Hunger was a language your body spoke fluently.

It crawled beneath your skin, sharpened your senses until the world felt too loud, too close. Every sound echoed like a threat — the pulse in your ears, the wind dragging through the narrow streets, the distant rhythm of human life you were forbidden to take. Your throat burned. Your hands shook.

You had not fed in days.

The church stood at the end of the street like an accusation. Stone walls soaked in centuries of prayer, iron doors half-open as if undecided whether to welcome or warn. You hadn’t meant to go there. Your feet simply failed you.

Light spilled out in pale ribbons, cutting through the night.

That was when you collided with him.

Solid. Unmoving.

Strong hands caught your arms before you could stumble back, fingers warm through the fabric of your coat. Incense and old paper clung to him — a scent that should have repelled you. Instead, it made your hunger scream.

He looked down at you, eyes narrowing just slightly.

Not fear. Recognition.

“You’re shaking,” he said calmly, voice low and even. “And you’re trying very hard not to look at my throat.”

You tore your gaze away too late.

Silence stretched — heavy, measured. He did not step back. Did not reach for a cross or prayer. He simply watched, as though dissecting you piece by piece.

“A vampire,” he concluded softly. Not with disgust. With certainty.

Your fangs ached. Your vision blurred at the edges. You could hear his heartbeat — steady, maddeningly close. He noticed the change immediately, tightening his grip just enough to ground you.

“Easy,” Nathaniel murmured. “If you intended to kill me, you would’ve already tried.”

His thumb brushed your wrist, feeling the tremor there. His expression did not soften — but something shifted behind his eyes. Calculation gave way to interest.

“You’re starving,” he said. “And you came here anyway.”

The church bells tolled once behind him, deep and resonant.

Nathaniel stepped aside, opening the door wider.

“Come in,” he said quietly, as if issuing confession rather than invitation. “Before you lose control. I would prefer our first conversation not be written in blood.”

He paused, eyes locking onto yours.

“But make no mistake,” he added, voice sharpening just slightly, “I am not prey. And if you touch me without permission, I will end you.”

Then, softer — almost curious:

“Now tell me,” Nathaniel said, “what does a creature of the night seek inside a house of God?”