Queen of Hawkins @eddiesgirl4ever - Tumblr Blog

Apr 10

Bones Of Ours

pairing: vampire!eddie x you (female! reader)

summary: Eddie died. You watched him die in the Upside Down, felt him slip through your fingers, and somehow the world kept going without him. Except you don’t. Because you start seeing him everywhere: shadows, dreams, reflections, standing just out of reach, and you’re almost convinced you’ve finally lost it…until he starts looking back.

tags: vampire! eddie, no y/n, grief, dark romance, obsessive love, angst with smut, he's trying not to hurt you, you want him anyway, "i don't care if you hurt me", undead love, he's attatched to you, dead dove

TW: NSFW 18+, minors do not inquire, eddie death, blood/blood drinking, biting/feeding, references to suicide/suicide ideation, PiV, unprotected

WC: 16.2k

A/N: gah okay here we are! i'm obsessed with this story (i just started rewatching TVD & saw a vampire Eddie edit so, pen to paper.) this will be an ongoing series, so be on the lookout. reblogs are always appreciated <3 as always, enjoy! ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

A part of you died with him the day they lowered his casket into the ground, and no one seemed to notice they were burying two people instead of one. Every inch of your body felt hollow, like something had been scooped out and left behind, your eyes fixed, unblinking, on the perfect six-foot rectangle carved into the earth. It felt wrong, all of it, the neatness, the quiet murmurs, the way people dressed in black like that could ever be enough to honor something as loud and alive as him. You almost laughed at the absurdity of it, the way they made such a careful, reverent spectacle for an empty coffin. Eddie would have hated it. God, he would have hated it.

You remember days before, your hands shaking as you held his torn, blood-soaked body in your arms, the metallic scent of it thick in the air, clinging to your skin like it never planned to leave.

Your team had the “easy” part. That’s what they called it. Distract the demo-bats, buy time, get back through the gate. Simple. Clean. Manageable. But nothing in the Upside Down was ever simple, and you learned that quicker than anyone. You and Dustin sat on top of the trailer, your legs dangling over the edge while Eddie stood behind you, guitar slung low, fingers moving like second nature even as the world around you pulsed and rotted and breathed wrong. The sound cut through the air like a challenge, like a dare.

When the swarm shifted, when you saw that black, writhing mass change direction and come for you, everything after that blurred into panic and noise and instinct. You were supposed to jump. You were supposed to run. You were supposed to survive.

Inside the trailer, the bats came anyway.

They forced themselves through every crack and splintered edge, their bodies folding in unnatural ways, screeching and clawing and snapping as if the metal walls meant nothing at all. You could feel them before you could see them, the rush of wings, the heat of them, the sound drilling into your skull. You scrambled, all of you, tripping over each other, breath ragged, hands searching for something, anything.

Eddie got you to the rope.

You remember his hands on your waist, lifting, steady even as everything else fell apart. You remember the way your fingers burned as you climbed, the way your heart slammed against your ribs as you pulled yourself back into the right-side-up, gasping like you’d been drowning. Dustin was beside you a second later, and then you were both there, above him, reaching, screaming, begging—

“Eddie, come on! Come on, please!”

He looked up at you, and for a moment, for one horrible, suspended second, you thought he would. But something in his face changed.

And before you could understand it, before you could stop it, he pulled the knife from his pocket and sliced through the rope in one clean motion. It snapped, recoiling upward, leaving nothing but empty air between you.

“No—Eddie, no, what are you doing?!” Your voice broke, hands grasping at nothing. Your only way to him. His only way out. Gone. When you found him, it was already too late.

The ground was damp beneath your knees as you dropped beside him, the world narrowing down to the sight of him, barely recognizable beneath the blood and torn fabric, bite marks littering his chest and sides like something had tried to take him apart piece by piece. You didn’t feel yourself move, didn’t remember crossing the distance, only that suddenly his head was in your lap, your hands cradling him as if you held him carefully enough, gently enough, he wouldn’t slip away.

Tears blurred your vision, falling unchecked onto his face as you tried to keep him with you, tried to anchor him there. “C’mon, Eds,” you sobbed, your voice cracking as you hooked your arms under his shoulders, trying to lift him, trying to do something, anything. “Just—fuck—come on, please, please—”

He didn’t move. A broken, guttural sound tore from your chest as panic clawed its way up your throat. “Dustin!” you screamed, your voice echoing uselessly through the trees. “Help! Please!”

