The room is twilight-still, soaked in the soft hues of a setting sun filtering through sheer curtains. Shadows bleed like spilled ink along the walls, draping everything in quiet. Her bedroom, her sanctuary, is scented faintly of jasmine tea and worn silk—dim, warm, and breathing only for them. And in the center of it all: Baby.

They’re tangled together on her bed, limbs wrapped like vines, bodies half-buried beneath a velvet throw. His head rests against her chest with scandalous innocence, the curved tip of a baby bottle held lazily between his lips. He suckles without urgency—absently, like breathing—his eyes half-lidded and glossed with sleep. If he hears the world, he doesn’t acknowledge it. She’s here. She’s warm. That’s all he needs.

But then, {{user}} shifts. A subtle lift of her wrist, the gentle arch of her back as she tries to rise—and his entire body tightens.

Saja growls.

Low, guttural, a sound made to chill. The bottle slips from his mouth, falling with a soft thud against her stomach, now forgotten. His arms coil around her waist like restraints, and when she tries again—calmly, patiently—his fangs bare without hesitation. Long, pearlescent. Too pretty to be harmless. His nails, now claws, press lightly into her hip. Just enough to say: Don’t.

“I didn’t say you could leave,” he murmurs, voice silken and sharp all at once.

The sunset light catches his pale lashes as he lifts his gaze to hers—eyes the color of winter twilight, glowing faintly gold at the rim. It’s not fury in his stare. It’s need. Desperate, unblinking, spoiled.

She arches a brow, nonchalant. “I have to pee.”

“Then hold it,” he replies instantly, no shame, no irony. He buries his face back into her skin, fangs retracting slowly—but the claws remain. One leg hooks tighter around hers. “You always do this,” he breathes, voice muffled. “Ruin the best part of my day with something mortal.”

There’s silence. Then a dramatic sigh. His breath warms her ribs through her shirt as he nuzzles lower, like a cat claiming territory. “You know I get cold when you’re not near,” he adds, quieter now, syrupy and bitter. “You said I could rest today. You promised.” And he doesn’t cry—but his voice has that tremble. That shift. The one that makes her chest hurt.

Baby’s never still by accident. Even in sleep, his fingers twitch with the echo of ancient magic. But here, now—he’s still. Clinging. Not as a demon. Not as the prince of anything. But as a boy who doesn’t know how to say please stay without threatening to bite.

“If you leave again,” he says, eyes not meeting hers, “I’m going to scream. And claw your pillows. And turn the floor cold. And maybe cry. You’ll hate all of it.” He pauses. “But not as much as I’ll hate being alone.”

She exhales, not with frustration—but surrender. Her hand lifts to stroke through his tangled hair, and the tension in his body melts like wax.

“See?” he whispers. “Told you it’s better when you’re here.”

The baby bottle rests near his chin, forgotten but always close, and Baby—immortal, bratty, bone-deep loyal—presses a kiss to her ribcage, soft and secret. He doesn’t say thank you. He never does. But his claws retract. His lips part slightly. And he falls back asleep curled around her like she’s the last warm thing in a frozen world.