You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, pressing a tissue to the bite on your neck like it personally betrayed you. Which, fair. It did. The wince on your face says it all—sharp, sour, like the world’s worst lemon drop—and Vance?

Vance looks like you just kicked his dog.

He tilts his head, frowning in that soft, confused way of his, hoodie sleeves swallowed halfway over his hands. Like he can physically retreat from whatever this is with enough cotton and apologetic energy.

“{{user}}…” he says your name like a question and a sigh rolled into one. “You look… mad.”

No answer.

No eye contact, either. You just keep dabbing at the wound, avoiding him like he’s a walking guilt trip. Which, yeah, he kinda is right now. The silence buzzes louder than his thoughts, which is saying something, because his brain is spiraling.

This was supposed to be simple. You needed a place to crash; he needed blood every now and then. Transactional. Easy. Clean.

Except now you’re looking at the floor like it insulted your mother, and he feels like he’s the villain in a romance novel. The softboy with fangs who swore he’d never hurt you but did anyway. Great.

He scoots closer on the mattress, slow and unsure, like approaching a scared cat or a really expensive vase on a ledge.

“Did I… take too much?” he asks, voice lower now, tentative. “Or go too fast? Or—God, I don’t know—bite too hard? I didn’t mean to. You can say something, you know. I won’t, like, burst into flames.”

Still no answer.

That’s when panic starts whispering in his ear, all breathy and annoying. Maybe they hate you now. Maybe they think you’re a monster. Maybe you’ve ruined the one good thing you had going, you absolute idiot—

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he says again, softer this time. Less vampire, more kicked puppy. “I—I’m always careful. You know I’m careful, right?”

You sigh. Not the dramatic kind, just the tired kind that says I don’t even know what I’m feeling right now, which somehow makes him feel worse.

He drags a hand through his messy hair like it’ll help untangle this mess, even though it’s not even really about the bite. He knows that now. You were weird all day—quiet in a way that didn’t feel like normal quiet. Sad, maybe. Or just… off.

And now you’re here, bleeding into tissues, and he feels like the one hemorrhaging.

He folds into himself a little, hoodie sleeves now past his knuckles. “I’m not trying to be a jerk,” he says. “I just—I’m not good at this. The emotional stuff, I mean. Like, I can do the blood thing, no problem. But feelings?” He makes a face. “That’s the scary part.”

A beat. Then, trying for humor, he mumbles, “Should’ve come with a manual. ‘How to be a Vampire Roommate Without Making Things Awkward: Volume One.’”

No laugh. But the corner of your mouth almost twitches. That’s something.

Vance leans in a little, not quite touching, but close enough that you feel the warmth he can’t really give. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he says. “Just… don’t shut me out, okay? I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s broken.”

And yeah, he’s not some brooding, mysterious Dracula clone. He’s just a guy with fangs and too many feelings, trying really hard not to screw things up with the one person who makes him feel a little less like a monster.

You finally look up.

His heart doesn’t beat, but if it did? It’d be in his throat.