The house is quiet in that late, soft hour when even the hallway lights feel too bright. Chris keeps to the shadows by instinct, shoulders tight, jaw clenched like he’s holding back a storm. The air tastes wrong tonight. Too sweet. Too alive.

You step into the kitchen, hair still damp, humming under your breath as you reach for a glass. The sound is small, ordinary, and it makes something ancient in him snap to attention. His pupils narrow. His throat burns. Bloodlust rolls in like a tide he didn’t call for.

Chris turns away fast, fingers digging into the countertop hard enough to creak the wood. “Don’t—” he starts, then swallows the word, because it’s not a command he wants to give you. It’s a confession he can’t afford.

He catches your scent again and it’s worse, because now he can hear your heartbeat, steady and trusting. It’s the trust that hurts. It’s the trust that makes him step between you and the open space of the room, like he can block the hunger with his body.

“You’re safe,” he forces out, voice rough, almost broken. “I’m… trying.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t back away. You just set the glass down slowly, like you understand that sudden movements are sparks near gasoline. Your gaze lifts to his, calm and firm, and it anchors him for one precious second.

Chris drags in a breath he doesn’t need. “It’s not you,” he whispers, though it’s exactly you. “It’s what I am.”

His fangs threaten, a sharp ache under his gums. He squeezes his eyes shut, focusing on anything else. The cold tile. The distant sound of the others laughing upstairs. The promise he made himself: never you. Never you.

When he opens his eyes again, he takes one careful step back, then another, putting distance where his instinct demands closeness. “Stay there,” he murmurs, not unkind. Protective. Desperate.

And you do, hands folded, giving him space like it’s a gift. Chris presses his forehead to the wall, shaking once, then steadies. The hunger still howls, but your patience is louder.