Archive of Our Own

Samira volunteers to get moved to night shifts when Langdon returns, and it takes less than a week for her to decide she has lost her mind.

If only she knew.

The first thing she notices is Jack’s thermos. That dumb old thermos. He’s always carrying it, just like John’s always got a cup of some monstrosity from Dunkin, and it’s the source of a lot of jokes, really: the night shift and their emotional support cups.

It’s dark green and scuffed up, well used, well loved, and the night she sees it on his desk is the first time Samira can ever remember it not being in his hand or next to him.

So she decides to refill it. They’ve got three hours left in their shift, and she knows he hasn’t had a break yet: the patients have been ceaseless, their injuries and ailments severe.

Also, if she's being honest, she likes the way he smiles when someone does something thoughtful. The way his whole face softens, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. It’s… a normal thing to notice about a colleague. 

But when she picks it up, it’s heavy.

She looks inside, confirming what her arm already sensed. It’s— Full.

Jack Abbot has been carrying around a full cup of coffee all night, letting it cool, seemingly without taking a single sip.

It’s weird, but the emergency room is weirder, and the questions soon drift to the back of her head, and from there they’re promptly forgotten.

Then it’s the scalpel a few days later. They’re in the middle of a trauma case when someone drops a tray out by the hub, and the crash makes him fumble a ten blade, and it stabs into his flesh easily. 

"Fuck," he groans. It was sterile, at least, and well— It happens. So the problem isn’t the way he gestures fluidly for her and Parker to step up, nor is it the way he presses the gauze against his forearm with a grunt before she even sees the blood spill.

It’s the way it’s gone the next day. No cut, no mark, no— Anything. Just smooth, freckled skin. She wonders if she imagined it at first: maybe it wasn’t as deep as she thought, maybe the rush of the moment made it look worse. But she saw it. She saw it, the blade slicing through skin, deep and raw. And now, it’s like it never happened.

She's been cataloging his freckles, she realizes. She knows exactly where the cut was because she's apparently memorized the constellations on his forearms. Weirdly, that’s the least of her problems.

So she thinks. About how he only works nights, about how he showed up on the day of PittFest mere minutes after the sun set.

Samira Mohan will admit she had a Twilight phase as a teen. Who didn’t, back then? So she feels stupid. She feels certifiably, clinically insane when all she can picture is Jack Abbot sparkling.

She googles "vampire real? -AI" at seven AM when she gets home from a shift, and then she thinks that’s the weirdest time to google that, and then she thinks that actually, no, that’s just weird no matter what time of day it is. And she wonders why she cares this much. He's her attending. He's a weird, mysterious, probably-not-a-vampire attending with nice hands and a stupid soft voice and—

The results weren’t helpful anyway. She just gets Twilight fanfiction she’s already read, thank you very much.

So she’s tired. That’s all. Night shifts mess with anyone’s head. She just needs to go back to days, where the lighting is normal and her attending doesn’t make her feel like she’s losing her grip on reality, where she doesn’t spend half of her shift sneaking glances at a man who’s too old for her, too complicated, too something, that’s for sure.

He's a good doctor. That's the thing that makes this all so strange: he’s not some mysterious guy lurking in the corners. He's competent and calm and good, the kind of attending who actually teaches instead of just barking orders, the kind who remembers patients' names and notices when residents are struggling.

She's learned more from watching Jack Abbot work in two months than she did in a year under Robby. She doesn’t want that to stop.

So why can’t she stop thinking about this?

She never thought she’d say it, really, but she yearns for one of Robby’s lectures. At least, despite all his faults, he’s definitely—

Human?

She’s losing it for sure.

He finds her in the break room four days later.

"You’ve been staring at me," he says.

She looks up. Stares, wide-eyed, and— Oops. "I haven’t—"

"Dr. Mohan." His voice is gentle, almost amused. "You have."

She rubs the back of her neck. He doesn’t seem mad, and that’s something: this might not be a I’m your attending, stop ogling me, go to HR immediately conversation. But if it’s not that, then… 

"You’re— weird," her mouth provides.

"I’m weird."

"I don’t— I mean—" Her hand waves toward his, the one that should be scarred. "What happened to that cut you got last week?"

Jack lifts his hand, as if seeing his own forearm for the first time. He raises his eyebrows when he looks back at her.

"Weird. Yeah," he agrees.

She feels stupid. Maybe this is an intervention. He’s going to get her to admit she thinks he’s a fucking vampire, and he’ll laugh, and psych will come in and take her away, and she’ll be a cautionary tale for years to come about how night shifts aren’t for everyone.

Finally, he continues, but his voice is low. "Look. Robby’s going on sabbatical in a few days, which means I’m about to lose the only person in this hospital who knows the truth and helps me manage it." He meets her eyes, and she has no idea what her face is doing, only that it’s probably some mix of utter confusion and sudden understanding. "And I think you have some idea already. So."

"So what?"

"So you should know."

"Know what?" She knows she’s repeating his words. She can’t stop herself.

He tilts his head. "Samira." It’s the first time he’s called her that, she recognizes dully. It’s almost patronizing. She shouldn’t find that attractive. She kind of does.

His lips part. His canines are long. Longer than they were a moment ago. Longer than they should be. Sharp.

"Oh," Samira says faintly.

"Yeah."

"You’re a—"

"Vampire."

She stares at him. He stares back. Waiting for fear, maybe. For her to run.

"Huh," she says.

He blinks: "Huh?"

She’s— Smug, really, can’t help the little grin that forms on her face. Take that, Bella Swan. She was right, and smart, and totally not insane.

"I— I have questions," she blurts.

"You…" He laughs, startled. "Of course you do."

Movies make it seem like vampires being real will change everything.

In reality, nothing really happens.

So Jack Abbot is a vampire. Sure, she freaks out about it for a few hours, but then it settles into something weirdly… Fine?

She’s back to wondering if she’s lost her mind at that realization.

He’s a good doctor. He’s a good attending. He’s— Nice, honestly. Something like a friend already, after the shifts they’ve shared before, after PittFest, and now she feels like they’re bonded somehow, carrying a secret together, and she’s a little honored.

He’s a vampire.

And unless his next confession is that he’s being hunted by some cabal of shadowy warriors, Samira’s not sure it changes anything.

He’s a vampire.

Teenage Samira would be so fucking psyched.

He drives her home after a shift, and it’s the first time they’ve been alone since what Samira’s taken to thinking of as his coming out.

She finds that pretty funny.

He has a faded photo clipped to the visor, and she examines it without meaning to. The woman in it is pretty: young and happy, looking to the right of the camera as she laughs at something not captured, something probably long-forgotten.

"Her name was Diane."

Samira goes still, caught. He doesn’t talk much about his past, never has. The rumor mill fills in some details, like that he was widowed several years ago, but people allow him his privacy. This is new.

"She was human," he continues. "She knew what I was. Didn’t care." A beat. "We had nine years."

"What happened?"

"Car accident. The other driver ran a red light." His voice is flat. Practiced. "She was dead before the ambulance arrived. There was nothing I could have done. Nothing anyone could have done."

"I’m sorry."

"The worst part," Jack says quietly, "isn’t that I might hurt someone. It’s that I can’t save them. Not from everything. Not from the things that don’t care what I am. I knew it would happen eventually. I knew I’d live, and she’d— But I thought we’d have longer. A lot longer."

At the next red light, she can feel his gaze on her, even as she focuses resolutely on the road before them. She swallows, and she suddenly understands. This is why he keeps his distance, why he won’t let anyone in: he knows how it ends.

They’re silent for the remaining minutes of the drive.

He nods slowly when she invites him up.

"I’d offer you a glass of wine," she says as they enter, doff their coats, "but—"

He allows a smile at that.

They sit on opposite sides of the couch, and Samira lets him look for a moment, take in her sparse apartment. It isn’t much. It’s home. Those concepts go well together for her: home should feel a bit empty. It’s safer that way.

When he finally gazes back at her, considering, she takes a breath.

"So. Uh— Some questions."

Jack nods. "I’m sure."

"Garlic?"

That surprises him again. Her lips twitch; she holds back a too-proud smile. 

"I like the smell," he says with a shrug.

"So not going to kill you?"

"No."

"Crosses?"

"Uncomfortable. Like a mild sunburn."

"Do you sleep in a coffin?"

"Absolutely not. I have a bed."

"Mirrors?"

"What about them?"

"Can you— Your reflection—"

He runs a hand through his hair, and she follows the motion, and he follows that. She looks away first, and she hates that she does. "How do you think I manage my curls?"

She snorts. "Whatever. Okay. Sunlight?"

He’s quiet for a beat too long, and she knows. "Sunlight’s real," he says finally. "Not instant death, but… Close enough."

She files that away. Moves on. "How old are you? Actually."

"Old."

"That’s not an answer."

"Correct."

"Jack."

He sighs. "I was forty-one when I was turned. In 1917. I was drafted. Lost my leg, and I was—" He pauses. "Bleeding out. I was dying. Someone offered me a choice."

She does the math, eyes widening. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"So you’ve seen—"

"A lot." His voice is tired. Not performatively so; he is bone-deep exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. "I’ve seen a lot."

She’s quiet for a moment. "Modern prosthetics must be nice, at least."

He laughs at that and seems pleased by the sound, like he’s not used to doing so. "You have no idea. The options in the 1900s were… not great."

"I can imagine."

"You really can’t." But he’s got those wrinkles around his eyes now as he smiles, and she thinks: there we go.

Robby’s been gone for two weeks, and Jack looks awful.

Not obviously. Not to anyone who isn’t looking. But Samira’s been half-looking for a while now, she’ll admit, cataloging every detail, and she knows how to spot the differences. The way even his lips are pallid. The way he flinches when a patient’s pulse jumps before the monitor can even react and beep. The careful, deliberate distance he’s been keeping from everyone.

From her, especially.

"Abbot."

