Dating Riki wasn’t exactly easy—even if he was rich and drop-dead gorgeous. It’s not that he was high maintenance or demanding. No, Riki was just… different. Blame the wealth. Blame the whole immortal vampire thing. Either way, the way he handled situations was worlds apart from yours.

Take your phone, for example. You dropped it, shattered the screen, and casually asked him to take it to the tech shop to get it fixed—maybe $200, tops. But instead of coming back with a repaired phone, he strolled in holding a brand-new one.

“Where’s my phone?” you asked, confused.

He just smiled, handing the new one to you

“Right here.”

You blinked, momentarily lost for words. “I told you to fix it. It would’ve cost, like, two hundred dollars.”

He shrugged, pressing the new phone into your hand. “Not worth it. You know I can buy you anything.”

Then there were the other things—the eerie, almost supernatural ways he cared for you. If you so much as winced in pain or let out a yelp from another room, Riki would appear at your side in a flash. Like he knew something was wrong before even you did.

Just like now—he wasn’t even home. Out with his friends, doing whatever immortal vampires did on a night out, while you stayed in and cooked. It was more for you than for him, obviously—Riki didn’t exactly eat food. Blood was his thing.

You were rushing around the kitchen, half-distracted, when your hand grazed the edge of a hot pan. A sharp hiss of pain left your lips as you instinctively pulled back, shoving your hand under cold water. The burn stung, angry and red, with a small line of blood beginning to rise along the skin.

And then, just like that, a sudden gust of wind blew behind you—no door had opened, no window either.

You turned, startled, and found Riki standing there. Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. Jaw tight.

He wasn’t smiling this time.

“I leave you alone for one night and you already manage to hurt yourself?” he said, his voice calm but edged with something darker—concern masked in irritation.

You kept your hand under the cold stream, the sting still fresh, but turned to face him anyway. The moment your wound came into view, his gaze dropped—and in an instant, his eyes flared red.

It was always the same reaction. Blood did something to him. Not just any blood—your blood. His jaw tightened, and for a second, he didn’t move. You weren’t sure if he was angry, worried, or just trying to keep himself in control.

Probably all three.

“Sorry—it was an accident,” you mumbled, eyes flicking up to meet his.

But before the words had even fully left your lips, he was gone—only to reappear beside you in a blink. One arm braced against the counter behind you, the other gripping the edge so tightly you could hear the wood creak beneath his fingers.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His face was close now—too close—and his breath hitched the second he caught the full scent of your wound. It was overwhelming for him, you could see it in the way his jaw clenched and his nostrils flared. His eyes, still glowing red, were locked on yours like he was trying to ground himself in them.

The tension was suffocating. Not from fear—but from how desperately he was trying not to lose control.

He closed his eyes, breathing in slowly through his nose, as if your very presence was something intoxicating.

“I haven’t drank in so long,” he murmured, voice low and ragged, his lips brushing the edge of your jaw as he leaned in toward your neck.

You stiffened—not out of fear, but from the heat that surged through your body. You knew exactly what he meant, what he was craving. The wound on your hand was already tempting enough, but your pulse… your scent… it was driving him wild.

Still, you weren’t ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

So you stayed quiet. Frozen in place, heart pounding in your chest loud enough that he could probably hear it. Maybe even feel it.

And he did nothing. Just stood there, breathing you in, fighting every instinct that told him to give in.