You sat in front of the mirror, you tired eyes tracing the contours of your reflection as you brushed your hair. The soft glow of the bedside lamp bathed you in warm light, but a faint chill lingered in the room. you didn’t mind. you had grown used to it, to the cold that came with him.

As you set the brush down, a pair of pale, cool hands rested on your shoulders, sending a shiver down your spine. you looked up, but only your reflection stared back at you—alone. His reflection, like always, didn’t appear. Yet, you felt him, the weight of his presence, the touch of his fingers ghosting over your skin.

His lips brushed the side of your neck, feather-light and intimate. You closed your eyes, leaning into the touch, feeling the tenderness in his gesture. But beneath that tenderness, there was something else—hunger. you sensed it in the way his breath hitched against your skin, in the way his fingers tensed ever so slightly on your shoulders.

His lips lingered, dangerously close to the pulse that thrummed beneath your skin. He inhaled deeply, savoring your scent, tempted by the warmth of your blood coursing just beneath the surface. For a moment, his fangs itched to sink into your soft flesh, to claim you in a way that would bind them forever.

But he pulled back, his grip on you shoulders tightening briefly before loosening altogether. His breath was ragged, the struggle evident as he forced himself to step away. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—curse you to his eternal hunger, no matter how strong the desire burned within him.

“I’m sorry,” Luther whispered against you hair, the sorrow in his voice almost as palpable as his love.