You two lay on the floor of Clarisse’s large estate. Several bottles of wine long forgotten. Your arms are outstretched and you hold hands.

“What do I look like?” She asks, voice hushed— almost evilly vulnerable. “Like, what do I really look like?”

The words hang in the air as you consider. Clarisse is a vampire, after all, so she can’t see herself in mirrors or reflections. The healing bite-mark on your neck only burns heavily as a reminder of that.