But Dustin was already there, or trying to be, dragging himself across the ground, his movements slow, uneven, his face twisted in pain from the ankle he’d wrecked on the fall. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t fast enough.

“H–hey,” Eddie rasped, the sound wet and thin, barely there. His hand found yours, fingers weak as they curled around it, giving the smallest squeeze. Your heart shattered all over again.

“You…you gotta get outta here.”

You shook your head violently, tears spilling faster, your grip tightening like you could keep him here by force alone. “No. No, I’m not leaving you. I’m not—I’m not doing that, okay? You just need help, you need a doctor, you’re gonna be fine, you’re gonna be fine—”

He coughed, and this time the blood didn’t stay hidden, spilling from the corner of his mouth, dark and thick, trailing down his cheek.

“I love you,” he whispered, like it was something fragile, something he was placing carefully into your hands. “You know that, right?”

“Eddie—” your voice broke on his name, splintering completely.

His chest rose once more. Then stilled. The grip on your hand loosened, slipping, his fingers falling away as if they’d never been there at all. A single tear tracked slowly down the side of his face, cutting clean through the dirt and blood. And just like that, he was gone.

And now, here you were, trembling over a casket that held nothing of him, your body swaying as the first drops of rain began to fall, slow and deliberate, like the sky itself was grieving something it couldn’t name. The clouds had swallowed the sun whole, casting everything in a dim, suffocating gray, and still, you didn’t move.

You didn’t feel the rain at first. Not when it soaked through your clothes, not when it clung to your skin, not when your hair began to cling to your face in damp strands. It was as if your body had forgotten how to register anything but the absence in front of you.

Wayne pressed an umbrella into your hand at some point, his fingers lingering like he wasn’t sure you’d stay standing without it, like you might collapse into the grave right alongside him. But you never opened it. You couldn’t.

Because leaving, even by something as small as stepping back, felt too much like letting him go.

So you stood there, unmoving, rain pouring over you in quiet sheets, eyes locked on the hollow space beneath the lowering coffin, waiting, impossibly, for something to change.

The last of the mourners drifted away in quiet fragments, their voices low, their footsteps soft against the soaked ground, as if even sound itself had the decency to tread lightly around him. Dustin lingered the longest, his arms wrapping around you in a damp, trembling hug, his breath uneven against your shoulder, like he was trying not to fall apart in your hands. Gareth followed, quieter, his grip tight for a fleeting second, like letting go might mean something permanent. And then they were gone.

It was just you and Wayne Munson, standing at the edge of something neither of you knew how to survive.

His hand came to rest on your shoulder, heavy, grounding, though it felt like nothing could anchor you anymore. When you finally looked at him, his eyes were rimmed red, worn down by something deeper than tears, something that had settled into his bones. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, like he was asking something of you he didn’t have the words for.

“It’s time to go.” The sentence didn’t land so much as pass through you.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t trust your voice not to break apart entirely. Your body moved before your mind could catch up, slow and mechanical, one foot in front of the other, as if you were learning to walk again in a world that no longer made sense. The distance between the grave and the car felt endless, stretched thin by everything you were leaving behind.

The drive blurred. The road, the rain, the silence, all of it smeared together until the trailer came into view like something distant, something familiar in a way that hurt. There was no conversation when you stepped inside. No agreement spoken out loud. Wayne didn’t ask you to leave, and you didn’t ask to stay.

He just let you exist there, in the space his nephew had once filled so effortlessly, as if he understood that sending you anywhere else would be like losing him all over again. And for the last three weeks, that’s where you returned.

Night after night, you found your way back to his room, the door creaking softly as you pushed it open like you were afraid of disturbing something sacred. His bed still smelled like him, faint but unmistakable, woven into the sheets, the pillows, the air itself. You would lie there in the dark, curled into the space he used to occupy, clutching at what little remained, like if you held on tightly enough, it wouldn’t fade. Like he wouldn’t fade.

You soaked in every trace of him you could find, every lingering ghost of warmth, every memory stitched into the walls, desperate and unwilling to accept that this was all that was left. Nighttime was the worst.

