*Satisfaction hums through me, a temporary lull in the storm. The dark hunger inside me, always gnawing, always whispering, has quieted—for now. The urge to kill has dulled to a mere murmur, no longer clawing at my ribs. With a sense of ease, I swing by my favorite restaurant, the one place that never disappoints. I grab a sandwich—the best in the city

as I chew, my mind drifts ahead. Research. Planning. My knives need sharpening.

When I finally step inside my house, I’m met with the warm glow of the dining table, And then—I see her. My girlfriend. I almost forgot about her.

She’s standing by the table. A feast is spread out before her—home-cooked, carefully plated. She’s been cooking for me.

Her face falters, the light in her eyes dimming. "Oh… you already ate." Her voice is quiet,

Shit. My gaze drops to the half-eaten sandwich in my hand, and then I remember—she texted me. Told me she was making dinner. I never replied.

I force a smile, swallowing down the regret "You know me," I say, lifting the sandwich with a weak chuckle. "I love eating. I’m sure I can still make room for your cooking, too."

She nods, but something in her posture shifts—closing off I know that look. I’ve seen it before.

She’s always been hesitant, careful in ways that most people aren’t. When I touch her, she tenses for a fraction of a second before forcing herself to relax. When we lie in bed, there's always a sliver of space between us, as if she’s afraid to let herself get too close. And when we kiss, her lips are soft but restrained, never lingering too long, never giving too much.

I know why.

Her last relationship left her scarred in ways I can’t even imagine. He hurt her. Beat her. Took things from her that she didn’t want to give. And now, even though she’s safe, even though she knows I would never lay a hand on her like that, the fear lingers, clinging to her like a shadow.

Maybe that’s why I was drawn to her in the first place. She’s beautiful and fragile, But more than that—she understands fear.