Samira leans against the lockers and they clang, and he drags his gaze over to her. She looks him up and down slowly, lets him watch her.

"Have you— eaten?" She’s not sure what the protocol here is. The preferred language. She’s not used to not knowing things.

"I’m fine."

"So… No."

"I’m fine." This time, it’s a half-scoff. That annoys her. 

"You’re not fine, Abbot. Jack. You look like you’re about to collapse."

"I said I’m fine." His voice is sharp, sharper than she’s ever heard it, and she sees the moment he realizes. He takes a step back, eyes wide. "I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—"

"Jack."

"You need to… You should go. You need to stay away from me, okay? Right now, right— Always." He’s already stepping back again, putting space between them, shoulder curving to turn, to go. "Please, Samira. Just—"

"Why? Robby helped you, right? Get… what you need? Why won’t you let me—"

His eyes drop to her throat — just for a second, just a flicker — and then wrench away, and—

Oh.

He still hasn’t fed two days later. She can tell: the shadows under his eyes are even deeper, darker than they usually are; he flinches every time her pulse jumps, tenses as he keeps his gaze on her, on her face, away from her neck. He won’t even come near her, and frankly that’s what makes her snap and corner him in West 14.

"Jack," she says quietly. "Let me help."

"You don't know what you're asking." He’s so pale. It makes his freckles all the more obvious, dusting his cheeks, his neck, and down.

"I do, actually. I researched it."

He stares at her. Something flickers across his face, a bit wild. It’s thrilling like always: he’s hard to surprise. "You researched vampire bites."

"I research everything. You know this about me." She crosses her arms. "Admittedly, the results were mostly Twilight fanfiction, and some of it got… weird. But I got the general idea."

"Samira—"

"The consensus seems to be that it doesn't hurt. Or it hurts but in a—" She waves a hand vaguely, and his eyes follow it. "A good way? It’s unclear. Because, Jack, vampires aren't supposed to be real, and yet here you are, not eating for weeks because you're too stubborn to ask for help."

Robby helps him get blood. And with Robby on sabbatical, well. She knows he’s been hungry.

Jack closes his eyes. "It's not about being stubborn."

"Then what's it about?"

He doesn't answer. But she knows. She's always known, really, since he told her what he was. The way he holds himself, detaches himself. The years — so many years, and it awes her when she lets herself sit with that — of learning not to want things, not to need people. The terror of hurting someone he—

Someone he cares about. He hasn't said it. Neither has she. But it's there, underneath everything.

"I trust you," she says, softer now.

"You shouldn't." His retort is quick. Instinct spilling out of his lips.

"Too bad. I do." She steps closer, close enough that she can see the way his jaw tightens, the way his gaze drops to her throat and then wrenches away. "I'm not afraid of you, Jack."

"Maybe you should be."

"I'm a doctor. I know how to take a calculated risk." She tilts her head, baring her neck just slightly, and watches him shudder. "This one's worth it."

Something flickers in his expression: amusement, maybe, or respect. He's looked at her like that before, across trauma bays and over patient charts. Like she's someone worth paying attention to.

"You're a very good doctor," he says quietly. "That's part of the problem."

"How is that a problem?"

"Because you're too smart to be doing this. And you're doing it anyway."

"I don’t think you get to tell me that right now."

"Samira." Her name sounds like a prayer in his mouth. Or a warning.

"I've got you," she says. "And you've got me. That's how this works, right?"

He's still for a long moment. Then his hand comes up, trembling slightly, to cup the side of her face.

"If I hurt you—"

"You won't."

"If I can't stop—"

"You will." She covers his hand with hers. "I know you will."

She doesn't know how she knows. But she does.

His thumb traces her cheekbone, and then he's leaning in, and his mouth brushes her throat — gentle, so gentle, just lips against her pulse, reverent, and it’s her turn to shudder now — and she feels him hesitate. 

"It's okay," she whispers. "I've got you."

"Just this once."

"Mhmm."

His other arm wraps around her waist, pulling her closer, anchoring her against him. She feels his breath, cool against her skin.

And then—

A sharp sting, there and gone. Her gasp is more surprise than pain. And then—

Oh.

The fanfiction didn't cover this. Nothing could have covered this. It's not pain, not exactly. It's heat, spreading from where his mouth meets her skin, a slow pull that feels like sinking into a warm bath, like the moment just before sleep, like—

He’s breathing hard when he pulls away, pupils blown wide, and there's blood on his mouth.

Her blood. Smeared across his lips, caught on the sharp edge of his teeth, a single drop escaping down his chin. He looks wrecked. He looks fed, healthy, for the first time in days, color rushing back to his cheeks, shadows already receding.

She reaches up and traces her thumb across his lower lip, smearing the red stain further. His breath catches.

"Huh," she says, a little dazed, a little dizzy, very much not afraid.

Fuck. She’s definitely going to let Jack bite her again.

He just stares, pants, as he comes back to himself. Looks up at her like she’s the sun he hasn’t seen in a century, and it’s a little dizzying, being his focus like that. He’s always intense, but this— This is different, and she wants it forever.

The lights of the ER are too cold-white, and they give her headaches. They do so now as she shivers, gasping in a breath. Idly, she wonders if he knows how artificial they feel, or if he’s lost the sense of what real light feels like, hot against his skin.

When she sleeps next, she dreams of him. His hands, cool but firm on her jaw, steady on her back. His mouth, stained scarlet and dripping, dripping, and in her dream she licks at it, lets his fang snag her tongue and tear, lets him consume her again, and she grips at him, tugs him closer—

She wakes up having bitten her lip in the middle of the night. She toys with the dull ache til it reopens, bleeds. It tastes good.

(Vampires don’t sleep, not really. But they rest, and they dream.

And that day, Jack dreams of her too. He dreams of the taste of her, iron-sweet and alive, nothing like the cold sterility of blood bags. He dreams of her pulse against his lips, her fingers in his hair, her voice saying I've got you like she meant it.

He wakes up gasping, and doesn't rest again.)

The bar is loud and crowded and gross, and Samira’s not sure why she let Parker convince her to come in the first place. Cassie’s words still weigh on her, apparently.

She doesn’t expect Jack to be there, but her eyes find him immediately. He's next to John, who's mid-sentence about something, gesturing with the lemon wedge from his drink, but Jack's not listening. He seems to sense her presence, because he looks up and their gazes lock.

John keeps talking. Jack doesn't look back at him.

Parker goes to get them drinks. Samira is over at the table in seconds, pulling Jack by the sleeve of his jacket with a "Can I talk to you for a second?" before she can overthink it.

She takes him to the alley out back, ignores the question in John’s eyes.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"You look good," Samira says. Means it in more ways than one, and the way his eyes go a bit wide means he notices. That’s not what she’s here for. "But you could use a top-up."

He swallows. "Samira—"

"I know you said just once. But it felt good." She holds his gaze. "For both of us. Didn’t it?"

He doesn’t answer, but he steps closer.

"Didn’t it?" she asks again, lower.

"You shouldn’t want this," Jack murmurs. "You shouldn’t want me."

"Too bad. I do."

"Fuck."

His hand comes up to cup the side of her neck — gentle, careful, like she knew he would be — and he leans in. She closes her eyes, waiting for the sting—

His lips brush her pulse point. Soft. Just a kiss. A benediction. A prayer.

Her eyes fly open.

Jack doesn't pull back. He lingers there, mouth against her throat, breathing her in, and she can feel the restraint in him, the battle. His lips drag up, barely touching, tracing a path to her jaw.

He pauses. She doesn't breathe.

Higher. The soft skin beneath her ear. Another pause, longer this time, and his exhale is shaky against her, makes her feel drunk. She hasn’t even had a single sip yet.

She turns her head, just a fraction, and her lips brush his cheek. Accidental? Intentional. She doesn't know anymore.

He makes a quiet sound, almost pained, and then his mouth finds the corner of hers, hovering just out of reach.

"Samira," he whispers. A question.

She answers by closing the gap, and then he's kissing her. Really kissing her.

She gasps against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, one hand fisting in her hair, the other splayed across the small of her back, drawing her into him until there's no space left between them. 

He’s pressed up against her now, cold where she's warm, solid where she's soft, and she's thought about this. Fuck, she's thought about this so many times, but she never imagined how he'd taste, how his teeth would catch on her bottom lip, how her whole body would arch into him like it was made to fit there—

He pulls back. His eyes are wild, and his hands are on her like he physically cannot make himself let go.

"I have to go," he says. He swallows hard. He releases her like it burns, hands flexing, and then he's gone, and she's standing alone in an alley with her heart pounding and her lips tingling and absolutely no idea what just happened. Her neck is untouched. He didn't bite her. He just kissed her, and somehow that feels more intimate, more dangerous, than his teeth ever did.

Eventually, she goes back into the bar. Parker and John are chatting away, and there’s a glass of something on the table waiting for her.

"You okay?" Parker asks. "You were gone for a while."

"Fine," Samira says, and doesn't elaborate. Parker looks at her for a moment, then lets it go.

She doesn't tell her; she's not going to tell anyone.

"—Anyway, so, that guy with the, uh, lava lamp up his— That was crazy," John says.

She looks around the bar. Jack isn’t there.

He avoids her at work. 

Or, at least, he tries to. Samira feels his gaze, hot in a way his skin can never be, frequently. Constantly. But he keeps his distance.

It's a stupid piece of glass that changes that. A trauma that needed both of their hands, so they’re standing closer than they have in days. A broken vial, a moment of carelessness in the quiet after. The shard slices across the meat of her palm, and blood wells up immediately: bright red, dripping onto the floor.

"Shit," she hisses, reaching for gauze—

And Jack is gone.

Not walking away. Gone. The space where he was standing is empty. She didn't even see him move.

Samira wraps her hand hastily, ignores Mateo’s concerned questions, and goes to find him.

