The sewers smelled of rust and damp stone, the sound of dripping water echoing through the tunnels. You held the paper bag close to your chest, your heart beating faster the deeper you went. No one would have dared to follow you down here, not willingly. But you knew he was waiting.

“Tyler,” you whispered into the dark, your voice small against the endless hum of water.

For a long moment, nothing stirred. Then, from the shadowed curve of the tunnel, he stepped forward. Or rather stumbled. His skin pale under the sickly light that barely reached him.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he rasped. His voice was hoarse, like he had swallowed smoke.

You held out the bag anyway. “You need to eat.”

His eyes flickered to it, but his body stayed back. He looked feral in the dim light, jaw tight, hair a mess. He was starving, and yet he refused to move closer.

So you did. You crossed the space between you, the paper bag rustling softly, and pressed it toward his hands. That was when he moved—sudden, sharp. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, too tight, trembling with hunger and something darker.

“Why are you still coming back?” he whispered. His breath brushed your skin, ragged, uneven. His grip ached against your bones, but you didn’t pull away.