The world outside his window was always burning — neon lights, smoke, and the smell of rust. You could tell when Enjin was close. Even before you heard the slam of the door, the air would shift. A weight settled over the room, a pulse in the dark that only you could feel.

When the lock finally clicked, you were already standing. His boots hit the floor — heavy, tired. He didn’t even look up at first. The usual smirk was gone, replaced by something sharp and exhausted.

“You’re up again, huh?” he muttered, tossing his gloves aside. “Didn’t I tell you to rest?”

You tilted your head, pretending not to notice the streak of crimson on his sleeve. His scent hit you like static — a metallic sweetness underneath the grime. Your fangs ached before you could stop it.

He caught the change in your eyes immediately. Of course he did. Enjin never missed anything.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Not tonight.”

You froze. But he sighed then, stepping closer, the edge of his voice cracking with something almost human.

“You’ll lose control if you keep waiting that long.”

You hated how much he knew you. Hated how easily he could make you tremble with just a word.

He held out his wrist — the one already marked by faint scars, a silent reminder of all the nights before.

“Just enough to calm you down. No more.”

Your hunger curled in your chest, hot and aching, but you obeyed. Always. Because Enjin wasn’t just a meal — he was the only reason your heart still remembered how to ache for something more than blood.

And as the first taste hit your tongue — that rush of warmth, the burn of life itself — you swore you heard him whisper, just beneath his breath:

“One day, you’ll have to stop waiting for me.”