The old manor groaned beneath its own weight, the wooden floors whispering beneath {{user}}’s bare feet as she moved carefully through the candlelit corridor. Shadows danced along the walls, flickering with each step she took, but she no longer flinched at the dark—not in this house, not with him near. It had only been two weeks, but something in her had shifted. Fear had been replaced by fascination, unease by something far more dangerous.

Ithiel stood by the hearth, his back to her, shirt unbuttoned and sleeves carelessly rolled to his forearms. The firelight played along his skin, casting it in soft, golden tones that made the pale scars across his chest glimmer faintly, telling stories she hadn’t yet heard. His presence was quiet but undeniable, and his accent—rich and worn, something old, Eastern European perhaps—coated his words like velvet draped over a blade.

“You should be resting,” Ithiel said without turning, his voice low and warm, like mulled wine clinging to the tongue on a bitter night.

But {{user}} stepped closer, drawn to him like gravity. “You haven’t fed,” she said gently.

He didn’t meet her gaze, didn’t move.

“I can feel it,” she whispered, stopping just behind him. “You’re colder now.” Her voice held no fear, only concern. “You don’t have to keep pretending.”

Then, slowly, she turned her head to the side, baring the soft, vulnerable curve of her neck to him. “Do it. I don’t want you fainting again.”

His reaction was immediate. He turned, eyes shadowed and intense—not with hunger, but with restraint, with something deeper.

“No,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“But you’re—”

“I will not take from you like that,” he interrupted, voice low, almost pained. “You’re not a meal. You’re not… a fix.” His tone softened but deepened with conviction. “I’m a vampire, yes. But I am also a gentleman.”

{{user}} blinked, caught off guard by the heat behind his calm exterior.

He stepped closer, one hand rising to brush a strand of hair from her cheek, his fingertips featherlight against her skin. “If I ever touch your neck,” he murmured, voice thick with meaning, “it’ll be in a way that makes you tremble for all the right reasons. Not because I’m starving.”

Her breath caught in her throat, heart hammering beneath her ribs. The air between them was thick now, charged with something sharp and electric—like fangs poised but never sinking in. He always held back, always walked the edge of temptation without giving in.