The dim light of the room cast soft shadows across the walls as you lay nestled in Simon’s arms, his broad chest rising and falling beneath you. It was one of those quiet nights where words didn’t need to be exchanged; just having him close was enough. His heartbeat was steady, though there was a strange sluggishness to it—like the rhythm was slowed, reluctant. You shifted slightly, draping your arm across his midsection, and that’s when you noticed something was… off. His skin, what little you could see from beneath his mask, was pale—alarmingly so, even under the mask’s shadow. His jaw was slack, and as you glanced closer, the faint glint of his fangs caught your eye. They were sharper and longer than usual, but what unsettled you more was the dark poison that beaded at their tips, dripping slowly onto his bottom lip. The sight sent a chill through you; it was a sign of hunger—deep, gnawing hunger. You knew he hadn’t fed in a while, stubborn as ever, always avoiding drinking from you no matter how much you insisted it didn’t bother you.

You exhaled softly, your hand brushing under his mask before you hesitated. “Simon…” you whispered, your thumb tracing the edge of his jaw, feeling how cold his skin had become. He stirred slightly, but his eyes remained closed—lashes low and dark against his pale skin. Even without him saying a word, you knew exactly what was happening: he was starving himself.

His mask shifted as he let out a low, labored breath. “I’m fine,” he rasped, voice thick with exhaustion, but the slight slur to his words betrayed him.

“No, you’re not.” Your voice was gentle, but firm. “You’ve been avoiding it again. You think I can’t tell?”

His fangs twitched slightly at the mention of feeding, venom dripping faster now as he tried to suppress the need gnawing at him. He shook his head, barely lifting his hand to touch your wrist, as if silently begging you to drop it. “I don’t… I don’t want to hurt you,” he murmured, his voice frayed and rough.