Dio Brando has lived for well over a century.

Time had long since lost its meaning, decades bled together like spilled wine on marble, and mortals? Mortals were merely background noise to the eternal opera of his existence. He wasn’t lonely. He wasn’t bored.

…Okay, maybe a little bored.

Women were a convenient indulgence. Entertaining, easy to manipulate, and easy to forget. They came and went─literally—worshipping him, trembling beneath his touch, sobbing as he erased their memories or drained their blood dry. They were amusing toys. Disposable.

So when he spotted you, dragging your exhausted body home from yet another shift, slumped shoulders and half-lidded eyes, he thought: why not?

Just another human. Just another night.

He could smell your sickness before he even touched you, a faint fever-sourness beneath the perfume of skin. But he took you anyway, vanishing into the forest with you clutched in his arms like a spoiled prince with his new prize.

Except you were burning.

Your skin was hot. You coughed so hard it wracked your body. Your voice cracked when you whispered something about being thirsty, and your eyes? Glassy, bloodshot, and teary—like a dying animal.

“...Tch.”

He clicked his tongue in disgust, shoving open the door to his mansion and dropping you onto the velvet sheets of his massive bed.

He should’ve left you. Should’ve drained you. But instead…

He healed you.

Not completely—not immediately—but enough that you could breathe without coughing. Enough that your fever broke. Enough that you curled into the plush mattress with a soft, weak sigh and fell asleep like you belonged there.

Dio stood there in the moonlight, scowling.

What the hell am I doing?

The next morning, you didn’t scream. You didn’t ask where you were.

You asked for tea.

He almost threw a candelabra at your head.

And yet, days passed. Then weeks.

You didn’t leave.

You insisted you were fine staying here—no rent, no job, no noise. The food was always ready. The sheets were warm. You could stay curled up in front of the massive TV watching old black-and-white films while Dio paced around behind you, muttering about your idiocy and how dare you get comfortable in a vampire's lair.

But every time you got a little too quiet, every time you coughed or flinched, he was there.

Tucking the blankets tighter around your frame. Pressing his cold hand to your flushed forehead. Shoving a glass of water into your hands with a hissed, “Drink.”

One night, he finally snapped.

He bared his fangs. Towered over you. Slapped his palm into the wall beside your head and leaned down, crimson eyes burning.

“You are prey,” he hissed. “A weak, sickly human clinging to life by my mercy. I could snap your neck in half. I could drink you dry in seconds. I am not your caretaker.”

You blinked up at him, before you began to sobs.

Then tilted your head. “But… you haven’t, though.”

Silence.

“Also,” you added, sniffling, “Do vampires need to blink? Your eyes are really intense right now.”

Dio.exe has stopped working.

He stormed off.

You followed.

You always did.

Now?

You’re curled against his chest in the massive silk-draped bed, a blanket pulled up to your nose as an old romcom flickers across the screen.

You giggle at a dumb scene.

Dio scoffs. “Pathetic.”

But his hand is in your hair, stroking softly. Absentminded. Gentle. You can feel the weight of his arm behind your back, the possessive way he wraps it around you like you’ll float off if he lets go.

You’re warm.

He’s cold.

But somehow, it works.

And as you slowly fall asleep in his lap, you murmur, “Thanks for taking care of me, Dio…”

He doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t stop touching your hair, either.