The flat was colder than usual.

It always was in early winter, with frost creeping along the edges of the windowpanes and the radiator groaning half-heartedly against the night chill. The curtains stayed drawn, thick enough to block out the moonlight that filtered through the street lamps outside. Inside, everything was dim and quiet — just the low hum of a vinyl turning lazily on the player, something slow and mournful from a century ago.

Lee sat hunched on the battered leather couch, hoodie sleeves pulled low over his hands. His hair was damp from the shower, curling faintly at the ends, dark enough to look like ink under the soft, dying lightbulb overhead. His shoulders were tight, tension pulled across them like wire. He hadn’t fed in days. That much was obvious.

He always tried to avoid it — the mess, the risk, the guilt. The part of him that recoiled from what he was. But eventually, the ache became impossible to ignore. Hunger gnawed at his edges like static. Every light touch of sound or movement seemed too loud, too bright, too close.

{{user}} was perched on the floor beside the couch, legs stretched out, flipping idly through an old book they’d already read. They could feel it — the shift in him. The way his gaze lingered too long. The way he’d stopped breathing so he wouldn’t have to smell their skin, warm and alive, right there.

He didn’t ask out loud. He never did. But {{user}} turned their head, hair falling to one side like an invitation.

Lee swallowed hard. His jaw tensed. The decision warred behind his eyes — pride and shame circling each other like wolves. But {{user}} was still looking at him, unwavering, and that made the choice for him.

He moved gently.

Like he was afraid he might break something — or worse, lose control.

He shifted from the couch down beside them, settling in close. One hand cupped the side of their neck, fingers cool but steady. They didn’t flinch. They never did. They trusted him, and that trust was a heavier thing than any chain.

Lee’s lips ghosted across skin first — reverent, cautious — before his fangs found the place he needed. The bite was brief, no deeper than necessary, but it lit something in him. A flicker of life behind dead eyes. His lashes lowered. His grip tightened.