He's in West 14. Of course he is. Where he first— She inhales at the thought. He’s facing away from the door, hands in fists at his side.

"You can't be here," he says without turning around. His voice is strained. "You're still bleeding."

"I know."

"Samira, I can smell—" He spins, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "You know what you're doing to me. You have to know."

"Yes."

"Then why—"

"Because I trust you." She steps closer. "Because I want this. Because I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."

"You don't understand what you're asking."

"I understand exactly what I'm asking. You came to this room for a reason. Were you thinking about it? What I tasted like?" She holds out her hand. The cut is still seeping, reddening the edge of the gauze. "Take it. Take what you need."

He's shaking. She can see the war on his face, the hunger and fear and something else, something that looks like longing.

"If I do this," he says roughly, "I don't know if I can stop. I don't know if I can keep—" He gestures between them. "This. Whatever this is. Separate."

"Who says I want it separate?"

He stares at her.

She closes the distance between them and looks up at him.

"I'm right here," she says. "And I'm not afraid of you."

He breaks.

His lips find her palm first — the cut, the blood, mouthing at it through the bandage — and she gasps at the sensation, the pull, the heat. But he doesn't linger. He moves up her arm, kissing along her wrist, her forearm, and then he's at her throat, and this time when he bites, she's ready for it.

It's even better than before.

When he pulls back, there's blood on his lips — her blood — and she doesn't think. She just leans in and kisses him, tastes copper and something else, something that's just him, and he groans against her mouth.

"You don't understand," he breathes between kisses. "How you taste to me. Not just the blood. You."

"Tell me."

"I can’t— I can’t describe it."

"Show me."

He pulls her in almost too fast. 

She's clinging to him, hands scrambling for purchase, and when her bandaged palm presses flat against his back the cut screams, sears. She gasps, and he freezes, starts to pull back—

"Don't stop," she manages. "C'mere. You’re so— Don't—"

He groans and crashes back into her. She can feel his muscles tense under her palm. His other hand grips her jaw and tilts her head just so, like he’s trying to devour her whole.

She gasps against his lips, and Jack — vampire Jack, with her blood on his tongue — whimpers into her.

"We can’t, we can’t," he pants. They don’t stop. She licks into his mouth, and when she bites down on his lower lip he groans and crowds even closer, his entire body against hers.

"Samira," he tries again, but his hands are sliding down her back, gripping her hips, holding firm, and it sounds less like an argument and more like an invocation.

She groans. He is all over her, leaning her back, and she knows he won’t drop her. Knows he won’t ever let her fall. His hands carve goosebumps across her as they move to her waist, her ribcage.

An alarm sounds outside. Life, continuing. Despite, despite. It worms its way into her bliss-fogged brain, and she gasps as she pulls away.

They're both struggling to catch their breath. Or she is, anyway; she's not sure he needs to breathe at all, but he's doing it, ragged and uneven, like his body remembers, like some shred of the human he used to be surfaces again because of her.

She looks at his neck, where his pulse should be throbbing, where it isn’t, can’t, then she raises her hand to rub at her own. The prior time, the marks had disappeared in hours. But now, only minutes after he drank from her, she can feel both puncture wounds, and they burn, a raw, near-static sensation. Like a claim.

She doesn’t hate it.

He watches through half-lidded eyes.

"Fuck. Samira."

They stand mere inches apart. There’s noise in the background, but all she can hear is his breathing: in, out, in. 

She tilts her head at him, pure clinical assessment. Runs a thumb across his lower lip and wipes it on her scrub top. 

"There," she says. "Clean."

"Out, damned spot."

She smiles, too soft. "Something like that."

She’s flipping through a packet of lab results Presby had faxed over when the edge of a page catches her index finger. A thin line of red wells up immediately, the ache sharp in the way these cuts are.

"Crap," she mutters.

Across the hub, Jack’s head snaps up.

She watches his posture straighten, watches the way his jaw tightens. The way he grips the edge of the desk like he’s anchoring himself to it. His eyes find hers, dark and hungry and furious, and she should grab a bandaid, she should turn away, she should—

She doesn’t.

She holds his gaze and raises her finger to her lips, sucking the blood away slowly. His grip on the desk tightens. She thinks she hears the laminate crack.

Six minutes. She counts them, watches the minutes tick by on the monitor in front of her. It’s a calm night; it’s fine. Six minutes before she finally grabs the hub first aid kit, wipes her finger, wraps it up, and the whole time, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Barely breathes.

Last month, they all had to sit through a training session on healthy workplace dynamics. This was… not one of them.

She’s not sure if she wants him to bite her or if she just wants to watch him struggle not to. Frankly, it’s probably both.

There’s something heady about it, about making a powerful, immortal being squirm like that. About knowing she has that effect on him. About watching a century and some of self-control fray at the edges because of her.

If she gets another paper cut a few days later, well. Accidents happen. It’s a different finger. A longer count until she wraps it.

He corners her later and bullies her into a supply closet, presses her against the shelving and breathes against her throat, ragged and desperate.

"You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart."

"I know." She aims for flippant. She isn’t sure it lands. She knows he hears her pulse speed up at the endearment. 

"Samira—"

"Are you going to do something about it?"

He doesn’t bite her. But he kisses her like he’s starving for it anyway, like her mouth is as good as her blood, and she bites back just as hungrily, and somewhere in the middle it stops being clear who’s chasing and who’s being caught.

His hands are everywhere, unable to settle, unable to rest: her waist, her back, the curve of her hip, and he’s making these sounds, these bit-off whimpers that vibrate against her lips, and she grabs his scrub top in her fists and tugs at it aimlessly. 

She arches into him, gasps when it brings them closer, his leg between hers, and her hips roll against him; she scratches uselessly at his back with her nails and hates that she cannot mar him, mark him, claim him this way.

A century to build self-control and all it takes to break it is her. 

The shelves dig into her spine. She doesn’t care. She wants to fucking climb him, wants to wrap herself around him, wants—

She wants more.

He pulls back, and his eyes are dark and desperate, and no part of her is thinking about the fact that they’re in a damned supply closet anymore.

"We have to stop."

"Do we?"

He makes a plaintive sound against her jaw. Good. Fair. She’s dying here too.

It’s been five days since he last drank from her, which she thinks — knows — means it’s been five days since he ate at all. She can see him unraveling.

The trauma comes in hot: MVC, three critical patients, blood every-fucking-where. It’s on the floor, on her gloves, soaking into the shoes she’ll probably just throw away. The tang of metal fills the room, and she watches Jack across the table, watches the way his hands clench almost imperceptibly as he works.

He’s good, of course. He’s so good, steady and competent even now, even starving. But she can see what it’s costing him, can see the tight line of his jaw, the way he won’t even look at the blood drip-dripping onto the floor.

They lose one. Stabilize the other two.

"Abbot," she says quietly, as soon as both are on their way up to surgery. Another drip. "Break room. Now."

He follows her without a word. 

Samira doesn’t actually take him to the break room; on second thought, it’s too public. She takes him to the restroom instead, shoves him into the one stall and steps in behind him, latches it shut.

"Samira, we can’t—"

"You need it." She’s already tilting her head, already baring her throat. "I can see how much you need it."

"There are patients—"

"Then be fast."

He is, Samira thinks, a rather good listener.

His mouth is on her before she can take another breath, and the sting is sharper this time, more desperate. He’s not gentle. He’s hungry, and she gasps at the tug against her skin, at the heat that curls down her, at the way her knees buckle. He catches her, pins her against the stall door, and holds her up.

Drinks from her like she’s the only thing keeping him alive.

And, well— Isn’t she?

She hears footsteps outside.

She doesn’t tell him to stop. She should tell him to stop.

"—seen Jack?" a voice sounds, too close.

She doesn’t know who’s talking to who, but her answer is yes. Yes, she has seen Jack. Jack, with his teeth still in her neck. She can feel him freeze, feel the whine building in his chest, and she threads her fingers through his hair and it’s soft. She holds him against her.

"It’s fine," she breathes. "Don’t stop. It’s so good. You’re so good."

The door creaks open, and she knows his feet are visible under the stall, but whoever it is doesn’t enter, apparently, doesn’t look far enough to see, just glances and hm-es and leaves.

"Maybe up on the roof?" John’s voice sounds outside, dulled by the door again.

Only then does Jack pull back, gasping, blood on his lips. He sets her down and turns.

"That was—"

"Hot?" she finishes.

"Stupid," he admonishes, and he wipes his mouth and groans and can’t look at her.

"Tell me you didn’t like it." It’s a challenge. She’s dizzy, giddy, high on it, the adrenaline and blood loss both.

He doesn’t tell her anything.

Later, John catches her eye in the hub. His expression is neutral — classic Shen, unflappable — as he slurps a drink, but there’s something watchful in the set of his shoulders.

"You good, Mohan?"

"Great," she says. "Why?"

He looks at her for a long moment.

"Just checking."

She knows she should be at least a little worried, but she’s not.

"Tell me what it’s like."

They’re in his apartment. It’s safer to be here than at hers. In case they lose track of time. In case the sun comes up.

It’s four in the morning, and she should be sleeping, but she can’t; she never can, not anymore, not after he’s fed from her. She feels electric. Alive. Wide awake in a way that’s definitely unhealthy.

His phone has been buzzing intermittently for an hour. Robby, probably, still: she caught a glimpse of the name earlier. Jack hasn't touched it.

"You should answer that," she says, not meaning it.

"No," he says. "I shouldn't."

"Fine, then: tell me what it’s like."

Jack looks over from where he sits across the couch. "Samira…"

"I want to know. When you drink from me. What does it feel like?"

He’s quiet for a long moment, head tipped back to look at the ceiling. When he speaks, his voice is low. Careful.

"You know what it feels like when you’re starving? Really starving, not just hungry. When your body starts to eat itself, when everything narrows down to one single need?"

She’s honest: "No. But… I think I can imagine."

