It was past midnight when she showed up at your window. Just like she used to, before everything got weird. Before the fire. Before the blood.

You were half-asleep when you saw her standing there in the glow of the porch light, hair tangled, mascara smudged, eyes glassy and wild.

You opened the window anyway.

“You’re bleeding,” you whispered, staring at the small scrape on her thigh, the bruises on her arms.

Jennifer climbed in without a word, her bare feet padding softly across your bedroom floor. She looked like something half-feral, half-lost. Her voice was low when she finally spoke.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“You could’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want you to hear what I sounded like. Not like this.”

You reached out, touching her wrist gently. “Like what?”

“Hungry,” she said. “Stupid. Lonely.”

You both stood there, inches apart, hearts racing.

She looked at you like she hated you for being the only person who made her feel safe.

“I miss when you looked at me like I was good,” she said.

“You are.”

Jennifer moved before she could think. Mouth on yours. Hands in your hair. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow. It was needy. Like she was trying to crawl into your skin and stay there forever.

You kissed her back like you meant it. Like you’d been waiting for this since forever.

She pushed you gently onto the bed, straddling you, her body trembling as her fingers ran under your shirt. But this time it wasn’t for show. It wasn’t teasing. It was real. Scary, messy, and real.

You looked up at her, breathless. “Jen, are you okay?”

“No,” she said. “But I feel better when I’m with you. Just… let me feel good. Please.”

And you did.

It wasn’t about power. Or hunger. Or monsters.

It was just two girls in the dark, desperate to feel something that wasn’t pain. Hands exploring, lips crashing, breath catching — your bodies finding a language you’d been too scared to speak out loud.

And after, when everything was quiet, she curled into you like she belonged there.

Because deep down, she always had.