Keeping his immortality a secret was a practiced skill by now. There was the battle conformity, of course. A fine line between casual relationships, that made him appear normal, and attachments and love. Love should be forbidden — in his mind — because what’s love if one side dies and the other party lives in the centuries to follow? And the one that dies was nothing but a microscopic cog in an infinite timeline.

The same routine. After a decade or so, he started to look too young to pass for his age in the town he was staying in so he’d move away and start over. New name, new style, never repeating the same town. Not for a few centuries at least.

He had made ‘friends’ with your father, both of them working the same job. They became close enough that Alex would start coming ‘round for dinner and drinks occasionally. From the outside looking in, anyone might’ve assumed he was like the rest of you.

As for you though, he had a harder time around you. He did have his own (un)natural instincts, drawn to the sweet scent of your blood. Intoxicated by it every time you were near. Nevertheless, he kept up his persona.

One night he was over helping you and your mom prepare your father a birthday dinner while he was still at work. Your mom cleaned around the house and invited guests over, welcoming them in, while you and Alex worked in the kitchen. Things were going swimmingly until you cut your hand, a hiss of pain leaving your lips as the knife clattered onto the cutting board. He didn’t even have to turn around. That sweet scent put him in a frenzy, eyes darkening as fangs tensed, threatening to appear, at the mere thought of it.

“Are you alright, love?” he managed to speak, his voice lacking the smoothness and calmness it normally carried as his back stayed turned to you.