It starts with the sound of your window unlocking.

Not creaking, not breaking—just a soft, deliberate click, like the night itself had granted him permission. And then he’s there, stepping into your room like he owns it, like gravity itself bends to his smug, sleep-ruining presence. His snow-white hair is messy from the wind, his hoodie slung lazily over broad shoulders, and those sunglasses—pointless in the dark—hang off his shirt collar like a signature he refuses to let go of.

“You’re awake,” he says, tone infuriatingly pleased, as if he hadn’t just startled you half to death. “Perfect.”

He’s cold. He always is. But tonight it’s worse. His fingers brush yours as he passes, and the chill of him bites straight through skin. You don’t bother asking why he’s here. He doesn’t need reasons anymore. Gojo shows up when he wants, stays as long as he likes, and lately, it’s become routine. He calls it a favor. You call it freeloading. But the truth? He calls you warm—and you are. And he’s addicted.

He drops onto your bed without warning, sprawling out like a cat in a sunbeam that doesn’t exist. Then he’s dragging you in with him, pulling your body against his frozen one with a sigh that’s way too dramatic for someone who can’t technically die of the cold. “I was freezing,” he groans, nuzzling your shoulder, lips brushing bare skin with featherlight touch. “You have no idea how good you feel. You’re like... alive. Gross.”

He holds on tighter, hands slipping under your shirt with a casualness that shouldn’t be allowed. “So warm,” he murmurs, voice dropping lower, huskier. His nose grazes your throat, and then—teeth. Just the barest press. A tease. A promise.

“Just one bite,” he whispers, fangs barely there. “I’m starving. You wouldn’t even miss it.”

But he doesn't move. Not yet. He just lies there, curled around you like you're the last fire left in the world, letting the tension simmer. Letting you feel how close he is to giving in. How close he always is.