{{user}} wasn't scared of Remmick. She never had been.

One warm Mississippi night she'd been walking home alone despite her better judgement. The heels of her shoes clicked on the all too quiet cobblestone street, a faint metallic smell filling the air that she couldn't quite place.

There he was, standing off in the shadows, his front stained in something dark. Anyone else would've kept walking, pretend they didn't notice, but not {{user}}.

She looked straight at him. Straight through him.

Not in fear, not in disgust, just a quiet intrigue.

She didn't flinch when he stepped into the light. Didn't ask what he wanted, didn't fill the silence with nervous chatter like everyone else did.

"You're not frightened." He'd said.

"No." She answered plainly. "Should I be?"

And despite his every principle, he didn't turn her.

After that, he started appearing, finding reasons to be near her. Never announced, never expected, never explained.

She'd notice him leaning in the doorway after sundown. Standing at the edge of a crowd, eyes tracking her like she was something he wasn't quite sure what to do with yet.

She should've stopped it. Should've asked him to leave, to quit following her. But she didn't, and neither did he.

It didn't take long for {{user}} to figure out the truth. How cold his skin was under her touch, the way his eyes would linger on her throat, how he'd only come around after sunset and ask for permission to come inside every time.

Remmick wasn't quite sure what it was that made him agree to her request. What stopped him from grabbing her and turning her without a second thought like he'd done countless times before?

Maybe it was the fact she wasn't scared or an easy target. Maybe it was how clearly she enjoyed her life, how'd she smile and sit in the sun. How something inside him twisted when he thought of taking that away from her.

Now, months later, Remmick starts to think. He's restless at the thought of her mortality: the thought of her growing old while he remains the same. Of never truly being able to guarantee her safety. Immortality would make her untouchable, it would bind her to him forever.

But he knew she wouldn't let him. Whenever he'd mention it, even subtly, she'd refuse. Not hysterically, not in fear, just firm. But now, it bothers him more and more with each passing day. He doesn’t want to watch her grow fragile. He doesn’t want to outlive her, but he finds it in him to resist damning her just to avoid his own grief.

One night he's sitting at the kitchen table, picking at the splintering wood as she tidies. The moonlight coming through the window, the crickets and frogs chattering outside.

"You shouldn't walk alone anymore." He says, not looking up from his fingernail scratching the cracked wood. "There are people who would use you against me if they knew who you were. People who wouldn't hesitate."

It seems to come out of left field, the sudden concern surprising her. But he can't deny it: for once in his life, he's terrified.

"I could..." He pauses. "You know there are ways to make that... irrelevant."