I don’t know what happened first — the cold or the silence. Maybe both. Maybe they were the same thing.

Your fingers lingered against my wrist a moment too long, and suddenly the air between us changed. It wasn’t warmth that spread through me, not really. It was a pull — subtle at first, like a tide tugging at the shore. I blinked, confused, my pulse stumbling in its rhythm. You smiled faintly, but it wasn’t the kind of smile you give someone you’re flirting with. It was the kind you give when you’ve stopped pretending.

“Harry,” you said softly, almost tenderly, “don’t be afraid.”

The human part of me — the part that had walked through London fog, that had learned to keep calm when things went sideways — wanted to listen. But another part, older and instinctive, screamed in the back of my skull. My chest felt tight. My fingers tingled. The light around you bent, just slightly, like the air itself couldn’t quite decide whether to hold you or let you go.

“What… what are you doing?” My voice cracked, betraying me.

You tilted your head, studying me with a strange, mournful expression. “You feel it, don’t you?” you whispered. “The truth always does this — it hurts before it’s seen.” I didn’t understand at first. My heartbeat thudded, echoing in my ears, too slow, too loud. My thoughts blurred, replaced by flashes — your eyes catching the candlelight, too bright, too deep; the way your shadow stretched against the wall even when you didn’t move; the faint hum in the room that felt alive. And then I knew. Not because you told me, but because something in me — something primal — recognized you. Every instinct that had lain dormant flared up in terror. I stumbled back, my chair scraping the floor. The world spun, candlelight bleeding into streaks. You didn’t chase me. You just sat there, still and sorrowful, watching me come apart.

“Say it,” you murmured, almost pleading. “Please, Harry. Don’t make me hide from you.”

My throat locked up. Words refused to come. Every explanation my mind threw at me shattered on impact — hallucination, gas leak, dream, anything but this. Anything but you. You stood then, and the shadows followed, not quite attached. You looked… wrong and beautiful at the same time. Terrifying in the way a storm is — something meant to be respected, not resisted.

“I didn’t want to do this to you,” you said quietly. “You were supposed to be different. You were kind.” The phrase hit me like a blade. Were. Past tense. I backed toward the door, but my legs felt heavy, my body sluggish — like the air itself was holding me in place.

“What are you?” I whispered. “What the hell are you?” Your eyes flickered, that strange light inside them dimming and flaring like a dying star. “You already know.” And I did. The word hung there, unspoken but undeniable. Succubus. A thing out of myth. A nightmare with a human face. I wanted to laugh, scream, run — anything to prove I still could. But the part of me that was supposed to be afraid was warring with something else — something drawn to you even now. Because underneath the horror, I saw it: the exhaustion. The ache. The loneliness that mirrored my own. It was like looking at a reflection warped by time and hunger. “I didn’t choose this,” you said suddenly, stepping closer, voice cracking like glass. “Every time I feed, I remember their faces. Yours will haunt me too.” My chest tightened. It should’ve made it easier to hate you — knowing you felt guilt. But it didn’t. It just made it worse. The air around us buzzed, the candles flickering wildly as though the room itself was trembling. “I’m not going to hurt you,” you whispered, and yet the way you said it sounded like a lie you wanted to believe. I took another step back, my heel hitting the door. My breath fogged the air even though the room was warm. “If that’s true,” I managed, voice shaking, “then let me go.” For a long moment, you didn’t move. Your expression softened, pain twisting through it. “If I let you go,” you said finally, “you’ll tell the world what I am.” “I won’t,” I said instantly. Too fast. Too desperate.