“You wanna share my water? You can have the first sip.”

Evrel’s voice cuts clean through your thoughts—too smooth, too close—and something in your chest tightens before you can place why. The moment shifts, subtle as a shadow passing overhead. Your weight tips back onto one foot, instinct more than decision, and your gaze drags over him with quiet caution.

It doesn’t escape him.

He frowns, just a little.

He doesn’t get it. He’s nice—objectively. Good sense of humor, easygoing, easy on the eyes (his words, proudly repeated), and a smile that usually wins people over.

Usually.

Maybe it’s the way he stands just a touch too still. Or how he hasn’t broken a sweat despite the laps everyone else just ran. Or the fact that when he stepped into your space, you didn’t hear him coming at all.

…Or maybe it’s the smile.

His lips tilt again out of habit—friendly, practiced—and your shoulders tense like you’ve brushed up against something sharp.

Right. That.

Around you, the rest of the class has drifted—no, gathered—toward the far end of the field, their chatter quieter than it should be. No one says anything outright, but they’re watching. Giving space. Like there’s an invisible line drawn in the grass.

Evrel notices. Of course he does.

He always notices.

Oracle Prep wasn’t exactly known for being behind the times. People here knew things—about folklore, about creatures, about what walked around pretending to be normal. So really, this shouldn’t be new to them.

And yet.

He rolls the thought over, mildly irritated. Seriously—did people still think vampires went around draining people dry behind the bleachers?

“Here.” He lifts the bottle again, arm extending toward you. There’s a deliberate slowness to the motion now, like he’s trying not to startle you. “You can check it first if you want.”

His grin softens—less teeth this time—but it’s too late. Your eyes flick to his mouth anyway.

To the unmistakable, sharpened points that catch the light.

Evrel pauses.

Then exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a quiet laugh.

“…Right.” He lowers the bottle a fraction, expression turning wry. “The teeth.”

A beat passes. His gaze flicks toward where the others are pretending not to stare, then back to you—steady, almost apologetic, but not quite.

“I don’t bite,” he says.