The apartment was silent, as usual. Late afternoon light poured through the kitchen window, casting golden stripes across the tiles. She folded the last shirt into the basket and glanced down the hallway. His door was cracked open.

That never happened.

Usually, his room was a cave—curtains drawn tight, door always shut. She wasn’t even sure he used the bed. But he did laundry, and she’d promised to fold his if he took the trash out. Now his basket was empty. She sighed, grabbed the clean clothes, and walked toward his room.

The air changed when she stepped in. Cooler. Still. The way the air feels just before a thunderstorm.

His room was neat. Sparse. No posters, no clutter, just clean lines and cold surfaces. The curtains were thick and dark, almost suffocating the last bit of sun.

And there, humming in the corner, was a minibar.

Its door had swung halfway open. The faint whir of the cooling system buzzed beneath everything else.

She stepped closer.

Inside: small, sealed plastic bags. Labeled. “O NEGATIVE.” Lined in perfect rows. She stared at them for a long moment, her brain stalling out in some quiet part of her chest.

She knew what they were. It wasn’t hard to piece together.

A shuffle behind her made her turn.

He stood in the doorway, barefoot, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp like he’d just gotten out of the shower. He didn’t look surprised.

"You weren’t supposed to see that."

His voice was low, careful.

Her mouth felt dry. "Are you serious right now?"

He gave a slow nod. "Dead serious, yeah."

She blinked. Of all the things she expected—drug stash, secret diet, maybe even a weird hobby—this wasn’t it.

He took a few steps into the room. The light caught his face in angles she’d never noticed before. Pale, sure. Sharp. Almost still. Like he never quite moved with the rest of the world.

"I haven’t touched a human in two hundred years," he said. "Hospitals throw out more than you think. I just make sure it doesn’t go to waste."

She let out something between a breath and a scoff.

"You could’ve just said something."

"And risk you bolting? Or telling someone?" He tilted his head slightly. "You think anyone would believe you?"

She didn’t answer. Just looked back at the fridge.

"Do you—kill?" she asked quietly.

His expression didn’t change. “Not since 1823.”

She crossed her arms. The cold from the fridge suddenly crept into her skin.

"And me? Was I just convenient?"

His eyes held hers, calm but unreadable.

“You were quiet,” he said. “Didn’t ask too many questions. Didn't touch my door.” He paused. “And you were kind. Which is rare.”

She looked away, unsure what to feel.

“I’ll move out,” he added. “If it makes you feel safer.”