The dreams didn’t come gently; they came in waves, pulling you under before you even realized you were drifting. At first, they were almost kind, almost merciful. You and Eddie in some sunlit field that didn’t exist anywhere you’d ever been, the grass brushing against your legs as you ran, his laugh loud and bright and alive in a way that made your chest ache even inside the dream. He would grab your hand, spin you, say something you could never quite remember when you woke, and for a moment, just a moment, it felt like nothing had ever gone wrong.

And then it would shift like it always did. The sky would darken too quickly, as if something were swallowing the light whole, and that familiar, suffocating red would bleed across the horizon. The air would turn thick, metallic, the scent of blood creeping in until it coated the back of your throat. His hand in yours would grow cold, too cold, and when you looked at him, he wouldn’t be him anymore.

Flashes. Quick, violent, impossible to hold onto. His body on the ground. Blood. Teeth. Stillness.

You would wake up gasping, heart slamming, hands grasping at sheets that never felt like enough. But then the dreams changed, and they no longer pretended to be kind.

They dropped you straight into something darker, something that felt less like memory and more like a warning. The sky above you would be black, endless, stretching on forever without a single star to break it apart. And the sound, God, the sound.

Ravens circled above you, their silhouettes cutting across the darkness, their caws sharp and relentless as they called down to you, over and over again, like they were trying to say something you couldn’t understand. You would try to move, to sit up, to run. But you couldn’t. Because you were lying down.

Flat on your back. Surrounded by wood. The edges of a coffin pressing in around you, suffocatingly close, the lid just inches above your face. You could feel the weight of the dirt above you, could almost hear it, shifting, settling, sealing you in. Your chest would heave, panic clawing its way up your throat as the ravens grew louder, closer, their beaks tapping, scratching, like they were trying to break through.

And then: through the chaos, through the blur of wings and shadow, you would see him. Not fully. Never fully.

Just a silhouette standing above you, framed by darkness, still and unmoving as everything else spiraled around him. You couldn’t see his face, couldn’t reach him, couldn’t tell if he was looking at you or through you. But you knew.

“Eddie—”

And then you would wake up. Every time. The next night, you didn’t even try to sleep.

Instead, you found yourself back at the cemetery, like something had pulled you there without asking, your feet carrying you over familiar ground until you reached him. The fresh dirt hadn’t settled yet, still uneven, still wrong, the headstone too clean, too new, like it didn’t belong there.

You lowered yourself beside it slowly, your body heavy, exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin. The grass was damp beneath you as you lay down, curling slightly into yourself, your shoulder brushing the edge of his grave as if proximity alone could make this feel any less unbearable.

For a while, there was nothing. Just the quiet hum of the night, the distant rustle of trees, the steady rhythm of your own breathing. And then, a sharp, piercing caw cut through the silence.

Your eyes snapped open. Perched on the headstone above you, dark against the dim glow of the night, was a raven. It stared directly at you. Its feathers seemed almost too black, swallowing the light around it, its head tilting slightly as if studying you, recognizing you. Another caw echoed from its beak, louder this time, sharper, like a call meant only for you.

Your breath caught. Because something about it felt wrong. Familiar. Like you had seen it before. Like it had seen you. And for a split second, just as it shifted its wings, just as the shadow moved, you could have sworn you weren’t alone.

You began to see them everywhere.

On your walk home from work, perched along the telephone wires like sentries, their silhouettes sharp against the fading sky, heads turning in eerie unison as you passed beneath them. Through the classroom windows, just beyond the glass, one would sit unmoving on the branch of a dying tree, watching, always watching, its dark eyes fixed on you like it knew something you didn’t. At night, they gathered outside Eddie’s bedroom window, claws scraping softly against the glass, wings shifting in restless, whispering movements that kept you from ever truly sleeping.

At first, you told yourself it was a coincidence. A trick of your exhausted mind. Grief, warping the edges of everything until nothing felt quite real anymore. But it didn’t feel random. It felt deliberate.

Each encounter lingered a second too long, each bird holding your gaze with an intensity that made your chest tighten, like there was something just beneath the surface, something trying to reach you, trying to be understood. They weren’t afraid of you. They didn’t scatter or startle or fly off like they should. They stayed. And worse, you started to recognize them.