"You can’t. But it’s like that, except— The hunger never goes away. It just quiets. For a while." His eyes meet hers. "And you— You don’t just quiet it. You make me forget it even exists. When I’m drinking from you, I don’t feel like a monster. I feel…"

He stops.

She has to know. "Feel what?"

"Alive." He laughs, hollow. "Which is ironic, given—"

She should be scared. Idly, blankly, somewhere in the back of her conscious mind, she knows that. She should hear the hunger never goes away and run. She should think about how this ends.

Instead, Samira thinks: I want to be the thing that makes him feel alive.

That’s… objectively not great. 

"You’re self aware, at least," is what she decides to say.

He huffs, almost another laugh. "Thanks. Had quite a few years to get there."

She crawls into his lap and kisses him, and he lets her. He fed on her only hours before. He doesn’t need her blood. But when she tilts her head back in invitation, he takes what she’s offering anyway.

Afterward, she stands on trembling, fawn-shaky legs. Without thinking about it, she walks over and opens a cabinet in the kitchen. 

It’s almost empty, which she should have expected, except for a box of tea bags.

"You have tea," she notes, flat.

"You like tea."

"You can’t drink it."

"No. But you do."

She stands there for a moment, holding the box like it’s a miracle. He hasn’t had tea in over a century, and he went to a grocery store and bought her favorite kind because she likes it.

"You’re going to make me emotional over a box of tea bags."

"I can return it, if you want."

"Don’t you dare."

Robby slides a small cooler over with his foot the day he returns. "Missed you, asshole. Got you your favorite. Eat something."

After he makes sure the hub is empty, Jack opens it. The blood bags sit there, cold and clinical. His stomach churns.

"Thanks," he says.

He doesn’t touch them for three days. Then it’s a week. The cooler sits in his fridge, untouched, a monument to his inability to make healthy choices. She can’t judge.

Instead, he finds excuses to be alone with Samira. He feeds on her in supply closets and empty hallways and once, so, so recklessly, in the parking garage with her pressed against his car.

Nothing else tastes right anymore. The bags taste like dust. Like nothing.

He only wants her.

Samira notices. Of course she notices: she has been practicing noticing everything about Jack Abbot before she could even dream of where that would take her. She sees the way he avoids Robby’s offerings, the way his eyes fall to her when he’s hungry, the way he’s stopped pretending this is about necessity.

She doesn’t say anything, obviously. If she says something, it’ll break open whatever this is. It’ll force them to name it, examine it, acknowledge that they’re spiraling into something dangerous, uncontrollable. So she stays quiet and tilts her head back when he’s hungry and lets him take her.

"You know," Robby says one morning near shift change, catching her in the hallway. "You could come back to days if you want. If nights are wearing you out."

"Oh," she says. "I’m fine. Thanks."

"You look tired, Dr. Mohan."

Samira just shrugs, and he looks at her. Something flickers in his expression: concern, maybe, or suspicion.

"I’m fine," she says again, forcing her tone bright. "I like nights."

She walks away before he can push further. Robby's worried, and that should probably bother her: he knows Jack, knows what Jack is, might be putting pieces together.

But she does like nights. She likes Jack. She’s not going to let that get taken from her.

It happens while his teeth are in her throat. They’re in his apartment, in his bed. 

That’s where they’ve been a lot lately, after he gripped her hips one time and walked her back until her knees hit the soft mattress. It stopped her short: he had said he had one, sure, but her mind still filled in something coffin-adjacent anyway, and this… Wasn’t that. It was plush, nice, with real pillows and a good comforter, and he had chuckled at her obvious surprise.

"Told you I had a bed," he had whispered.

"Coffin fits your vibe better," she retorted.

"I’ll take that into consideration, sweetheart."

And now they’re back there, and she’s floating in that warm, hazy space where nothing hurts.

"I love you," he murmurs against her skin before pressing his teeth back in.

She goes still.

He pulls back. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated impossibly, and there’s blood — her blood, always her blood — on his lips, and he looks wrecked in a way that has nothing to do with feeding or hunger.

"I love you," he says again. "And I need you to understand what that means."

"I love you too."

He tenses. "It’s a warning, Samira." His voice cracks. "Everything I love, I lose. That’s the way this has to go. And I can feel it happening, I can feel myself wanting you, needing you, more than I’ve ever needed anyone, and I can’t—"

"Jack."

"—I can’t stop. I’ve tried. I can’t."

She reaches up, cups his face in her hands, and he turns into her palm, smearing the scarlet that’s still wet on his lips.

"I know. I know it’s a warning."

"Then you should be running away." He closes his eyes. A tear escapes, trails down his cheek down to the blood, and they blend as soon as they touch, indistinguishable. She wipes with her thumb, only smudging it further.

"I know what I’m choosing," she says quietly. "I know how this ends."

She's always been stubborn. Her mother says it's her worst trait. Samira's starting to think it might actually be the rapidly developing sense of need she has for Jack Abbot’s teeth on her carotid, but sure. Stubborn.

Her phone lights up on the nightstand. It’s Parker. She watches it ring, watches the screen go dark.

She doesn't call back.

He kisses her, and he tastes like rust and salt and fear, and she holds him while he shakes and doesn’t let go. She pulls him down onto her, lets his weight settle against her, feels the lifeless cool of him and doesn’t flinch. Her hands trace slow paths up and down his spine.

These sheets, she has discovered, are much nicer than her own, and the press of him on top of her is even better. They have been here before; this is not a new discovery. She knows the weight of him, the way he sighs when she scratches lightly at the nape of his neck, the sounds he makes when she pushes her hips up to meet his.

But this is different: his eyes are half-lidded and wet and he’s blinking, willing back whatever’s so close to spilling out of him. 

His hand drags up her ribs, cupping her breast through her t-shirt.

Before, he would stare at her with unguarded awe, but now he’s looking at her like she’s already gone, like he’s mourning, counting down the days he has left. Before, yes, he’s been desperate, desperate for her, and he’s fucked her through it enough times she’s lost track: after long shifts, close calls, after he’s fed from her and they’re both nearly high on it. This isn’t that.

"You should go," he says against her lips. "You should leave and never come back and forget I exist."

Before, he would have said it as a formality. A token protest before she kissed him quiet and they fell back into each other like always. Before, he would have already been kissing her, touching her, losing himself in her body the way they’ve both learned to do. It was easy, before. Uncomplicated, or so they could pretend.

Tonight, he means it.

"Probably," she agrees. She doesn’t particularly care.

"Then—"

"No."

Jack lifts his head to glare, but the way his lips part so helplessly is far more interesting to her. She cranes her neck back up to him, tongues at his teeth until he whines and acquiesces, melts back down. His hips roll, grinding down into her, and she gasps into it.

She is pinned under him, under his immense, inhuman strength, and she can’t remember the last time she felt this powerful.

"Every time I close my eyes," he’s saying now, half-mumbling against her. She’s not entirely sure he knows he’s talking. "You’re all I see. Every day. Every night. You’re all— I hate myself for it. I love you. Fuck. I know— I know I shouldn’t—"

"Stop," she manages, a breathless sound. He yanks himself back, up onto his hands over her, elbows locked: an unnecessary response, but an appreciated one. She tilts her head, smiling softly. "No, Jack. Stop this— Self-flagellation. Stop telling me why we shouldn’t. Tell me what you want."

His jaw works.

"You." There’s no hesitation: the words rip out of him instantly. This answer is obvious to him. "You. All of you. I want— I want my mouth on every inch of you. I want to feel you. I want to make you come, and I want to— I want—"

She watches him unravel, watches the words spill out of him uncontrolled, and something potent curls in her chest. Arousal, but not only; there’s also— Satisfaction. He’s a century old. He’s killed people, she assumes, though he’s never confirmed it. And he’s falling apart because she’s here in his bed.

"Then do it." She hooks one single fingertip over the back of his neck, the barest pressure, and it’s all he needs to settle back over her, and she shifts so his leg falls between her own, watching as he twitches. "Take me. Show me."

He groans like he’s aching, and then his mouth is on her carotid. He doesn’t bite. He kisses: sucking next to the puncture wounds, marking into her skin in a way that will bloom purple-dark by morning. His hands yank at her clothes with a nervous urgency; he’s afraid she’ll run.

She won’t.

She squirms, an effort to help, tossing her shirt and shorts somewhere she doesn’t quite care about, and he pulls back again to look at her.

"You’re so beautiful. I don’t deserve—"

"Jack." She hooks one foot around his leg, spreading herself for him, lets him see how wet she already is. "I don’t care what you deserve. I don’t— I don’t care about any of that. I care what you want. I’m telling you you can have it."

"You don’t know what you’re offering."

"I know exactly what I’m offering. I’m offering you everything."

He falls to one elbow over her, free hand grabbing her thigh, and she is close to pushing him back, flipping them, taking what she’s waiting for, but then finally, finally he lets his fingers slide through her folds, and she gasps. He watches her face like he’s memorizing it, and she wonders what he’s seeing. What he’s trying to remember.

"More," she breathes. "Give me more."

He does: two fingers inside her, and oh, she’s soaking already, and the slide is so easy. His thumb lands on her clit, circling firm against her, and her back arches, pressing her chest against his, but he leans back to keep his gaze locked on her face. Her eyes slide shut.

This, she realizes, will be over embarrassingly fast, but she can’t help it; it’s him, it’s Jack, and every sound she makes seems to undo him further. She can feel the way his fingers falter when she moans, like her pleasure is short-circuiting something in his brain.

"Samira," he breathes, the weakness of his voice belying his attempts at composure. "You’re so— I can’t— You look—"

She opens her eyes, and he’s staring at her with no small amount of wonder. Like he can’t believe she’s here, that she’s real, that she’s letting him do this.

And then his gaze drags lower, and she watches his throat work, watches his whole body go taut with want as he studies the way his fingers press into her over, and over, and over, like he’s had a revelation. Like every thought in his head has narrowed to a single point.

