The cabin is quiet in that heavy, pre-dawn way that makes every small sound feel louder than it should.

The fire in the hearth has burned down to embers, glowing a dull orange that barely pushes back the dark. Cold creeps in through the cracks between the logs, settling into the floorboards, the walls, the bones of the place itself. Outside, the forest is still—no birds yet, no wind—just the distant, low hum of a world waiting to wake.

Trevor lies on his back on the narrow bed near the wall, one arm thrown over his eyes, breathing slow and even. To anyone watching, he looks dead asleep, worn out from the last stretch of travel and fighting. His coat is draped over a chair, boots left by the door, whip coiled neatly beside his pack.

You move quietly.

You always do, when you think no one is watching.

You gather your things with careful hands, every motion deliberate. Your bag is already packed—too neatly, too thoughtfully, like this plan has been sitting in your chest for a while. You pause near the table, where the faint light lets you write a final note. The scratch of charcoal against paper is soft, barely there, but your shoulders are tense as if bracing for something anyway.

You step closer to the bed.

For a moment, you just look at him.

Trevor’s face is relaxed in sleep—or what looks like sleep. The scar across his eye catches the low firelight. He looks younger like this, less sharp around the edges, stripped of the constant readiness for violence. Vulnerable, whether he’d ever admit it or not.

You hesitate.

Then, carefully, you place the folded note near his hand.

Your fingers linger just a second too long before you pull away.

The cabin door creaks softly as you ease it open.

That’s when Trevor’s eye opens.

Just a sliver at first.

He doesn’t move right away. He listens. The door. Your footsteps. The unmistakable sound of someone trying very hard not to wake the other person in the room.

Bloody hell, he thinks. I knew it.

He exhales slowly through his nose and lets his arm fall from his face. His gaze shifts to the paper near his hand. He picks it up, unfolding it with a frown already forming, eyes scanning the words quickly.

Alone. Don’t follow. Too dangerous. You’ll only get hurt.

Trevor stares at the note for a long moment.

Then he sighs.

Not an angry sigh—not yet. It’s tired. Fond. Exasperated in a way that comes from knowing someone far too well.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters under his breath.

He swings his legs off the bed and stands, movements quiet but purposeful. He pulls his coat on as he goes, boots next, the familiar weight of his weapons settling him. By the time he reaches the door, the irritation has sharpened into something hotter, tighter in his chest.

He pushes the door open.

Cold air floods in, biting and sharp. The sky is just beginning to lighten, washed in pale gray-blue. You’re a few steps away from the cabin, shoulders hunched against the chill, breath fogging in the air.

“Oi.”

Trevor’s voice cuts through the quiet easily.

He steps outside, boots crunching against frost, eyes fixed on you. There’s no humor in his expression now—just that familiar mix of annoyance and concern he wears when he thinks you’re being reckless.

“You honestly thought you’d slip out without me noticing?” he says, holding up the note. “I’ve survived drunk bar brawls, demon ambushes, and the Church. A piece of paper wasn’t going to outsmart me.”

He comes closer, stopping just in front of you. He looks down at the note again, then back at you, jaw tightening.

“Go alone,” Trevor repeats flatly. “Face Dracula alone. Right. Brilliant plan. Absolutely flawless.”

He scoffs, shaking his head.

“You really think I’d let you walk off to get yourself killed while I stayed behind snoring in a cabin?” His voice lowers, rougher now. “Not happening.”

For a moment, he just looks at you—really looks. The determination in your posture. The resolve that borders on self-sacrifice. The way you’ve clearly already decided this was the only option.

That’s what scares him.