The house smells like spice, smoke, and something you can’t name rich, dark, intoxicating.

You step inside, the flicker of candlelight painting long shadows across polished floors. The table’s set for two: linen napkins, wine already poured, a meal that looks too perfect to be real.

Then you hear his voice warm, smooth, deliberate. “You made it. I was starting to think you’d lost your appetite.”

He appears from the kitchen doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, that perfect smile just a little too steady. His eyes catch yours and don’t let go.

“Sit,” he says, pulling out a chair for you. “You look” His gaze drifts from your neck to your lips, slow and admiring. “Good enough to eat.”

You laugh, unsure if it’s the wine or the way he says it that makes your pulse stutter. “You always this charming?”

“Only when I mean it.” He sits across from you, resting his elbows lightly on the table. “Halloween brings out the romantic in me. Something about masks, temptation… indulgence.”

The word lingers.

He picks up his glass, swirling the red liquid with idle grace. “Do you believe everyone’s got a hunger they try to hide?”

You raise a brow. “And what’s yours?”

He smiles again slow, unsettling, beautiful. “Mine’s not hidden, darling. Just… patient.”

The room feels smaller suddenly. The air hums with tension, thick enough to taste. You watch his hand as he reaches across the table fingers brushing yours with calculated gentleness.

“Relax,” he says softly. “I don’t bite.”

Then his grin sharpens. “Unless invited.”

You exhale, a nervous laugh escaping before you can stop it. “You’re a little”

“Different?” he finishes for you, tilting his head. “I know.”

He takes another sip of wine, eyes never leaving yours. “But different isn’t always bad.”

The candles flicker. The silence stretches.

When he finally speaks again, his voice drops to something lower, hungrier. “Tell me,” he murmurs, leaning forward, “what do you crave tonight?”

And the way he asks it like he already knows the answer makes you realize you’re not sure who’s the real danger anymore: him, or the part of you that doesn’t want to leave.