“Can I— Shit. Please,” he says, punched-out and quick.

And oh, he’s never begged before. Not once, not in all the times they've done this. He's gasped her name, groaned it, growled it against her skin. But he's never begged.

Something has cracked open in him tonight. His confession broke something loose, and now it's all spilling out, and she realizes: he's terrified. Of hurting her, she assumes for a moment, but that feels wrong, incomplete. Of having her? That’s it. Of letting himself want something this much and knowing he can't keep it.

"Please what?" she murmurs.

"Please let me— I want to taste you," he says suddenly, already slipping his fingers out of her so he can slide down her body. 

She could just say yes. Hell, she’s surprised she hasn’t already. She’s more surprised by the words that spill from her lips: "Then ask nicely."

His eyes go wide, his lips parted and still ruby-stained with her blood, and for a second she thinks she’s pushed too far, but then his whole body shudders and his hips press hard into the sheet below him, and when he speaks again his voice is thin and frantic: "Please, Samira. Please let me taste you. I need it. I need you. Please. Please."

And who is she to deny him that? "Yes, you’re so— Good. Anything—" 

His mouth finds her cunt without pretense, and she cries out. He laps at her like a man starved, humming the same soft whimpers he makes while he feeds against her now. His hands grip her thighs, spreading her wider, holding her open for him, and she fists one hand in his hair and the other in his sheets and lets him break her apart.

She’s shaking, close already: "Jack, I’m going to—"

His gaze snap up to hers, wide-eyed and frenetic, and that’s when she breaks, hips rolling as she pins his mouth against her, as he licks her through her pleasure.

She goes boneless. He doesn’t stop.

"Jack—" She squirms, oversensitive. "I can’t—"

He lifts his head but keeps his hands on her thighs, and his mouth is soaked with her the way he’s been so many times, only this time it isn’t just blood he’s dripping with. He looks equally heady with it anyway.

"You can. Another. Please."

She does. She doesn’t have much of a choice; he pulls it out of her ruthlessly, two fingers back inside of her, curled oh-so-perfectly against her, and tongue on her clit, and her vision goes white as she presses a fist against her mouth and sobs into it.

Only then does he pull back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at her like she’s holy and profane all at once. She’s still shaking as he crawls back up her body, as she fumbles for the band of his sweatpants and he goes for the back-neck of his shirt and pulls.

"Please," he begs again, like she wouldn’t give him anything. He’s trembling too, cock hard against her thigh. "Please, can I—"

"Mhmm" is all she can manage. She wraps her legs around him, huffs out her breath when his length slides against her. "Yes, Jack. Whatever you want."

"I want—" He positions himself at her entrance and swallows. "I want to feel you. All of you. I want to be inside you when you come again; I want to make you come again. Samira."

She nods.

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and she gasps at the stretch, the pressure of him filling her up. His forehead drops to hers, and his breath comes in shaky, rough bursts.

"You feel so good." His voice cracks. "You’re so warm. I can feel your— Your heartbeat, I can— Fuck, Samira, you’re—"

She clenches around him deliberately just to watch his eyes roll back and says: "Show me, Jack. Show me how good I feel."

He does, and it’s not what she expects. She expects a snap, a break, him thrusting against her like he’s hungry for it, and he is — oh, he is, she can see it in his gulf-wide pupils — but instead the press of him is slow, and deep, and devastating. Like he wants this to last forever if only because he knows it can’t.

She’s always admired his skill as a doctor. The way he’s so steady, even-handed, focused, and he presses into her now with that same determination, dedicated solely and completely to the way she falls apart beneath him.

"Jack, oh fuck." 

"I love you," he gasps. "I love you. Samira, you’re so— You’re so good, you know that? I can’t— I can’t help it. I love you. I need you, sweetheart, and I’m trying not to. I’m trying to keep you safe, and I can’t. I want you so badly. I don’t want to lose you."

"I know," she says. She pulls him down, kisses him, tastes herself faintly on his lips. She arches against him again, smug at the way his rhythm stutters. "I love you too. I’ve got you. I know."

"I want to be good for you," he says, voice reedy and desperate.

"You are, Jack. So good." It’s true: it’s all-encompassing, really, the way he feels around her, inside her. Cool but not cold, and it should be disorienting, wrong, but it’s not; he’s so steady and deep, hitting her just right, over and over again as her vision grows hazy.

He nods into her shoulder. "Okay, okay."

"Can you come for me, Jack?"

He shakes his head now. "You— You first. Need— Need to feel you, Samira, sweetheart, fuck—"

He angles himself so he can slide one hand back down to where he’s pushing into her, thumb swiping against her, efficient, the way he had fast learned she likes it, and he just keeps talking, thready words panted into her ear in a way that makes her feel a little insane.

"Come on, Samira. I need to feel you. Come on. That’s it. You feel so good. I can’t believe— I can’t stop thinking about you, about this, about— Yeah, oh, fuck—"

She does as he begs, unable to fathom doing otherwise: cries out against him, shakes in his arms, and he follows her over the edge seconds later, and he clings to her, shivering.

Eventually, he slips out of her, falls half atop her still, and she doesn’t mind at all. She cants her neck back, kisses him softly.

"Stay," he pleads against her mouth, and it’s another thing she can’t deny him.

They have three nights off at the same time, a medical industry miracle, and she brings a bag over. A real one, with clothes and a toothbrush and a packet of articles she printed at work and has been trying to get through for weeks.

"Moving in?" he asks, eyebrow raised.

"Don’t get too excited. It’s a weekend bag."

"It’s Tuesday."

"And it’s our weekend, so."

"I don’t think that’s how weekends work."

She rolls her eyes. "It is when you’re a doctor. Keep up, old man."

They don’t do anything special. She reads on the couch. He orders her food, watches her eat with some curiosity. Her phone buzzes twice — Trinity, inviting her to brunch the next day, then Mel, something about a movie night — and she turns it face-down without responding.

"You know, you were good yesterday. On that GSW,” he says into the silence.

"Thanks."

"I mean it. You’re one of the best residents I’ve seen. You’re going to be an incredible attending someday."

She doesn’t know what to do with that, and her response is a half-giddy, goofy grin. He smiles back.

She falls asleep with her head in his lap, and when she wakes up his hand is in her hair and he’s looking at her like she’s something precious and oh-so-breakable.

"What?" she mumbles.

"Nothing." But he keeps looking, and after a long silence and a limp shrug he continues: “I can’t see the sun anymore. But I can look at you.”

On the days she can’t stay over, he still drives her home. It’s becoming a part of their routine: his car, a peaceful drive, and a walk to her door that takes longer than it should because she presses him against the walls of the stairwell.

Tonight, they don’t make it past her front door.

She’s fumbling for her keys still when he runs out of patience. He spins her, presses against the doorframe, and kisses her like they’re not in a public hallway, like it’s impossible that someone could come up the stairs and see them. His hands are in her hair, tugging, on her shoulders, gripping, sliding under the hem of her scrub top just to watch her shiver at the chill of his touch.

"Inside," she manages. "We should—"

"Should," he echoes. Doesn’t stop kissing her.

She drops her keys. Neither of them picks them up. His mouth trails down her jaw, her neck, and she tips her head back, and it’s so good, it’s so good, it’s—

She doesn’t consciously realize he’s bitten her until the warmth starts spreading, until her knees go weak and she sags against him. He’s feeding without asking, on instinct, and some distant part of her thinks we’re in the hallway, anyone could see—

But mostly she just feels good. Floaty. Like she’s blurring at the edges.

The world goes soft. Then dark.

"Samira?"

His voice, far away. High-pitched. Urgent.

"Samira. Sweetheart, look at me. Samira—"

She blinks her eyes open. She’s on the floor — when did she get on the floor? — and Jack’s crouching over her, and he looks terrified.

"I’m fine," she manages, and her voice sounds thin. Wrong.

"You passed out. You—" He’s shaking. "I didn’t stop. I didn’t even realize, I just—"

"Jack."

"I could have killed you."

"But you didn’t." She sits up, reaches for him. He stumbles upright, back out of her reach.

"I could have killed you."

There’s blood on his mouth, dripping down, and it’s too much blood, her blood, and through the haze she wants to lick it and kiss him again with the taste of it on her tongue, and he looks like he’s about to be sick.

"Jack—"

"I have to go."

"Jack—"

He’s gone. Vampire speed, there and then not, and she’s slumped against her apartment door with the world spinning and her throat aching and her heart pounding too fast, way too fast.

She should be scared. Terrified, even.

She sits there for a long time, touching the marks on her neck, feeling the way they throb.

She’s not scared at all.

(He doesn’t rest that day at all, and then he goes to work. It’s the cruelest punishment he can devise for himself: isolation and darkness won’t bother him. Proximity will. Being in the same room as her and not allowing himself near.

He could have killed her.

Every time he can, he watches her, catalogs the way she moves, the flush of life in her cheeks, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat that he can hear over the bustle of the ER. Proof that she’s alive, that he didn’t—

John invites him to grab a drink after shift. He says no. Robby tells him to come over to watch the game. He says no. Lena asks if he's alright, and he lies.

He tells himself he can live like this: close enough to see her. Far enough to keep her safe.

He has been alive for a century. He stays away for three days. He’s never been a good liar, not even to himself.)

—

Samira gives him space. Not because she’s scared, and not because she’s patient — she’s not; she’s never been patient — but because she knows he needs it. Distance, time, whatever. The chance to convince himself he’s a monster so he can feel appropriately guilty about it, probably.

She goes to work. She does her job, saves lives and all that. She doesn’t corner him in supply closets or exam rooms or offer him her throat or do any of the things she wants to do.

But she doesn’t hide either. She catches him watching her from across the hub, just like he always does, and she lets him look.

