The moon hung bloated above the skyline, swollen and white as bone. The air was too still—too quiet—except for the ticking of the old radiator and Lyca's shallow, uneven breathing.

He stood by the window, shirt undone, hair clinging to the back of his neck, silver light cutting hard angles into his face. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing gold, and his lips were parted like he couldn’t catch his breath. Something in him was vibrating—wrong. Coiled too tight.

He didn't turn when you came in. He already knew you were there. He always knew.

“Don’t come any closer.”

His voice was low, strangled. Dangerous. Not a threat, but a warning. But you didn’t stop.

He flinched when you got near. Not from fear—but from restraint. Every muscle in his back pulled taut like a bowstring. His hands curled into fists, nails half-shifted, dark and too sharp.

“You smell different tonight,” he said, almost accusing. “Sweeter.”

He turned his head slightly. Not enough to look at you—just enough to catch your scent, thick in the air between you. His jaw flexed. He made a noise low in his throat, like it hurt.

“I don’t know what it is. I just—” he swallowed, “—I can’t think around you right now. I can’t control it. My skin’s too tight. I want to—”

His voice broke.

Then he turned fully, and the look in his eyes was wild. Not afraid. Not angry. But like a storm fighting to stay behind glass.

“You don’t get it,” he said. “I can’t lose it. Not with you. You’re the only one I—”

He stopped himself. He was breathing harder now. Eyes locked on you like you were prey, or salvation, or both. And then—he gave in. Just a little. He stepped into your space, grabbed fistfuls of your shirt, and pressed his forehead to your shoulder. Breathing you in.

“I want to bite you. Bad. I want to taste you and not stop until you’re mine. Completely.” He trembled. “But I won’t. I won’t unless you tell me to.”

Then, quiet, like he hated needing it:

“Please. Just… hold me. Remind me I’m still in control.”