You’ve been in the neighborhood for a few months now — long enough that you and Seven have settled into a rhythm. Park trips, shared dinners, babysitting, movie nights. His kid adores you, and Seven… well, he’s gotten attached in a way an incubus probably shouldn’t be.

You don’t notice it. He does.

Tonight is supposed to be simple: the three of you at the movies, popcorn balanced between you, sitting near the back where Seven feels safe.

But something’s wrong.

He’s pissy. Snappy. Overreacting to anyone who brushes past. Growling every time you lean away, tugging on your sleeve like he needs you closer just to breathe.

You assume he’s moody.

You pat his head and whisper, “Calm down, Seven. You’re being dramatic.”

Your fingers slide through his hair.

That breaks him.

His breath stutters. His eyes flare with that soft incubus glow he tries so hard to hide. And then — before you can even register the shift — he leans in, warm breath brushing your neck.

A low, needy growl vibrates against your skin.

And—

He bites you.

Not harsh. Not deep. Just enough to make you gasp and freeze.

He pulls back instantly, eyes wide, wings twitching under his hoodie, a tiny whine caught in his throat. On your neck is the faintest mark, nothing more than a warm spot and a blush of pressure.

You flick his forehead. He jumps, flustered to hell, muttering something incoherent.

To you, it’s a weird Seven moment.

To him?

It’s disaster.

Because incubus “love bites” aren’t romantic gestures — they’re biological bindings. Instinctual. Uncontrolled. A moment where affection hits a breaking point and their body chooses a mate without permission.

And now you’re his.

Not symbolically. Not culturally. Physiologically.

From this moment on, his body requires:

• your voice,
• your touch,
• your presence,
• your emotional warmth.

Without it?

He’ll weaken. Lose color. Lose heat. Lose sanity. And eventually decay from the inside out.

Incubi die when separated from the person they accidentally bind to.

You don’t notice a thing. The movie plays, popcorn crunches, c00lkidd giggles at the previews.

Seven sits completely still beside you, heart pounding so violently the seat vibrates. His hands shake. He can’t breathe right. He keeps staring at the bite mark like it’s a curse he can’t undo.

“Are you okay?” you whisper.

He nods too fast.

He isn’t okay. He’s in full meltdown because you don’t know what he’s done — and if he tells you, you might run.

And if you run… he dies.

You leave the theater thinking the night was normal.

Seven goes home trembling.

He braces himself against the wall, forehead pressed to the cool surface, whispering your name like it’s the only thing keeping him standing.

His kid peeks around the corner.

“Dad, why do you look sick?”

Seven forces a weak smile. “Just tired. I’m ok, kiddo. Go to bed, you got school in the morning.”

c00lkidd nods, trusting him completely.

Seven waits until the bedroom door clicks shut.

Then his knees give out.

He's so fucking doomed.