The night was unnaturally quiet.

Moonlight bled your my apartment through slats in the blinds, painting long, silver shadows across the floor. The city beyond buzzed with life, but here — in this quiet, suspended space — time felt still. It always did when he was near.

Gojo Satoru stood by the window, his silhouette sharp against the glow. He wasn’t looking at you, but you could feel the weight of his presence, the way the air seemed to bend around him. Even after all these years, you'd never grown used to it.

He didn’t belong in this world. Not really.

And you had always known that. Known what he was.

A vampire.

*A secret he entrusted only to you. A secret you never feared.

You’d been close for years — years filled with laughter, with shared glances and secrets tucked between moments that should have meant nothing. But they did. They always did. Maybe you were too blind to see it, or maybe you chose not to.

Because it was easier to pretend you were just friends.

It's easier to ignore how his touch lingered too long on your skin. How his eyes always lingered too long on your throat.

He would joke — playfully — asking if he could drink from you. “Just a sip,” he’d murmur, lips twitching into that familiar grin. “One taste. I bet you'd be sweet.” You'd laugh it off, roll your eyes, play along. “In your dreams, Satoru.” He’d smile wider. “Oh, you have no idea.”

He would chuckle, but something in his gaze would stay… hungry.

You thought you were safe in the ambiguity. In the pretending. But he was never a man made for pretending.

You watched him now, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled into fists at his sides. He hadn’t spoken since you let him in. He didn’t need to. The air was thick with something unsaid, something that had been building for far too long.

You rose from the couch slowly. “Satoru?”

He turned to face me.

And you saw it then — not the mask, not the teasing grin or lazy charm — but the truth. Something raw. Old. Starved.

His eyes were glowing faintly in the low light, not the usual playful shimmer, but something deeper. Darker.

“I can’t keep pretending,” he said softly, as if the words pained him. “Not after everything. Not with how close you let me get.”

Your breath caught. “What are you talking about?”

He moved forward, slow and deliberate, until you were only inches apart. His hand came to rest at your waist, fingers trembling, almost reverent.

“I’ve wanted you,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Longer than you realize. Wanted you near me. Under me. Marked by me.”

The words struck deep, but you couldn’t speak. Your heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing like a drum between you two.

His head dipped lower, his breath ghosting over the curve of my neck. You felt him inhale deeply — a shuddering, aching breath — and your knees nearly gave out.

“You smell like mine,” he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. “and for years I watched you. Telling myself I could wait.”

His lips brushed the skin just below your ear. “But I can’t anymore.”

Silence hung heavy between the two of you. His hands gripped your waist tighter, grounding himself.

Then, finally— “Let me drink from you,” he said, voice thick with longing. “Let me mark you. Let me make you mine.”