the door opened, and she was gone, pulling the night in after her. The scent of night-blooming flowers and copper lingered in the entryway, clinging to the close air, and the damp coat swayed once, twice, then settled into stillness.

Liez stood there for a long moment, his back against the wall where she'd pressed him, his cock still half-hard and aching, the taste of her still on his lips. The apartment felt emptier than it had before she arrived—not quieter, not darker, but emptier, like she'd taken something with her when she'd gone, something he hadn't realized he'd been carrying until it was missing.

He pushed off the wall, his legs unsteady, and walked to the kitchen to get a glass of water. His reflection in the window was pale and drawn, his lips slightly swollen, his shirt rumpled where her hands had gripped it. He looked like a man who'd been thoroughly, completely, devastatingly fucked—and he supposed he had been, in a way, even if the fucking had been with her mouth and her throat and the particular, devastating skill she'd brought to every inch of him.

The water was cold, and it did nothing to cool the heat still coiled low in his gut. He set the glass down and leaned against the counter, staring at the dark window, at his own reflection, at the ghost of her scent still hanging in the air.

He'd meant what he said. She wasn't alone anymore. And neither was he.