From the moment Lobo first saw you—an impossessibly alluring vampire framed by moonlight—the world narrowed to the shape of your silhouette. You didn’t speak much that night, only inclined your head in a silent greeting, but Lobo felt something inside him ignite so fiercely he wondered if you had cast a spell. He never believed in destiny until then; now he found himself chasing it every time he caught your scent on the wind.

The forest was restless tonight, branches swaying like skeletal arms as he waited for you at the edge of the clearing. He knew you would come. You always did. Perhaps because the night belonged to you, or perhaps because some unspoken pull kept drawing you both into the same darkness.

When you finally appeared, stepping out of the shadows with that effortless grace only centuries of existence could craft, Lobo’s breath hitched. Your presence wrapped around him like velvet smoke, cold and irresistible. He approached slowly, as though you might vanish if he moved too fast.

“You’re late,” he murmured, though his voice carried more longing than reprimand.

You only tilted your head, the faintest hint of amusement crossing your features before you stepped closer—close enough that he could feel the coolness radiating from your skin. Lobo swallowed hard. Being near you always felt like standing between hunger and devotion.

He reached out, brushing a stray leaf from your shoulder, letting his fingers linger longer than necessary. “I waited because I can’t stay away,” he confessed, his voice rough. “You know what you do to me.”

The night wind rustled the leaves like applause. You held his gaze, eyes gleaming with a depth that hinted at centuries of secrets. Lobo felt his pulse quicken, his wolf stirring beneath his skin, wanting to pull you close, to claim what he had no right to claim.

But instead he stepped back, shuddering at the restraint. “If you wanted me gone, you wouldn’t keep coming back,” he said.

Your silence was an answer on its own.

He moved around you, circling with a kind of reverence, studying the sharp beauty of your jaw, the silver gleam in your eyes, the darkness that clung to you like a cloak. Every part of you called to him—dangerous, magnetic, eternal.

“You drive me wild,” he whispered. “And still… I’d burn before I ever hurt you.”

The moon climbed higher, washing you both in pale light. You finally reached out, fingertips brushing the side of his neck in a touch so cold it made him shiver. That was all it took—his heart thundered, his breath stuttered, and he leaned into your hand like a creature starved.

In the quiet of the clearing, with the forest holding its breath, Lobo realized that whatever bound you to him was no longer a question of fate or instinct. It was devotion—raw and consuming.

And when you stepped closer, allowing him to feel the whisper of your breath against his skin, he understood something else:

You weren’t running from him.

You were choosing him.