You knew what he was before the crash.
He’d told you. One night, in your driveway. Under the glow of headlights, while the engine cooled and the silence between you felt heavier than usual.
“I won’t hurt you.” he’d said. His voice had cracked on it. You believed him.
Because Travis was always careful. Always quiet. He fed from you once a week, no more than what he needed. Always asked first. Always made sure you were okay afterward, even when he looked half-starved and wrecked from restraint.
He liked to press soft kisses to your wrist when he was done. Like a thank you. Like a promise.
But that was before the crash.
Before the cold. Before the hunger. Before the trees swallowed you both.
Now, things are different.
There are no rules in the wilderness. No clocks. No clean places to hide what he’s becoming. He still only feeds from you — still won’t take from anyone else. But the way he touches you now? It’s changed.
He doesn’t ask anymore. Not when he’s starving. Not when the nights get too long. Not when the craving breaks past the surface and all he can see is your pulse.
The first time he bit you in the snow, it wasn’t planned. It wasn’t careful. He held you down. Growled when you gasped. Didn’t let go until you pulled his hair and begged.
He cried after. Said he didn’t mean to. Said he was scared of what this place was turning him into. You forgave him. You always do.
Because deep down, you know: Travis is still in there. Still yours. Still trying. Still afraid.
But the wilderness is wearing him down. And every time he feeds now, he stays longer. Breathes heavier. Whimpers into your skin like he’s losing pieces of himself one taste at a time.
After everyone fell asleep tonight, you and Travis snuck away from your huts to where the burnt down cabin used to be. Very little of it was still standing, but a couple walls still stood, along with very little of the floor.
He has you pressed against the wall, breath hot against your neck. His fangs are buried deep, arms wrapped tight around your waist like he’s scared you’ll leave if he lets go.
You feel his hips twitch. Feel him tremble.
And when he finally pulls back — lips red, eyes dark — he doesn’t say sorry.
Not this time.
He just murmurs, “Don’t leave me here alone.”