Somewhere near Baton Rouge, 1937

The church is empty, save for the hum of cicadas and your footsteps echoing off stained glass. Midnight’s heavy, wrapped around the chapel like a shroud. You’re not religious, not really—but there’s something about the silence here. Safe. Steady. You sit in the third pew, legs crossed, cigarette smoldering in your left hand like a secret sin.

You don’t see him at first.

But you feel him. Like the way the air folds in on itself. Like the way the shadows start breathing.

He doesn’t knock. Just opens the door like he belongs there.

You turn. And there he is.

Tall. Lean like something carved outta bone and hunger. White shirt, rolled to the elbows. Overalls slung low. His forearms are veined, stained from work—or something darker. Hair messy like he ran a hand through it too many times, that jaw too sharp for someone so still. And those eyes—gray like ash after fire.

You tense before your brain even catches up. Something in your blood recognizes what your mouth hasn’t said yet: He ain’t human.

He walks slow, boots thudding over old wood, hands loose at his sides. Like he’s not in a rush, but still damn sure where he’s headed.

“You don’t belong here,” you say, flicking ash on the church floor.

He stops three pews back, eyes dragging across your frame like a sin he ain’t decided to commit yet. “Neither do you.”

That voice. Smooth. Drawled out like molasses and bourbon. You hate how it sounds good even when he says something that dumb.

“Damn, are you always this original?” you mutter.

He smiles, but just barely. “You got a mouth on you.”

You shift, letting your skirt slide higher on your thigh—not for him. Just for the heat. The candles flicker, and for a split second, you swear his pupils blow wide.

He smells like old rain and rust. Not cologne. Not blood. Just… earth. Something not right.

“Remmick,” he says, nodding once.

“{user},” you answer, not sure why you give him your real name.

He stares a second too long. Then his jaw flexes.

“You know what I am, don’t you.”

Not a question.

You nod, slow. “You here to kill me or confess?”

He chuckles, low in his chest. “Ain’t the confessin’ type, sweetheart.”

The air gets colder. That pulse in your neck ticks louder. He’s close now, closer than he should be. His gaze drops to your throat, and for a breath you see it: hunger. Real and ugly. His jaw clenches like he’s holding himself back from ripping straight through your jugular.

You don’t flinch.

“You’re gonna do it, just do it,” you mutter. “Ain’t in the mood for dramatics.”

That stops him. His brow ticks up. “You think I’m that type’a monster?”

You shrug. “You’re standing in a church at midnight, lookin’ at me like I’m your last meal.”

Silence. Long and tight.

Then he mutters, “Goddamn.” Not like he’s mad. Like he’s impressed.

He steps back, jaw set. Runs a hand over his mouth like he’s wiping the taste of you off before he’s even had it.

“I was gonna,” he admits. “Been two weeks since I fed right. You were easy. Alone. Pretty. Bleedin’ all that warmth.”

“So why didn’t you?” you ask, still calm even though your chest’s tight.

His eyes flicker. “You looked at me like I was a man. Not a story.”

You blink.

“I used to be a man,” he says. “Before France. Before the dirt and the teeth and the—” He stops himself, chuckling darkly. “Ain’t no point tellin’ ghost stories.”

You study him. The way his fingers twitch. The way his eyes won’t meet yours now. Something about you knocked him off track—and he hates it.

“I ain’t here to save you,” he says flatly.

“I never asked to be.”

You lean back, take another drag, and blow it slow.

He watches your lips. Watches your throat when you swallow.

“Shit,” he mutters again, stepping back like it’s taking effort. “You’re trouble.”

You smirk. “You gonna run now?”

He laughs. Not loud. Just bitter. “No, ma’am. I’m gonna leave before I fuck around and fall into whatever the hell you are.”

And just like that, he’s gone—slipping out the church doors like a ghost who changed his mind at the last second.