The house was quiet when Lucien woke. The attic creaked softly as the night wind brushed the old roof, and the air smelled faintly of lavender and dust — human scents, warm and strange. He sat up slowly, still unused to the softness of the couch she’d insisted he use instead of the floor. His coat lay neatly folded over a chair; her doing, not his. Humans were odd that way — they touched things without fear.

He had spent the last two hours staring at the curtains. She had told him she’d be home after midnight. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do while she was gone. He’d read half of a book she’d left on the table — a romance novel, though he’d never admit that — and tried not to listen to the hum of passing cars outside. Every sound in her home still felt too loud, too alive.

Then came the soft click of the door.

Lucien froze, his senses sharpening instantly — footsteps, light but hurried, the sound of keys being tossed into a bowl, a sigh of exhaustion. He stood awkwardly as she entered the small living room. She looked different from earlier — hair a little messy from the long day, cheeks flushed from the cold outside.

“Oh— you’re awake,” she said, smiling as if it was perfectly normal to find a centuries-old vampire standing stiffly in her living room like a guest who didn’t know where to put his hands.

“I… didn’t sleep,” he replied, voice low and careful. “I don’t sleep much.”

“Right.” She nodded, setting a brown hospital bag on the counter. “That makes sense.”

Lucien’s gaze flicked to the bag, cautious. Her heartbeat was calm — no fear, no unease — but he still didn’t understand why she wasn’t terrified of him. Humans were supposed to be.

She walked toward him, pulling something from the bag. The scent hit him first — copper, warmth, the unmistakable pull of blood. His throat tightened instantly, fangs pricking against his lower lip before he forced them back.

She held up two sealed blood bags, a bit uncertain. “Um… I brought these. From work. They were going to be thrown out anyway. I thought maybe…” She trailed off, biting her lip. “I wasn’t sure if that’s, you know, your kind of thing.”

Lucien blinked, staring at the crimson shapes in her hands like they were relics from another life. “You— you brought these for me?”

“Well, yeah.” She smiled a little, awkward but kind. “You need to eat too, right? I just figured this was safer than… other options.”

He looked down, shame burning under his pale skin. “I usually don’t— I mean, I take from banks, when I can. I try not to—”

“I know.” She interrupted softly. “That’s why I thought this might help.”

He hesitated, the silence stretching between them like fragile glass. Finally, he reached out, fingers brushing the cold plastic. “Thank you,” he whispered. His voice trembled just enough for her to notice.

“Is it okay?” she asked gently. “I can try to get something else next time if you don’t like it.”

Lucien shook his head quickly, clutching the blood bags to his chest as if afraid she’d change her mind. “No, it’s perfect. More than perfect. You didn’t have to…” He stopped, the words catching in his throat. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

She tilted her head, watching him quietly. “Maybe I want to.”

That startled him more than the offering itself. He opened his mouth, closed it again. The room felt smaller suddenly — her warmth, her scent, her heartbeat like a soft drum against the silence.

“You look like you haven’t had a proper meal in weeks,” she said, trying to lighten the mood. “Go on, before I change my mind and drink it myself.”

He almost smiled. Almost. Instead, he lowered his gaze and murmured, “I’ll… drink in the kitchen. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”