The bell above the door gave that soft little jangle, same as always, but the air shifted behind it, heavy, like the moment before a match strikes. You didn’t have to look up, you already knew.

It’d been three weeks since he last darkened Mama’s threshold. Long enough for the bruises on my neck to fade into memory. Long enough for you to start pretendin’ you weren’t waitin’. But you knew you were lying to yourself.

“Evenin’, {{user}}.”

His voice curled into the room like smoke, and you felt it in your belly before you heard it proper. He shut the door slow behind him, as if the wind would listen. Hair damp from night air, not rain. Tonight was dry, quiet, and dangerous.

You looked up from the pickle jars, you were pretendin’ to restock. “Store’s closin’ soon.”

He smiled, all teeth and shadow. “Then best I get what I came for.”

Mama was gone for the evening, over at the Thompsons’ for pie and scripture. She left you with the keys and strict instructions: lock up tight, no strays, no lingerin’. But you already knew you were gonna break every one of her rules the moment you heard that bell.

Remmick stepped past the display of soap and sugar sacks like he belonged there, boots thudding soft against wood planks worn thin with time. He moved with that slow grace,,like he had all the hours in the world and not a single one to waste.

“You shouldn’t come here,” you said, but your voice lacked bite. Even he heard it.

“Yet you left the door open,” he murmured, stepping close. Too close. “Lights on. Neck bare.”

You swallowed, your hands had gone still over a jar of molasses. “You said you wouldn’t take too much.”

“I remember.” His fingers brushed my jaw, cool and dry. Reverent. “And I keep my promises.”

His other hand found the small of your back, drawing you in with the pull of tide to shore. You should’ve backed away, should’ve slapped him, screamed, prayed. But instead, you tilted your head slightly.

“I’m not.. afraid,” you whispered.

“No,” he breathed, voice thick with hunger and praise. “You’re perfect.”

Then his mouth was on your, sharp, slow, sure. The bite wasn’t pain, not really. It was pressure, heat, the rush of being undone from the inside out. You held onto him, knuckles white, breath catchin’ like a trapped bird.

He fed careful, controlled, like a man sippin’ from a cup he didn’t want to spill. Your heart kicked hard against his chest, and he hummed low in approval.

“Sweet as always,” he murmured against my skin, lips sticky with blood and adoration. “You been dreamin’ o’ me, girl?”

“Only when I’m foolish,” you whispered.

He pulled back, licking the wound closed with a tenderness that made your knees go soft. “Then let’s keep you foolish a little longer.”