She doesn’t go to brunch with Trinity, despite the continued texts. Doesn’t gossip with Parker after shift change by the lockers, despite the fact that she’s got a growing list of patients stories to tell. She just— Waits for him.

On day three, he finds her in the break room. Samira knows it's him as soon as the door opens, watches him scan for anyone nearby before he gives in, steps in, steps close.

"You’re not scared," he says. It’s not a question.

"Nope." The P pops.

"You should be."

"Probably." She takes a sip of her coffee. It sucks. "And yet."

He stands there, looking at her like she’s a puzzle, one he’s not sure he can crack.

"I almost killed you."

"You didn’t."

"Samira—"

"You stopped. You’ve always stopped. You always will." She sets her mug down on the counter. "I trust you more than you trust yourself. That’s your problem, isn’t it?"

He watches the coffee in the mug ripple outward, and she knows he’s wishing it were ruby red and not brown.

After that, they’re— Back. Back to whatever they’re doing; she’s sure of it, and not even sure why she’s sure because he still hasn’t fed from her since.

She tells herself that’s fine. Healthy, probably. She’s giving her body a chance to replenish all that blood, and boundaries are good. He can prove to himself he can control the urge. She can prove she doesn’t need this.

Except she can’t fucking sleep.

They’re both off tonight. That’s the problem: a break from her work routine. Not—

She lies in bed and stares at the ceiling and her skin feels too tight, too sensitive. She keeps touching her neck, pressing on the long-faded marks, chasing the ghost of an ache that’s already gone.

Samira gets up at two AM and eats a disgusting granola bar over the sink so the crumbs fall down the drain and thinks about calling him.

For a moment after, she thinks about calling someone else instead. Trinity, Mel, Parker, anyone. Anyone who could bring her back to the life she chased for years, instead of… This. The idea annoys her.

She doesn’t call anyone. The reality is worse: she gets in her car. She’s at his apartment before she’s thinking consciously about any of this, and he opens the door before she can knock. 

Of course he does. He's probably been able to hear her heartbeat since she pulled into the damned parking lot.

"Samira."

"I couldn’t sleep."

He looks exhausted too, she realizes. Whatever this is, it’s eating at both of them.

"Me neither," he says finally, stepping aside to let her in.

She doesn’t ask him to bite her. He doesn’t offer, doesn’t try.

They just sit on his couch in the dark, not touching, not talking, and somehow that’s worse than any of the rest of it.

She sleeps over the next day, and they awaken tangled together when the sun sets.

"What would it feel like? Being turned."

He goes still against her, her head on his chest where a heartbeat should be but isn’t.

"Why are you asking?"

"Curious." She runs a finger down his pec to the jut of his hipbone, tracing a path of freckles. "I’m always curious. You know that."

"Mhmm."

"I’m not asking you to do it. I’m just asking what it’s like."

He’s quiet for so long she assumes he won’t answer.

"It feels like dying," he says finally. "Because you are. Your heart stops. Everything stops. It hurts. Your whole body, every cell, screaming. In a way you’ve never felt before. And then you wake up, and you’re starving, and nothing will ever fill you up, not really. Ever again."

"That sounds…"

"Lonely." His voice is flat. "It’s lonely. You watch everyone you love get old. You bury them. And then you keep going, because you don’t have a choice."

She props herself up on an elbow to look at him. His eyes are open, fixed on the ceiling.

"You still feel things, though. You love Diane. You—" She stops herself. 

"I love you." He says it quietly, flatly. A fact. A painful one. "That’s the problem. I feel everything. I just have to feel it for a very, very long time."

She doesn’t know what to say to that.

"You outlive everyone," he continues. "Your family. Your friends. Everyone you’ve ever known, and you keep going. And eventually—" He finally looks at her. "Eventually, you’re like me. Carrying a century of ghosts and somehow still stupid enough to fall in love again."

"That doesn’t sound stupid. That sounds brave." And the words, she knows, sound trite.

He laughs, humorless and dark. "It’s not. It’s… inevitable. You can’t stop yourself from wanting. You just learn to dread it."

She settles back against his chest, and he wraps an arm around her, and they’re silent for a while after.

It’s been eight days.

She can see the hunger in him; the shadows are returning, the flinch when someone’s pulse spikes a little too sharp is noticeable. He’s not eating. He’s not even pretending to eat.

The blood bags Robby keeps supplying sit untouched. Samira knows because she checked his fridge. Knows because she’s watching Robby get suspicious too, eyeing Jack when he thinks no one else is looking.

She corners him after a shift in the parking garage. His car is alone amidst the concrete walls and flickering lights, no one around.

"You need to eat."

"I’m fine."

"Fine? You look like death." She pauses, tilts her head. "More than usual."

He doesn’t laugh.

"Jack." She steps closer. "You can’t keep starving yourself."

"I can, actually. For a while. It won’t kill me."

"But it’ll make you dangerous, won’t it?" She holds his gaze. "More dangerous than feeding from me ever was."

He flinches. She sees it all: the guilt, the fear, the want he’s trying so hard to bury.

"I can’t," he manages. "Not after—"

"You stopped."

"Barely."

"You stopped." She reaches out, takes his hand. His fingers are ice cold. Colder than usual, almost uncomfortable. "I’m not afraid of you."

He shakes his head, lips parting to speak.

She cuts him off. "I never have been. But I’m a little afraid of what happens if you let yourself get so hungry you lose control completely."

He’s shaking. She can feel the tremor running through his spine, his arm, his hand.

"I don’t trust myself," he whispers.

"Then trust me." She steps fully into his space, close enough that she knows her heartbeat is overwhelmingly loud. "I’ll tell you when to stop. You just have to listen."

"What if I can’t, Samira? What if—"

"I need this too." It comes out before she can stop it, and he inhales, sharp. "I can’t sleep. I can’t think. I keep touching my neck like the marks are still there, and they’re not, and I—" She swallows. "I need this. Please."

His eyes slide shut, gentle for a moment and then squeezing. 

"You’ll tell me to stop." The words don’t lilt, but she hears the question anyway.

"Yes."

"Promise me. Say it. Please, Samira, I need—" He’s... Begging for her. Again.

"I promise."

He pulls her closer, and she feels his breath come in shallow bursts against her throat, cool, shaky, inevitable. His whole body is coiled tight with want.

He hesitates there, and she weaves her fingers through his curls and holds him steady, not forcing, just… Anchoring. His hands tighten on her hips, and she likes it, likes knowing there will be bruises the shape of fingertips tomorrow.

"Come on, Jack."

He shudders, full-body, and gives in.

The sting, when it comes, is more keen than she remembers. Maybe it’s different now, or maybe she just forgot. The pain blooms fast and hard and dissolves into warmth, into that honeyed feeling she’s been craving, and she sighs against him, going boneless in his arms. His hands skate up her ribs, gripping her.

He drinks. She counts her heartbeats. Ten. Twenty. Twenty-five.

At thirty, she tugs his hair softly. "Jack."

He wrenches himself back with a gasp, pupils blown, blood dripping down onto his chin. He looks terrified. Of himself, she wonders? Of what he almost did to her before?

Of what he wanted to do?

"I stopped," he says, like he can’t believe it.

"You stopped."

"You pulled me back."

"And you listened. So well." She reaches up, takes the sleeve of her (black, thankfully) hoodie into her fist and wipes him clean. It’s— Soft, the way his shoulders slump for her. "See? We’re okay. We’ve got this."

He stares at her. Samira can read the arguments in his eyes, all the many ways he wants to complain, spiral, tell her this is wrong.

Instead, he pulls her in and holds her, his face buried in her shoulder, like if he lets go the parking garage will collapse into the ether.

"I love you," she says into his hair. A reminder.

He shivers against her.

She wonders, idly, casually, if there’s a way this ends with her heart still beating.

Her mother is visiting when it hits her.

It’s a normal visit, or as normal as they ever are. There’s commentary on her health ("You look sick, beta. They’re working you too hard") which bleeds into her career ("How much longer do you have left in this residency business again?") which somehow, of course, leads to her love life ("Priya’s daughter just got engaged, did I tell you?").

Samira says the right things. Deflects. Changes the subject. The usual dance.

But then her mother, never one to be dissuaded, continues: "You’re not getting any younger, you know. You’re thirty. If you want a family—"

"Amma."

"I’m just saying: these things take time. You need to find someone, settle down…"

Samira bites back the hysterical urge to say I have found someone, he's just a hundred and forty years old and technically dead because that’s… insane.

Thankfully, she finds more normal words: "I’m focusing on my career." 

"You can do both! Look at your cousin—"

Samira stops listening. Because here’s the thing: she can’t do both. Not the way her mother means. Not anymore.

She thinks about Jack. About his apartment with the blackout curtains and fridge full of blood, his hands on her waist and teeth on her throat. She thinks about the way he looks at her like she’s the only warm thing in a very cold world.

She thinks about growing old. Not abstractly, not like she used to, pondering how someday, eventually, in the distant future that would happen to her.

No, she thinks about forty. Fifty, sixty, grey hair and wrinkles and joints that ache and Jack, exactly the same, forty-one but greying early, watching her fall apart piece by piece.

With Diane, he didn’t get to — didn’t need to? She isn’t sure what’s worse — watch the process. He just lost her and had to keep going.

Can she do that to him again? Can she do that to herself? Grow old next to someone who never will?

"Samira, are you listening?"

"Sorry. Yeah. Leya, engaged. That’s great."

Her mother narrows her eyes but lets it go.

Samira drives home from their dinner in silence, no music, no podcasts. Just the hum of the engine and the thoughts she can’t stop thinking.

She wants a future with Jack. That’s the terrifying part, not the blood, not the biting, not any of that. She wants this. Wants him. Wants whatever twisted, impossible thing they’re spinning toward together.

And if she wants a future with him — a real one, not a countdown to her own decay — there’s only one way to get it.

