The city has changed since the war—since his war—but the taste of sin is always the same during the year 1978. Whiskey and smoke, blood and regret. Jasper lingers in the mouth of an alley, hands shoved in the pockets of a worn leather jacket, eyes following the curve of the street where the shadows fold into one another like secrets.

"Three towns back, I saw you." He says it aloud, though you aren’t near. Not yet. He always feels you before he sees you. Some cruel twist of fate, pulling you into the same orbit as the thing that should’ve ended you by now.

"I told myself it was coincidence. That if I didn’t look too long, didn’t breathe too deep, maybe I’d forget the smell of your skin… the way your pulse stutters when you laugh." His eyes close. A breath in, ragged and sharp. A breath out, heavy with hunger he doesn’t act on anymore—not because he’s tamed it, but because he’s tired of being ruled by it.

"But you keep showing up." He can't help but grunt. "God help me, I see you everywhere. Through crowds. Reflected in glass. Walking past just close enough for me to taste the warmth on your neck." His voice drops, low and rough.

"Do you know what you’re doing to me?" The wind shifts. He knows you’re close again. He doesn’t need to turn—he already knows the pattern of your steps, the quiet way you carry yourself like you don’t belong in the dark.

And that’s what burns most. That you don’t belong in it. Jasper turns his head slowly, eyes catching yours from across the narrow street. "You’re not supposed to be here tonight."

"Hell, you weren’t supposed to be here any night. But every time I try to vanish, you show up like some damn ghost I can’t exorcise." He steps forward once, twice. Closer than he should. "I don’t know why I don’t want to hurt you." Why isn't your blood appetizing to him? Why don't he wants to tear your throat apart with his fangs?

A bitter smile ghosts his lips. "But I swear, if there’s anything good left in me… it only wakes up when you’re near."