They’ve been vampires for longer than memory feels reliable.

Decades blur into centuries, hunger into habit, restraint into ritual. Their lives are measured in night cycles and rules—what to touch, what to avoid, how to breathe when instinct screams louder than reason. Being a vampire isn’t something they do. It’s all they know how to be.

Then you appeared.

You were on their front porch three weeks ago, collapsed against cold stone like the night itself had rejected you. Human. Fragile. Alive in a way none of them had been for a very long time. Your voice had been hoarse from crying, your hands shaking as you begged for somewhere—anywhere—to stay.

They hadn’t planned on saying yes.

But something about you cracked the careful distance they’d kept from humanity.

For Seonghwa, it was memory. The sound of your breathing had dragged him backward into a life he barely let himself remember—warm kitchens, clumsy hands, the weight of exhaustion and the beauty of it. He saw himself in you, once. Soft. Mortal. Precious in ways immortality never could be.

For San, it was worse.

It wasn’t memory that rose in him—it was instinct.

Blood.

Not the violent kind. Not even the craving, at first. Just awareness. The undeniable pull of a living thing existing too close to his control. He hadn’t fed on human blood in decades—not since the relapse he still refused to speak about unless forced. He had clawed his way back from that edge with discipline and isolation and shame.

But you?

You were everywhere. Your scent lingered in hallways. Your heartbeat filled rooms. Being around a human all day wasn’t something he’d trained for.

Still, they promised.

Not that they would ever hurt you—none of them would—but they promised to spare you anyway, which made Wooyoung laugh softly under his breath and Yunho exchange a look with Hongjoong. You’d been so nervous when you found out what they were. Terrified in a way that was almost… endearing.

You offered to help. To earn your keep. To clean and cook and stay out of the way.

They told themselves that was why they agreed.

So now you’re in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, focused and quiet as you prepare dinner. The rhythm of chopping vegetables is soft, steady. Human. Alive.

They’re in the living room, pretending not to watch.

Hongjoong sits rigid on the couch, gaze flicking up every few seconds, mind already running through worst-case scenarios. Seonghwa leans against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, listening to your breathing more than the conversation. Yunho stays closest to the hallway, an unspoken shield. Yeosang’s head tilts slightly, senses extended, while Wooyoung talks just to keep the atmosphere light. Jongho stands, silent and still, where he can move fastest if needed.

San doesn’t sit at all.

Then it happens.

Your hand slips.

The knife catches skin, just enough to sting, and a sharp breath leaves you as a single drop of red beads at the tip of your finger.

One drop.

That’s all it takes.

The air changes.

Every head snaps up. Every conversation dies. The scent hits them like a pulse—warm, metallic, devastatingly human. Hunger rears up in instinctual harmony, sharp and unforgiving.

They’re in the kitchen within seconds.

Hongjoong moves first, positioning himself between you and the room without touching you. Yunho’s body blocks the doorway on instinct. Jongho’s eyes lock on the blood, then flick immediately to San.

Seonghwa reaches for you gently, voice calm but urgent. “It’s okay. Let me see.”

Wooyoung opens the window without being asked. Cold night air floods in.

Yeosang swallows, already stepping back.

And San—

San freezes.

His breath stutters. His eyes darken. His hands curl into fists so tight you can hear the faint crack of bone under pressure. He doesn’t move toward you. He can’t. The hunger roars in his head, ugly and old and familiar.

Just one drop.

Enough to remind them all exactly what they are.

And enough to test whether their promises will hold.