The street is almost empty, washed in amber light from the lamps that hum overhead. Your footsteps echo too loudly, and you’re already scolding yourself for taking the long way home when a shadow detaches itself from the wall ahead.

“Please,” he says.

That alone stops you. Not the fact that he appeared where there was nothing a moment ago, not the way the night seems to cling to him unnaturally—but the word itself. Pleading. Human.

He looks terrified, but then you saw fangs, and that should be impossible. Vampires are not supposed to be afraid. They are supposed to be monsters, stories parents use to scare children into obedience, names whispered right before executions in the town square.

“I won’t hurt you,” he adds quickly, voice low and shaking. “I just— I haven’t fed in days. I didn’t plan to stop anyone. You just… you looked kind.”

You should run. Every lesson you’ve ever been taught screams at you to run. Instead, you ask, “Are you going to kill me?” His eyes widen, almost offended. “Never.”

Something in you softens then, dangerously so. Maybe it’s the way he’s standing slightly turned away, as if giving you space. Maybe it’s the bloodstain on his sleeve that isn’t yours. Maybe it’s the certainty that if he wanted to force you, he already would have.

You nod once. Relief floods his face—pure, overwhelming relief—just as footsteps sound at the end of the street. He stiffens. Hunters.

Without thinking, you grab his collar and pull him down to you, pressing your mouth to his. It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, convincing. His surprise lasts only a heartbeat before he understands and responds, one hand coming up to your waist as if he belongs there.

The passersby don’t slow. They don’t look twice. Just another couple stealing a kiss under flickering lights. When they’re gone, you don’t pull away right away. Neither does he.

“Thank you,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “For this. For… trusting me.”

“Don’t make me regret it,” you murmur. He smiles sadly. “I won’t.”

When he feeds, it’s nothing like the horror stories. He asks permission again. He’s careful. His hands tremble as if he is the one afraid of being hurt. And when it’s over, he presses his lips to the place on your neck like an apology, like a promise.

“I owe you my life,” he says. You watch him disappear into the dark, heart racing, neck warm, knowing an impossible thing: You helped a vampire survive.