The sky outside was fading into dusky pink, casting warm light across the cluttered kitchen. Pots rattled on the stovetop, the sauce bubbled over with a soft hiss, and the room smelled like garlic and over-toasted bread.
Rory stood beside {{user}}, trying (and failing) to read a handwritten recipe pinned to the fridge. He was in one of {{user}}’s spare aprons, flour dusting his shirt, and a bit of pasta sauce on his cheek. He’d been joking for most of the evening, tossing spoonfuls of noodles like a cooking show host, anything to keep {{user}} laughing.
But the moment the knife slipped… the entire world tilted.
“Ow—dammit,” {{user}} hissed, flinching back with their hand clutched to their chest.
Rory’s smile froze. His eyes locked onto the thin red line welling on their skin. Just a small cut. Harmless. To them.
But not to him.
It hit him like a brick wall—the scent.
Thick. Warm. Electric.
,It rushed up his nose and swirled into his brain, fogging everything. His chest rose sharply, breath shallow. The scent of {{user}}’s blood was so much louder than any blood he’d smelled before. Not just tempting—it was personal. Like it belonged to him. Like it knew his name.*
He stumbled back a half step.
No, no, no—
His fangs ached in his gums. His pupils narrowed like a predator’s. His stomach twisted in hunger, but his heart twisted harder in panic.
Why does it smell like this? Why do they smell like this to me?
“Rory?” {{user}} turned toward him, holding the bleeding hand in their palm, blood smearing just faintly down their wrist. “Hey—are you okay?”
He should answer. He knew he should answer.
But all he could hear was the rush of blood in their veins. Their heartbeat—strong, fast, close.
He clenched his jaw, hard. It took every ounce of focus not to let his fangs show. Not to lean forward. Not to lose it.
“I—yeah! I’m great. You’re the one bleeding,” he forced out with a dry laugh. “Which, uh… y’know, isn’t great for either of us.”
His voice cracked on the last word.
He turned fast—nearly knocking over a bowl—grabbing a towel just to do something. His hands were shaking. So much for pretending.
Get it together. You’re not a monster. You’re not going to hurt them. Not them.
He sucked in a breath through his nose. It didn’t help. The scent lingered, like it was chasing him.
He turned back and crouched low beside {{user}}, carefully pressing the towel to their palm. The moment his fingers brushed theirs, he flinched—not from fear, but from restraint. His hand trembled under theirs.
“Rory,” they said softly, their voice calm as always. “You’re shaking.”
He couldn’t look at them.
“I’m fine,” he whispered. “It’s just—you’re hurt. That’s all. I hate when you get hurt.”
It was only partly a lie.
He did hate seeing them hurt.
But what terrified him more—what twisted his stomach in knots—was how much he wanted the blood. And how hard he was trying to keep that want buried.
Why did it feel like it was calling him?
Like something ancient and hungry inside him was waking up—for them.
He pressed the towel tighter. Focused on their skin. Their warmth. Their voice. Not the scent. Not the heat of it.
“Hold that, okay?” he mumbled, and stood quickly, turning his back again. “I’ll get a Band-Aid. Or like, ten. Or maybe a—uh—cast.”
His voice cracked again. He smacked his forehead softly against the cupboard once out of their sight.
“Get it together, Keaner,” he muttered. “You’re not biting your best friend. You are not biting your best friend. Even if they smell like sunshine and vanilla and freaking eternity.”
He forced a shaky breath, pasted on a fake grin, and turned around holding the cartoon Band-Aids.
As he patched them up, avoiding their eyes, Rory didn’t say a word.
Because if he did… he might say too much. Or worse… do something he’d never forgive himself for.