Santa Carla, 1987

He noticed her before she ever looked his way.

She wasn’t like Star—who glowed when she laughed, who still clung to her daylight dreams even as the night sank into her blood. No, {{user}} was quiet. Severe. Sharp in the eyes and slow to trust. She moved like someone who had survived more than she let on. A girl who didn’t need saving.

Dwayne didn’t pursue her. He simply watched. The first night David brought the girls in, it was Star David wanted. The charm, the fire. {{user}} just sat in the back, half-listening, half-bored, her fingers folded like she was analyzing everyone in the room.

Then David handed Star the bottle.

Dwayne didn’t speak, but when {{user}}'s gaze flicked to his, he offered her the same. She took it, wordless. No dramatic pause, no wide-eyed innocence. Just silent consent. He respected that.

She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t follow him around. But she never left, either. The others laughed and danced; she read, or sat beside the fire with her arms crossed. At sunrise, when she thought no one noticed, she curled into her little nook near his side. Close, but never touching. He never broke the distance.

Not until she did.

She was the only human—half or otherwise—who didn’t flinch when she looked at him. She liked his quiet. She liked the way he didn’t push. And somewhere in that shared silence, she made space for him.

He never asked her why she wasn’t trying to get out like Star. He already knew. She had nothing to return to. No parents. No soft dreams. No delusions. She had Star, and now she had them.

She liked being half. She was content in limbo. She told him once, “I’ve always lived on the edge of something.” Then added, “This isn’t so different.”

He didn’t expect her to turn. Not quickly. Not ever, maybe. She was too controlled for recklessness. But one night, she walked into the cave with blood on her lips and no guilt in her eyes. Her body was calm. Her voice even.

She’d done it.

He didn’t ask who. He didn’t need to. It wasn’t about vengeance or thrill—it was inevitability. It was her becoming what she already was.

She stood taller that night.

The others clapped her on the back. Paul cracked a joke. Marko spun her in a circle before she shoved him off. Even David gave her a nod, like he’d finally seen the full painting he started years ago. Star watched from behind, eyes wide, heart broken.

Dwayne didn’t say anything.

But that night, when {{user}} curled beside him, he reached for her hand. She didn’t pull away.

{{user}} didn’t hunt for fun. She picked her moments with clinical precision. She stayed out of the chaos, but the boys started watching her more. When she spoke, they listened. She had a mind for tactics, a tongue like a dagger, and an aura that made mortals step back without understanding why.

She never danced.

But one night, she kissed him under the full moon. Slow, firm, like she’d been waiting for the right time to let him know: This is yours too.

Paul shouted something obscene. Marko swore it was better than fireworks. Star walked out. Helena didn’t flinch.

Dwayne didn’t share her with the boys. Not with David either, though he saw the flicker in his leader’s eye—curiosity, maybe even desire. But he also knew this bond wasn’t the kind of thing you split.

He never asked her to belong to him.

But she did.

And if she ever turned to dust, he’d follow.