Not in any way that made sense, not in a way you could explain without sounding completely unhinged, but there was a strange, creeping familiarity in each glossy feather, in the tilt of their heads, in the way they seemed to follow rather than appear.

Like it wasn’t different birds at all. Like it was the same one. Over and over again. You told yourself you were losing it. That grief had finally snapped something in your brain, twisted your reality into something you couldn’t trust.

But every time you met its gaze, you felt it. That pull. That awful, aching recognition. Like you weren’t looking at a bird at all. Like something was looking back. It wasn’t just the birds anymore.

It spread, slow and insidious, bleeding into everything you looked at, everything you felt. You started to catch him in the edges of your vision, in the spaces just beyond where your eyes could fully focus. A figure in the corner of a room that vanished the second you turned your head. A shadow that lingered a moment too long, shaped just enough like him to make your breath hitch.

And it wasn’t just sight. It was worse than that. You could feel him.

In the air, in the stillness, in the quiet moments where the world seemed to hold its breath. Sometimes it was the faintest brush of something against your arm, gone before you could react. Sometimes it was the unmistakable scent of him, cigarette smoke and something warm, something his, curling through the room when you knew, you knew, there was no reason for it to be there.

It crawled under your skin, settled into your bones. It was driving you insane. You stopped trusting yourself. Stopped trusting what was real and what wasn’t. Every shadow felt like a trick, every reflection something you couldn’t look at for too long without your heart starting to race.

Yet still, you kept looking. Dustin found you like that.

Standing too still, eyes locked onto the raven perched across the street, your vision blurred with tears you hadn’t even realized were falling. The rest of the world felt distant, muffled, like you were underwater and everything else was happening somewhere far above you.

“Hey.” His voice was gentle, cautious, like he was afraid of startling you. His arm came to rest on your shoulder, grounding, warm, real. “You okay?”

You nodded once, the motion delayed, your throat tight as you forced yourself to swallow around the weight sitting there.

“Yeah,” you said, but it came out quieter than you meant it to.

You hesitated. Then, softer, “Do you ever feel like…” your voice faltered, eyes flickering back to the bird, still watching, still unmoving. “Like you see him?”

Dustin doesn’t answer right away. You feel it before you see it, the way his hand stills slightly on your shoulder, the way the air between you shifts into something heavier, something careful.

“No,” he says finally, and it’s quiet, but it lands hard. “No, I… I don’t.”

You turn to look at him then, searching his face for something else, something that might contradict it, but all you find is worry. Real, unfiltered, settling into the lines of his expression in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“Hey,” he adds quickly, his voice softening, like he’s trying to reach you without pushing too hard. “That doesn’t mean anything’s wrong with you, okay? I mean—” he lets out a small breath, shaking his head slightly. “You went through… a lot. We all did. But you—” his voice catches for a second, like even he doesn’t know how to say it. “You were there. With him.”

You look away.

“I just think…” he continues, a little more hesitant now, “maybe you should talk to someone. Like, actually talk. Not just… keep it all up here.” He taps lightly at his own temple, offering you a small, almost apologetic smile. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

You nod again, automatic, distant. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Maybe.”

But you don’t mean it. Because later that night, you find yourself somewhere else entirely. Lover’s Lake.

The air is colder here, quieter, the surface of the water stretching out into a dark, endless mirror that swallows whatever little light the moon offers. The trees crowd close around the edges, their shadows long and reaching, like they’re trying to pull everything inward. You don’t remember deciding to come.

The bottle in your hand is already half-empty by the time you sit down near the edge, the damp earth soaking through your jeans as you stare out across the water. The burn of it lingers in your throat, sharp and familiar, something you welcome only because it’s something you can feel.

The lake is still, too still. You take another sip, your hand unsteady now, your thoughts quieter than they’ve been in days, like the noise has finally burned itself out and left nothing behind.

Your eyes drift to the water, tracing the faint ripples, the way the darkness seems to stretch on forever. You wonder, briefly, how cold it would be. How long would it take before you stopped feeling anything at all?

It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? Not if it meant…You swallow hard, your grip tightening around the bottle. Not if it meant being with him again. The thought settles into you, heavy, dangerous, but not unwelcome.

Romantic, almost. Tragic in a way that feels fitting. You could see him again. You could hear him, touch him, stop this constant, aching absence from tearing you apart piece by piece.

