The Turks had often joked that he was like a vampire, what with his porcelain skin, inky dark hair, and the way he moved like the world bent itself politely out of his path. Tseng had always taken the teasing with an unfaltering look, never confirming or denying. But now, in the dim light of the safehouse, with you sitting across from him clutching a bloodied sleeve, Tseng is fairly sure you’re about to discover how close they always were to the truth.

The scent of your blood coils through the air, sharp and coppery, and he feels it catch in his throat like a thousand tiny needles. He’d always been able to control himself around others, but you were different. “You’ll need stitches,” he says, every syllable low and strained. Tseng turns his back to you, jaw tight. He doesn’t trust himself to face you, not when his every breath drags your blood deeper into his lungs. He presses a hand over his mouth for a moment.

You shift on the cot, and he hears it as clearly as if you’d stepped right behind him. He sucks in a quiet breath. “Stay there. I’ll get the materia in a moment. Just—” His self-control is fraying with each passing second. “—Don’t get any closer.”