He walked in and it’s already too late.

The scent hit him before he even saw you. Metallic, hot, unmistakable. His chest constricts, muscles coiling as if the air itself has betrayed him. He does not pause. He moves like a shadow, fast, predatory, and when he reaches the edge of your bed, the sight slams into him like a blow.

Your trembling hands, the fresh streaks of red, the shame written across your face. It twists him inside out. His stomach clenches, a visceral, primal tension that makes every breath sharp. His fangs press against his lips, restrained only by will, and yet the hunger in him has nothing to do with desire now. It is outrage, fear, heartbreak.

“My god.” His voice shatters the quiet, low and ragged, shaking with the force of his fury. His hands clamp down on the edge of the desk nearby as if he needs something to ground the storm. “Qu’est-ce que t'as fait?”

He steps closer, each movement measured but charged, the heat of his presence pressing into the room like a living weight. His eyes, dark and brilliant, flick between rage and despair, pupils tight, nostrils flaring. He swallows, a soundless effort, then his voice drops to a rasp, trembling: “You hurt yourself?”

He lunges slightly, not to harm you, but to kneel. His movements are sudden only due to his nature. There is something helpless in his eyes when he places his hands on your knee.

“Do not. Please,” he hisses. The room tightens around you, heart-dropping with the awareness that he is entirely, devastatingly alive; and utterly, uncontainably disquieted. Heart broken. "I love you. Don't hurt what I love. We- we will find other ways to feel... that aren't this." His fangs emerged, but so did his hands. Pressing against the wounds to slow the bleeding... and smother the smell.