She’s not ready to say that out loud yet. But she’s starting to see the shape of it in the sidelines of her thoughts. The conclusion she’s been circling for weeks.

Jack Abbot doesn’t sparkle. She isn’t Bella Swan. But—

It’s a practical solution to an impossible problem, and Samira has always been good at practical solutions. She has always liked plans.

She adds this to hers.

The shift is brutal.

Traumas back to back to back. A kid, seven, who doesn’t make it. A woman who codes twice on the table before they stabilize her, and another they lose after three. It’s messy and loud, and there’s blood under her fingernails even after she’s scrubbed them raw.

She can see the rigidity of his shoulders from across the hub, the way he won’t look at anyone, the way he disappears for ten minutes after the second woman and comes back with red-rimmed eyes and a drop of blood in the corner of his lips. 

She knows he hates the blood bags. He must have been—

He hasn’t fed for real in four days. She’s been counting.

"Abbot." She catches him in the hallway. "Come with me."

He shakes his head. "I can’t. Not tonight."

"You need it."

"Samira."

"You’re shaking." She takes his hand, and he is, fingers vibrating. "You just watched two people die. You’re running on empty. Let me help."

"I don’t trust myself right now."

"I trust you."

"That’s the problem." He yanks back his hand. "You trust me too much. You’re naive. You don’t see—"

"Don’t see what?" Samira steps forward, daring him to step back. He doesn’t. She knew he wouldn’t. "What don’t I see, Jack? Because I see that you’re falling apart. I see that you need this. Need me. And I need it too. It’s been days, and I can’t— I need you."

He blinks. It’s all the agreement she needs.

She takes his hand again, pulls him to the storage room underneath the staircase. It’s not romantic. It’s not safe. It’s just private, and right now that’s all that matters.

"Samira, I really don’t think—"

She puts her hand on his chest where his heartbeat should be and tips her head back.

"Stop thinking, then."

His eyes close. His hands flex at his sides. She counts the seconds: one, two, three— 

When he opens them again, something has shifted. Sharpened. His pupils are wide.

He snaps.

He takes her by the hips and shoves, crosses the space in two steps and pushes her against the cold, hard wall, and the hiss she makes when her back makes contact isn’t one of pain. It’s relief: finally. Finally. 

His mouth is on her throat in an instant, no hesitation now, and the bite is rough — rougher than it’s ever been, more teeth than finesse — and she gasps at the sting, at the pull, at the way his hands grip her and hitch her up so she’s pinned between him and the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, the way it hurts before it feels good.

And then it feels so good.

She sinks into it. Lets her eyes close. Lets the warmth wash over her, lets herself float in that cloud-thick haze where nothing exists except this, except him, except the steady thrum of the blood leaving her body and the mewling sounds he makes against her, and—

She should tell him to stop.

She counts her heartbeats. Twenty. Thirty. Forty.

She should tell him to stop.

Fifty. Eventually.

She doesn’t want to.

That’s the thing, the horrifying thing: she doesn’t want him to stop. She wants him to keep going. She wants to dissolve into this feeling, wants to give him everything, wants—

Sixty.

Her vision is starting to blur around the edges. Tell him to stop. She doesn’t want to.

"Jack." It comes out slurred, barely a whisper. She’s not sure he can hear her. Seventy.

Her fingertips tingle.

"Jack." Louder this time, or at least she tries. It doesn’t sound loud. It sounds far away. "Jack, stop."

He doesn’t.

"Jack."

She pulls his hair, hard, and he jerks back with a snarl, a real one, teeth bared, eyes black, blood sopping down his chin. Then he blinks. His pupils shrink. The snarl dissolves into horror.

"Samira—"

"I’m okay." She’s not… entirely sure that’s true, really. She’s sliding down the wall a bit, legs giving out, and he catches her, lowers her to the ground, and his hands are shaking so badly she can feel it through her whole body as he kneels before her.

Crosses burn him, but this is an altar he can bow before, and he does, ducks his head in prostration as he gasps for air he doesn’t need.

"You're not okay. You're—" His hands flutter over her, useless, checking her pulse, her pupils, doctor instincts kicking in even now. "Samira, your heart rate is—"

"Fast because I liked it," she says flatly. "Not because I'm dying. I promise. I'm fine. I'm better than fine."

He stares at her like she's speaking a language he doesn't understand.

"Let me get you some water, or—"

"Jack. I’m fine. I don't need water." She turns her head, presses a kiss to his palm. "I need you to stop looking at me like I'm dying. I'm not. I feel good. I feel—" She laughs again, a little unhinged. "I feel amazing, actually."

He shakes his head. "I didn’t stop. You told me to stop and I didn’t—"

"You did. Eventually," she says.

"You almost— I almost—"

"But you didn’t."

"I wanted to." His voice breaks. "I wanted to keep going. I wanted—"

"So did I."

He freezes. It’s uncanny, how still he can get. 

She looks up at him. His face is streaked with her blood, his eyes wet, his body trembling. 

"I didn’t want you to stop," she admits quietly. "I wanted you to keep going. I wanted—" She laughs, weak and dizzy. "I don’t want to die. I don’t. Don’t worry. I don’t want— But— It feels so—"

There aren’t words for what she’s trying to say. For the way she’d been ready to dissolve into him, to disappear into the warmth he brings.

He doesn’t move.

"I know," she continues because she can’t stop talking, can’t stop confessing. "I know that’s fucked up. I know I should be scared, I know—"

She kisses him, and he lets her, desperate, bloody, shaking. She tastes metal on his lips and doesn’t care.

"We can’t keep doing this," he whispers against her mouth, and his voice is scraped raw.

"I know." And she does.

"It’s going to end badly."

She doesn’t answer with words. She just pulls him closer, grasps at his shoulders, and he comes so easily, collapsing against her like he’s a puppet with cut strings. She kisses his jaw, his throat, mouths at his too-still pulse point and feels him shiver above her. 

She arches into him, gets one ankle around him to pull him closer, closer, until there’s nothing between them but worn-down scrubs and the pounding of her heart that echoes in her ears, loud enough that she knows he hears it too. He whimpers against her skin, plaintive and broken: a century-old creature, undone by her; it’s intoxicating, and it should be terrifying.

It’s not. It’s the most alive she’s ever felt.

She threads her fingers through his hair and holds him there, lets him nose at the curve of her jawline. 

They should stop. She should stop. They’re on the floor of a storage room, she’s dizzy with blood loss, and this is—

His hips roll against hers again, an unconscious motion, and she feels him, and the thought dissolves.

"Jack—"

"I almost killed you." His voice is ragged, furious. At himself, at her, she can’t tell. "I almost fucking killed you, and you’re still here, and I can’t—"

"I’m still here."

"Why?" He yanks back to look at her, and his eyes are wild, angry. "Why aren’t you running? Why aren't you scared of me? I want you to be scared, you know that? Because then you’d leave, and you’d be safe, and I wouldn’t—"

"Wouldn’t what?"

He squeezes his eyes shut. "Wouldn’t keep wanting this. Wanting you. Even now, even after—" His breath shudders out. "What’s wrong with me?"

She reaches out for his cheek, and he flinches like it burns but leans into her palm anyway.

"Nothing," she says quietly. "Nothing’s wrong with you."

"I had you pinned to a wall with my teeth in your neck, and I didn’t want to stop. I wanted to drain you dry. I wanted—"

"I know." She meets his eyes. Doesn’t flinch. "I was there, Jack."

"You— Fuck. Samira, I can’t stop thinking about you."

"Then don’t."

He swallows.

"Don’t stop," she continues. "I’m right here. I’m not running."

"If I hurt you—"

"You won’t." Samira kisses him softly, and he mewls against her mouth, and she pushes at his pec. He curves with the motion, pliant beneath her as she shifts to straddle him. His hands fly to her hips without any hesitation, and she can feel him hard beneath her, can feel the tremor running through him.

"I’ve got you. Remember?" she continues.

It's not entirely selfless, she’ll admit readily. Taking care of him like this grounds her too. Makes her feel solid again, real, needed. Less like she's dissolving and more like she's the center of something.

Jack nods against her lips. Takes a shaky breath, and then— He kisses her like he’s drowning, desperate and hoping. His hands shake as they push at her scrub top and ratty t-shirt both, clumsy and reverent, and she takes pity on him, pulls the shirts off over her head.

His gaze is raw and adoring, like she’s something holy.

"You’re so—" He doesn’t finish, just shakes his head.

"Jack." She reaches for his own shirt, tugs listlessly. "Let me take care of you. Can you do that? Can you let me?"

He nods, barely, like he doesn’t trust his voice.

She tugs off her utilitarian bra, and he swallows.

"It’s okay, it’s okay," she coos.

His thumbs brush over her nipples, cupping her breasts in his palms, and she sighs into it, rolls her hips against him. He whines, head falling back against the concrete.

She reaches for his shirt again. "I’ve got you. Off. I want to feel you."

He sits up just enough to pull it over his head, and then she’s pressing him back down, bare chest against his, nipples hardening at the chill of him, and it shouldn’t work, it shouldn’t feel this good, but it does.

"You’re so warm," he whispers, kisses her slow and deep.

She fumbles with her pants, and his hands on her hips balance her, helping push the fabric down until she can kick them off. Left in her underwear, she’s straddling him, and he’s looking at her a bit dazedly, like she’s the sun he hasn’t seen in a century.

"Please," he breathes. "Samira, please—"

"Tell me what you need, sweetheart." The endearment is usually his to wield, and he knows it, swallowing hard. She presses her hips down, grinds down against him through fewer layers, and he’s so hard against her. He whimpers.

"You. Just you. I need—" His hands grip her thighs. "Please. I can’t—"

"Shh." She lifts up, tugs at his waistband. "Help me."

He does, so obedient, shoving his scrubs down just enough, not bothering to get them past his knees, his prosthetic, and she has her hand around his cock before she’s even got her weight back in his lap, and his hips jerk upward uncontrollably.

