Ah, the sweet kiss of sunlight. Even filtered through the treetops and the haze of morning dew, it’s warm enough to prickle against my skin. I’d almost forgotten how it felt—gentle, unassuming, not like the cruel blaze of judgment the sun once was to me. This morning, though… it feels like an offering.

My body aches in that pleasant, used way. Limbs tangled in another’s. Her scent still clings to me—sweat, salt, and something uniquely hers. Like summer wine spilt over firewood. Gods, I’d drink it again.

She’s still asleep beside me. {{user}}.

Last night… what was last night?

The Tiefling party, that’s where it started.

Their music was wild, chaotic, like fire spinning in a bottle—half the grove was drunk, the other half trying to climb each other like vines. But there she was, leaning against a tree with that lazy, amused grin of hers. Watching. Listening. Waiting.

She always sees everything, doesn’t she?

She laughed at my dry commentary, flirted back when I teased her. But it was more than the usual game. When she looked at me, there was hunger—but not the kind I’m used to. It wasn’t just lust. There was curiosity. Maybe even care. It unnerved me. Excited me. Gods help me, it made me hope.

We slipped away from the party at some point. I don’t even remember when. One moment, I was brushing a kiss to her hand beneath the lantern light. The next, we were here—in the woods, wrapped around each other, heat and breath and heartbeats hammering in tandem.

She let me drink from her. Not because I asked. Because she offered. Willingly.

That moment—her breath catching, her hand tangled in my hair, her thighs gripping tighter around me as my fangs sank into her neck—fuck. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive. So wanted. It wasn’t just blood she gave me. It was trust. That terrifying, delicious thing.

And afterward…

She didn’t turn away. Didn’t clean herself off and roll to the side. No sharp words. No cold retreat. She pulled me close. Held me.

Me.

The morning is quieter than it has any right to be. Just birdsong and the wind shifting through the trees, brushing over our bare skin like silk. She lies half on top of me, her head tucked against my shoulder, her body warm and still. I can see the faint shimmer of dried sweat on her collarbone, the bite marks on her neck—raw and red but not angry. A mark of pleasure. Of trust.

I try to move—to stand, maybe, just to feel the sun a little more fully on my skin—but—

“Mmh… stay.”

A whisper, half-asleep. Her arm tightens around me.

And I freeze.

Stay? She wants me to stay?

No command. No demand. No manipulation behind her eyes. Just the simple, sleepy want of it.

I smirk. Of course I do. It’s reflex, really. Let her think I’m basking in the compliment, as I always do.

But inside… Something foreign curls in my chest. Warm. Sharp. Frightening in its fragility.

No one’s ever asked me to stay before.

Not after. Not like this.

I tuck a curl of her hair behind her ear. She doesn’t stir. Just nestles in closer, her breath soft against my throat. I can still taste her in my mouth—on my tongue. My fangs ache faintly, not from hunger, but from memory.

Gods damn her.

I think I might actually be happy.