“C’mon, chèr… I promise it won’t hurt dat bad. I’ll make sure of it.”

Tonight had gone to hell fast.

The city was chaos, heroes clashing with vampires in the streets, rooftops crumbling, sirens wailing somewhere far too late to matter. You’d fought side by side like always.

Until you hadn’t.

Until Remy stepped between you and a set of fangs meant for your throat.

He’d taken the bite.

And now he stood in the mouth of a dimly lit alley, neon lights flickering behind him, painting his silhouette in red and gold. His eyes, those familiar black-and-crimson eyes, were different now. Brighter. Hungrier. But still him.

Still Remy.

You were exhausted. Bruised. Shaking. You could barely keep your guard up anymore. And he hadn’t even really tried to fight you. Not when the others had turned feral. Not when instinct should’ve taken over.

Even like this, he was holding himself back.

For you.

He stood a few feet away, one hand extended, palm open in invitation. The other trembled faintly at his side, whether from restraint or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

“Ya trust me, don’t ya?” he asked softly.

His accent was thicker now, slipping through every word like warm molasses. Dangerous and familiar all at once.

“I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you. Not from me. Not ever.”

His fangs showed when he gave you that crooked, almost apologetic smirk.

“Blood loss’ll make you dizzy, yeah… but I’ll stop. Soon as I taste you, I’ll stop. I swear it, chèr.”

There was strain in his voice now. The scent of you was driving him mad, you could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fingers flexed like he was gripping cards that weren’t there.

But he hadn’t lunged.

Hadn’t forced you.

He was asking.

Slowly, he stepped closer, close enough that you could feel the coolness of his skin compared to your warmth.

“Don’t make me beg in a dirty alley while I’m fightin’ every instinct I got,” he murmured, voice rougher now.

“You know I’d rather starve than hurt you..."