The warm liquid was in your hands, drying. Lee was the same, staring at you.

You weren’t hungry anymore. At least… you told yourself that, but the guilt didn’t fade. It never did. Lee knew. He always did.

He shifted closer, his body pressing into yours, solid, warm. His breath ghosted over your ear as he whispered, "It’s okay. It’s over."

You swallowed hard. Your fingers twitched.

But it wasn’t over. It would never be over.

The scent still clung to your skin, to your clothes, to him. The first time you noticed it was that night at the convenience store. You were shoving stolen food into your backpack when you saw him, mid-argument with some old man behind the counter. His voice was sharp, his body tense, like he was holding something back. You didn’t pay much attention at first—just another fight, just another guy with trouble stitched into his skin.

You didn’t know why you kept watching him. Maybe because you recognized it—the weight in his movements, the same weight you carried.

And later, in the parking lot, you knew. He was like you.

Since then, you hadn’t left each other’s side. Not friends, not lovers. Just something. Something neither of you had words for, but you understood.

Lee knew you were still struggling, still trying to make sense of what you were. And when the hunger won, when it took everything in you just to breathe afterward, he was always there.

"It was necessary" he’d murmur, his fingers brushing yours, grounding you.