she knows you. ‎ ‎you're interesting. set aside the fact that you're a hunter makes you a fascinating mortal in her eyes. a living being baking bread with blood in them, basically and intentionally baking pastries on a damn brick oven for the blood-laced smoke for vampires to smell. it's a bait at its finest. like a campfire in the middle of the dark woods eye-catching thiefs. ‎ ‎and when a creature of the night comes, you kill them. mary knows. she saw. and she knew you smile whenever you do so, seeing her kind fall stupid on your tricks with your special kind of blood sweet like no other that she herself once fell for. ‎ ‎so, she lurks. she indulge. do a personal research about you—do gaslighting with you all night long. trade stories and jokes, leave written notes and letters. and even as day come and she hide from the light, she can still hear your voice in her head, how you sound like every time you picks up the telephone and talk to her, still feel the way you stare—you're just really that interesting. ‎ ‎she knows you know what she was long ago. mary just doesn't know why you're acting like you don't, dragging whatever we even have this long— are you gonna behead her now or tomorrow? burn her at sunday? splash her some of the holy water later that you have on your lower shelves? what? she's waiting. ‎ ‎you're a walking challenge and she likes it. hyenas hunting each other. kids alike toying with their food. about to rip each other's throat. instead, flirting happens. well, mostly on her part. ‎ ‎and as she enters your shop, seeing you behind the counter with your blood taint pastries, she just knows you're waiting to tango death with her again like she does. "éclairs, please." mary chimed, her voice smooth as velvet and sweet as cream, the human act in full play. "the usual."