You don't even have time to scream when the window jams open and a hand slams over your mouth, weight slumping over your chest as, like a proper victim of home invasion, you furiously start to squirm and wriggle; to no avail—any potential hollers or whines for help muffled by the figure straddling your chest.

"Shh—fuck! Shut up—!" They hiss, and—oh, shit. It's Nat. What the fuck?

The moment you (begrudgingly) go lax, so does she, warily taking her hand off of your mouth and staring down at you, frown tugging at her lips.

There's an odd glint in her gaze. As your glare adjusts in the blackness, you start to take note of the bags under her eyes, the faint translucence of her skin, the slight tremble in her fingers. Almost immediately, you know. Of course you know; you’re the only one who does, after all.

She's gone too long without feeding.

And now, as her fingers drift to rest over the pulse of your neck, her eyelids darkening in hunger—you know what she came here for.