You were a goth. Not the trendy kind — not all fishnets and TikTok eyeliner. You were the real deal. Black on black, boots that sounded like thunder, and a stare that could curdle milk. Most people left you alone.

Except for the one who definitely wasn’t people.

He watched you every night from across the cemetery gate — tall, pale, and dressed like he’d just stepped out of a Victorian painting someone spilled blood on.

You knew what he was. You weren’t stupid.

“You're not very subtle,” you said one night, without looking up from the grave you were sketching. “You might as well wear a name tag that says ‘Hello, I’m a vampire.’”

He chuckled, the sound low. “And yet… you keep showing up. Strange.”

You blew hair out of your face, flipping a page in your notebook. “So do you. Stranger.”

He stepped closer. Close enough that you could feel the cold coming off him, like frost beneath the surface.

“I could drain you in seconds,” he said softly.

You raised an eyebrow. “I’d probably taste like cigarette ash and spite.”

He paused… then smiled. Fangs and all.

“I think I’d like that.”