the camp was supposed to be “neutral ground.” a place where daywalkers and vampires would learn to cooperate, share chores, maybe sing kumbaya if zed had anything to say about it.

instead, it’s a disaster.

you’re a daywalker — sunlight doesn’t burn you, but your blood runs bright and warm, different from the vampires’ cold shadows. and one day, you’re going to lead your people.

victor, on the other hand? future vampire leader. six-foot-something, dark hair in his eyes, fangs always slightly showing because he knows it intimidates you.

you hate him. he hates you.

…probably.

the two of you have been stuck in this camp because both your kinds are running out of bloodfruit — the only thing that keeps daywalkers and vampires from ripping each other apart in hunger. and the vault containing the remaining fruit requires three keys, scattered across the cursed woods.

thus: teamwork.

or, more specifically, arguments. endless, fiery arguments.

he walks beside you now, along the trail toward the lake, arms crossed, fangs glinting whenever he smirks.

“can’t you walk faster?” he grumbles.

“you have super speed,” you shoot back. “use it, leech.”

he stops dead, looking outraged. “i swear, you are the most insufferable—”

“good,” you say, shoving past him. “i try.”

he follows anyway. because of course he does.

the moon is bright when you reach the lake — silver ripples moving like liquid metal across the surface. you stop to breathe, calm down, maybe not murder anyone tonight.

but victor opens his mouth again.

“you always act like you’re better than everyone. even though you’re not even a real vampire nor a daywalker.”

that one hits. hard.

because he somehow got to know you're the result of a vampire and a daywalker falling in love. the kind of forbidden love you only see in movies. something that no one knew but now your worst enemy does.

you spin around. “say that again.”

he shrugs, stepping closer. “real vampires burn. you don’t. real vampires have clans. you don’t. you’re a glitch, {{user}}. a mistake.”

the anger snaps through you like lightning.

you shove him — hard.

he grabs your wrist, pulling you right back into him, chest hitting chest. “don’t start something you can’t finish.”

“oh, you wanna see what I can finish?” you hiss.

and then it happens. so fast you barely register it.

victor’s hand slides to your jaw, grip firm, and he leans in — smashing his mouth onto yours.

it’s not gentle. it’s not soft. it’s fire meeting gasoline.

you gasp against his lips, and he takes the opportunity, kissing you harder, colder, deeper — all fangs and frustration. your hand fists the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer like you’re trying to pull him apart.

he groans — low, surprised — and the sound shoots straight through you.

“you’re—” you breathe between kisses “—the worst—”

“shut up,” he mutters, kissing you again, angrier this time, his hands sliding to your waist, gripping like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

you push him back against a tree, lips crashing again, teeth grazing, breaths mixing. the lake glows behind you, but all you see is him — stupid, annoying, infuriating him.

his forehead presses against yours, both of you panting.

“this never happened,” you say.

he smirks, lips swollen. “you wish.”

your heart is still racing, your hands still shaking, and you hate that he notices.