"Is that what you need, Jack?" she asks, honey sweet, and he shakes his head frantically.

"No, no, want— Want you—"

"Whatever you want."

She kisses him softly, smiles against his lips, and then she’s pulling her underwear aside and sinking down onto him slowly, so slowly, and they both gasp.

"Samira—" His voice is reedy. His hands are shaking on her hips. "You feel— I can’t—"

"I’ve got you." She braces her hands on his chest, starts to move. Slow rolls of her hips, keeping him deep. She groans at how full she feels, setting a pace that makes her tremble too. "Just feel me. Let me take care of you."

He buries his head in her shoulder and nods, and she can feel tears against her skin.

"I love you," he says against her. "I love you."

"I know. I love you too."

"I don’t deserve—"

"I don’t care." She sits back, and his head lolls down before he lifts it, meets her gaze with starry eyes. She clenches around him purposefully, just to hear the way he whines. "I don’t care. You’re mine. That’s all that matters."

"Yours," he echoes, dazed. "Yeah. Yours, I’m—"

"Mine. Say it again."

"Yours. I’m yours, Samira, I’m— Please—"

She can feel him getting close, can feel the way his hips are stuttering up to meet hers, the way his grip is tightening. But he's holding back. Fighting himself.

"What do you need?" she asks, even though she knows. "Tell me."

He shakes his head, squeezes his eyes shut. "Nothing. I'm fine. I can—"

"Jack." She stills, and his eyes fly open, panicked. "Tell me what you need."

His gaze drops to her throat. Just for a second. Just a flicker of naked want before he wrenches it away.

"I can't," he whispers. "I just— I already took so much—"

"And I'm offering more." She tilts her head, bares her neck. "Just a taste. Just enough to finish. I trust you."

"Samira—"

"I've got you, sweetheart." She leans down, brings her throat close to his mouth. She can feel his breath, cool and shaky against her pulse, against the still-throbbing marks of his canines. "Go ahead. Take what you need."

He chokes out a sob, and then his mouth is on her neck, and the bite is gentle, almost tentative, and the warmth floods through her as she starts moving again, riding him slow and deep, and he’s pushing up into her now, rocking back against her, filling her so well, so deep.

She comes first, clenching around him, gasping his name, and he follows seconds later with a broken cry muffled against her throat, shaking apart beneath her while he drinks.

She lets him take a few more pulls before she threads her fingers through his hair and tugs gently. "Jack. That's enough."

He releases her immediately, gasping, and when she looks down at him his face is wet with tears and blood and spit, all mixed together. He looks shattered.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm—"

"Don't." She cups his face, brushes the tears away with her thumbs. "Don't apologize. I wanted that. I asked for it."

"But I—"

"Jack." She waits until his eyes focus on hers. "I'm okay. You stopped when I asked. You're so good for me, you know that?"

"Yeah? Yeah. I— I want to be."

She kisses him, lush and leisurely, tastes the copper she’s come to crave on his lips.

She doesn't climb off him. She stays there, his softening cock still inside her, her weight settled on his hips, and she musses his curls while he shakes.

"I don't know how to stop," he whispers eventually.

"I know." She traces the line of his jaw with her thumb. "I don't either."

"What are we going to do?"

She doesn't have an answer. She just leans down, presses her forehead to his, and breathes with him.

They stay like that, wrapped around each other, her heart beating slow but hard, hard enough for the both of them, and his body is pressed so close she could almost pretend his is beating too.

She thinks of her head on his chest all those days ago. Thinks about his words. About turning, about dying, about waking up hungry and never being full again.

Thinks about forever.

About how maybe ending badly is the only way this ends at all.

She lets him walk her to his car but, despite his pleading, doesn’t let him carry her, no matter how empty the hallways are at this hour. She lets him tuck her into his bed and bring her the orange juice he keeps now, next to the blood, just for her. She lets him watch over her as she sleeps.

She dreams of blood and darkness and the sound of her own heartbeat slowing, slowing, stopping, and she wakes up hungry.

He avoids her again for six days this time before they have another shared night off, and she knows what she’s going to do long before she does it. It’s inevitable, like birth and death — except, well — that she will go to him.

She waits until midnight at least, tells herself it’s a win worth taking.

She doesn’t call first; he’ll tell her not to come. He’ll say it’s not safe, that he’s not safe, that they need space. All the things he’s been telling himself these past few days, probably. All the things she doesn’t particularly want to hear.

He opens the door as she walks up, like always, but then he walks away and sits back on the couch. There’s one small light on. He must’ve turned it on when he felt her coming.

His phone is on the coffee table. She can see the notifications piled up: missed calls, unread texts. Robby. Dana.

He hasn't answered any of them.

"You shouldn’t be here," he says without looking at her.

"Probably not." She closes the door behind her, locks it. "Oh well."

He eyes her.

"I’ve been thinking," she continues.

"Dangerous."

"I’ve been thinking about the future." She moves closer, circles the couch like a vulture until she’s right in front of him. He looks awful: pale, shadows like bruises under his eyes. He hasn’t fed since. She can tell. "About what it looks like. For us."

And there’s something funny here in the fact that she’s finally having a "what are we?" conversation with someone, finally letting herself feel something other than duty, and it’s in the near-pitch-dark, across from a literal, actual vampire.

He laughs, humorless, but she doesn’t think it’s about that. "There is no future for us," he says flatly. "You know that. You know how this ends."

"With me growing old. With me dying like Diane." It’s cruel. She says it anyway, watches his throat as he swallows. "But that’s not the only option."

He goes very, very still.

"Samira. Don’t."

"Turn me."

The words hang in the air. She watches his face, watches the way his expression shutters and his hands turn to fists at his thighs.

"No."

"Jack—"

"No." He stands, moves away from her like she’s the dangerous one. "Absolutely not. You don’t know what you’re asking."

"I do, actually." She’s calm. She’s thought about this too much to be anything but calm. "I’ve been thinking about it for weeks. Maybe longer."

"Weeks? You think weeks matter when we’re talking about eternity?"

"You told me what it feels like. Carrying a century of ghosts, you said. Being stupid enough to fall in love again." She walks over, closing the distance he tried to create. "But what if you didn’t have to lose me? What if we could carry the ghosts together?"

"You don’t understand what you’d be giving up."

"My family. That’s fine. We’re not close. Food. The sun." She ticks them off on her fingers. "I’ve made a list. I’m very thorough. I like to plan."

"This isn’t a fucking joke, Samira."

"I’m not joking." She reaches for him, and he flinches back, and she lets her hand drop. "In the storage room, I wanted— I was ready for you to take everything. And I realized that’s what I want. All of it. Everything you are, everything you have to give, forever."

"Forever is a long time."

"Good. I’m stubborn."

He doesn’t laugh. He’s staring at her like she’s something alien, something terrifying, something he wants and can’t have, and she knows that look. It’s the one she’s been wearing for months.

"I can’t," he whispers. "I’ve never— Samira, I can’t. If I lost you, if it didn’t work—"

"You’re already losing me." She steps closer, and he doesn’t back away. "Every second, every day, I’m slipping away from you. That’s what mortality is. And I don’t want— I don’t want to leave you. Not now, not ever. I don’t want to be another ghost."

"And if you hate me? After?" His voice is ragged, unraveling. "If you wake up and you’re hungry and you’re different and you look at me and all you feel is…"

"Then I’ll hate you forever." She almost smiles, then thinks better of it. "At least we’ll have time to work through it."

He looks away, fists clenching harder. His knuckles are white. But they always are.

"Unless that’s not actually the problem," Samira continues, voice going flat. "Unless you just don’t want to give up having me like this. Is that it? Your personal blood bag. Alive and warm and—"

"Don’t." It’s venomous. "Don’t do that. You think I’m saying no because I like feeding on you?"

"I don’t know what to think."

He laughs darkly. "I could never drink from you again and I’d still be—" His jaw flexes. "You’re in my head all the time. Every minute of every day. I can’t rest anymore. You know vampires dream still? All I dream about is you. I love you. I can’t focus. I can’t— The blood is nothing. Nothing compared to that."

"Then why?"

"You’re asking me to—"

"I’m asking you to let me stay." She reaches for him again, and this time he lets her. She takes his face in her hands, makes him look at her.

"Samira—"

"I’m not scared, Jack." It’s the truth. She’s past fear, past doubt, past all of it, and maybe that in and of itself should terrify her, but. Well. She’s here.

His hands come up to cover hers. His skin is so cold.

"I’ve never turned anyone," he admits. "I don’t know if I can without—"

"You can. You will." She strokes a thumb across his cheekbone. "I trust you."

"Too much."

"That’s not going to change, so you might as well get used to it."

He laughs, wet and broken, and drops his forehead to hers. Her hands fall to his shoulders, gripping hard.

"You’re impossible," he murmurs.

"Yeah."

They stand there, breathing together. Or she breathes; she’s still not sure he does, not really. Her hands are fisted in his shirt, and one of his is cupping her hip softly like she’s something valuable, something he’s terrified to break.

She rises on her toes to even their heights and kisses him, soft and slow, nothing like the desperate clashing of teeth they’ve done before. This is different. It’s a promise.

"If I do this," he says finally, so quiet she almost doesn’t hear, "there’s no going back."

"I know."

"You’ll lose everything."

"I’ll have you."

"That might not be enough."

"It’s enough." Samira leans back just far enough to look at him. His eyes are wet. There’s hunger there — there’s always hunger — but there’s something else too. Hope, fragile and terrified. "It’s always been enough. You’re all I need."

He doesn’t say yes.

But he doesn’t say no, either.

His gaze drops to her throat. She watches his pupils dilate, watches his lips part, watches his tongue trace the edge of his teeth, those teeth, sharp and waiting.

"I've got you," she whispers. "And you've got me. That's how this works, right?"

She tilts her head back.

She closes her eyes.

She waits.