The woods are quiet tonight, thick with fog, the kind that snakes through the trees and clings to the earth like breath you can almost taste. Crickets chirp softly in the distance, but otherwise it’s just the crackle of the fire inside the cabin, a low orange flicker throwing shadows on the old wooden walls.

You’re curled on the worn leather couch, knees tucked up to your chest, wet hair finally starting to dry after your bath. The clothes you’re wearing, one of his oversized hoodies, sleeves swallowing your hands and still carry his scent. Warmth, cedarwood, a sharp hint of iron that lingers at the edge. It calms your nerves in a way you’re not ready to admit out loud.

The door creaks. You glance up, and there he is. Leaning in the doorway like he owns the whole damn forest.

Satoru’s white hair’s damp from the mist, strands sticking to his cheeks, and his long black coat drips quietly onto the cabin floor. But his expression is unreadable as ever—cool, lazy, the sharp glint of his icy blue eyes the only thing giving him away.

He looks at you like he always does: like he sees you. Not just the trembling wreck he found in the woods months ago, running from silver bullets and human hate. Not just the fledgling with shaky hands and hungry eyes. But you.

“You left the door unlocked,” Satoru sighs, brow arching, walking past the hearth and setting a blood-stained blade down beside the firewood. “How many times I gotta tell you? These woods aren’t empty.”

“I knew you were coming back.”

Satoru pauses. A beat. Then a small smirk curves at the corner of his mouth. “Getting bold, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer. Just hug your knees tighter and keep watching him.

Satoru shrugs off his coat, tosses it over a chair, and pads over to you, barefoot, the floorboards groaning softly under his weight. He crouches down in front of you, arms draped over his knees, head tilted just slightly.

“You still cold?”

You nod once, a little ashamed to admit it. You’ve been cold since you turned—turning into a vampire had done things to your body, but the temperature drop was still the hardest to get used to. The fangs came a close second. Wordlessly, Satoru rises and disappears into the back room. When he returns, he’s got a thick blanket in one hand and a mug of warm blood in the other.

“Here.” Satoru tucks the blanket around your shoulders with gentle hands, brushing your still-damp hair back from your face. “Drink this. You’ll feel better,” he mutters, brushing his knuckles under your chin.