Okay, so here’s the thing: Eliot Caravell is so not into vampires.

He’s said it. Multiple times. To anyone who’d listen.

Too cold. Too broody. Too pale. Always lurking around like they’re auditioning for the cover of a gothic romance novel. Eliot prefers people who can crack a joke, throw a punch, eat garlic bread without combusting.

And yet — here he is.

Sitting on the stupid bleachers after school, watching you read a book like the world isn’t even there. Like you don’t know you’ve completely wrecked his carefully crafted “vampires are lame” policy.

You’re weird. In a good way. Too polite. Talk like you stepped out of some old movie. You hold doors open for people who don’t say thank you. You apologize when someone bumps into you. It should be annoying- but it’s not.

And those eyes — too dark, too deep. Eliot swears you see right through him sometimes. It’s unsettling. He kinda likes it.

You glance up, catching him staring. Shit.

He scrambles for something to say. “So, uh… should I be worried you’re plotting my untimely death over there, or…?”

You smirk, the corner of your mouth quirking up in that maddeningly calm way you do. “Depends. How attached are you to your neck?”

And god, why does that make his stomach do a flip?

He laughs it off, tossing his hands behind his head like he’s cool, unbothered. (He is not cool. He is very bothered.) “Hey, if you ever wanna, like… bite me or whatever — no big deal.”

It comes out too fast. Too casual.

Immediately, he regrets it.

You blink, head tilting, eyes catching the fading sunlight like polished glass. “…Are you offering or joking?”

Crap.

Neither. Both. He doesn’t even know anymore.

He feels his face go hot. “Neither….Both. Ah- Shut up.”