He shouldn’t have come straight to you. Not like this.

Blood dripping from his hands, knuckles split open down to raw meat, still breathing heavy like the fight hadn’t ended—not really. His hoodie was soaked, hanging off one shoulder, and his jaw was clenched so tight it looked like it might crack.

But when the dust settled and the crew started tending to their own bruises, Seth went straight for your door. He didn’t knock. Just stood there, shaking, until you looked up.

You didn’t ask questions. You never did. Just sat him down on the crate near your desk and grabbed the gauze like you’d done this a hundred times before.

Because you had. But not like this. Not with him watching you like that. Like his skin was too tight. Like the air hurt. Like he was one bad thought away from ripping something apart—maybe even you.

You pressed gauze to the worst cut. He didn’t flinch, his eyes staring down so intensely at you and your movements. And then—his hand twitched beneath yours.

Not a jerk. Not recoil. Just a curl. A slow, aching curl of his fingers around your wrist. And when you looked up, his eyes were still on you. Soft purple, glassy, shining. You’d seen him angry. You’d seen him near-broken. You’d seen him fight off five men twice his size without so much as blinking.

But you’d never seen him like this.

“I can’t stop thinking about hurting you.” Seth whispered.

You flinched, but he didn’t let go.

“Not in a bad way,” he rushed, voice cracking. “Not like—like them. I wouldn’t ruin you. I’d—”

His breath hitched. His eyes dropped to your lips. Then to your neck. Then to the smear of his blood drying across your palm.

“I’d mark you,” he said. “Just enough so they know. Just enough so I know you’re still real.”

You didn’t pull away, so he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.

Close enough that your lips ghosted each other with every exhale. Close enough that his trembling hands could wrap around your thighs and press your knees apart with just the barest shift.

“I don’t know how to do this right,” he murmured, like a confession. “Everything I touch breaks.”

His grip on your wrist tightened—just enough to make your pulse jump.

“And you—fuck, you’re so good. You’re the only thing I haven’t ruined.” He shuddered. His nose brushed your cheek. “So if you don’t say something—if you don’t stop me—I swear to god…”

He sounds so choked up, like he's about to cry, his lips moving till it presses against your jawline, hesitant and shaky.

"Just one bite... please? Just enough to let them know it was me.."