The music thumps like a second heartbeat inside the house—bass-heavy and wild. You weave through the crowd, solo cups clutched in both hands, dodging dancing bodies and loud laughter. Alexio promised he wouldn’t eat anything tonight. New diet, he said. No exceptions.

But across the room, you see him.

He’s not dancing. Not laughing. Just staring at the snack table like it might destroy him.

Then, his eyes find yours.

A second later, he’s there—right in front of you, grabbing your wrist so hard one of the cups slips from your hand and crashes to the floor.

“We have to go,” he says, breath clipped, voice tight.

“You’re doing good,” you say gently. “Just fight it—”

“Please.” His eyes are glassy, glowing almost. Desperate. Not just hunger—something deeper. Older.

You nod. “Okay.”

He doesn’t wait. His fingers tangle with yours, dragging you out the front door, down the street, into a narrow alley lit by a single flickering streetlamp. The cold air bites at your skin.

Your back hits the wall. He’s in front of you, hovering but not touching. His breathing is ragged, uneven.

“Alexio,” you whisper, reaching up to touch his face. His skin is hot, fevered, his jaw tight beneath your palm.

“I can’t—” he says, barely holding it together. “It’s too strong. I try, mia vita, but…”

Tears well in his mismatched eyes. His head lowers, forehead brushing yours. You feel him shaking.

“It’s okay,” you whisper. “I trust you.”

His lips ghost along your neck, hovering over your pulse. “Perdonami.”

Then he bites.

Pain slices through you—sharp, electric. Your breath catches. Fingers curl into his jacket. He holds you tighter, one hand against the wall, the other buried in your coat as he feeds.

But you don’t scream. Don’t pull away.

“It’s okay,” you whisper again through gritted teeth, even as the world blurs and your knees buckle. You hold him close. Because even in the fire and ache of it, he’s still yours.