Your feet shift slightly against the ground, closer to the edge now, your gaze fixed on the black water like it’s calling to you, like it’s offering something in return.

And then, something moves. Not in the water, but across it. Your breath catches. On the opposite side of the lake, just beyond where the trees thin out into shadow, there’s a figure.

Still. Watching. Your heart slams violently against your ribs, the world snapping back into sharp, suffocating clarity as you push yourself up, stumbling slightly, your eyes straining to make sense of what you’re seeing.

It’s just a shadow, it has to be. But…The shape. The stance. The way it stands like it belongs there, like it’s been waiting. Your voice breaks before you can stop it. “Eddie?”

The figure doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But it doesn’t disappear either. And for the first time since the ground closed over his empty casket, you don’t feel alone.

The figure doesn’t move. It doesn’t come closer, doesn’t call out, doesn’t do anything except stand there, just far enough away to feel unreachable, just clear enough to make your heart stutter painfully in your chest.

“Eddie?” your voice breaks, fragile, hopeful in a way that terrifies you.

And then, it’s gone. Like it was never there at all. The space across the lake is empty again, nothing but trees and shadow and the faint shimmer of water reflecting a sky that refuses to give anything back. You blink hard, once, twice, your breath catching as your eyes dart across the shoreline, searching, begging for something to reappear.

Nothing. Your chest caves in on itself. A sharp, broken sound tears out of you before you can stop it, something between a laugh and a sob, your hands dragging through your hair as you stagger back a step.

“Of course,” you choke out, shaking your head, your voice splintering. “Of course you did. You finally fucking lost it.”

The bottle is still in your hand. You don’t think, don’t hesitate, just tip it back and swallow what’s left in one go, the burn harsh and unforgiving as it tears down your throat, making your eyes water, your stomach twist. You barely register it, barely feel it over the ache already consuming you.

It doesn’t help. It doesn’t quiet anything. If anything, it makes it worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract you from it. From him. From the empty space where he should be.

Your knees give out before you realize what’s happening, the damp ground unforgiving as you collapse onto it, your hands digging into the dirt like you’re trying to hold onto something solid, something real.

A sob rips through you, violent and uncontrollable, your body folding in on itself as everything you’ve been holding back finally breaks loose. “I can’t do this,” you cry, the words raw, torn from somewhere deep inside your chest. “I can’t—I can’t do this without you, I can’t—”

Your voice dissolves into nothing, your shoulders shaking as you press your forehead into the ground, the cold seeping into your skin, into your bones, until you can’t tell where it ends and you begin. It hurts. It hurts so much.

And suddenly, there’s only one way to make it stop. The thought comes quietly this time. Not frantic. Not panicked. Just certain. You lift your head slowly, your breath uneven, your vision blurred as your gaze drifts back to the lake. It stretches out in front of you, dark and endless, the surface barely disturbed, like it’s waiting.

Like it’s always been waiting. You push yourself up, unsteady, your body heavy but your mind eerily clear now, each step toward the water deliberate, measured. The mud shifts beneath your shoes as you move closer, the edge of the dock just a few feet away now.

Your heart slows. The noise fades. It would be so easy. One step, that’s all it would take. You inhale shakily, your eyes closing for a brief moment as you steady yourself, your lips parting as if to say something, though you’re not sure what.

Maybe goodbye. Maybe his name. Your foot moves forward—“Hey.” The voice is quiet. Too quiet, but it stops you instantly. Your eyes snap open, your breath catching as you turn, your entire body going rigid.

He’s there. Closer now. Not across the lake. Not hidden in shadow. Right behind you.

Eddie.

Your heart lurches violently, your vision swimming as you take him in, every part of you screaming to move, to run to him, to throw your arms around him and never let go. But you don’t, because something is wrong.

He looks like Eddie. The same hair, the same frame, the same familiar silhouette you’ve memorized a thousand times over. But there’s something off in the way he stands, too still, too composed, like the movement has been drained out of him.

His skin is pale. Not just pale—ashen, like something that hasn’t seen warmth in too long.

And his eyes…You can’t quite make them out in the dark, but you know, somehow, they aren’t right. He tilts his head slightly, studying you in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“You weren’t supposed to do that,” he says softly.

Your breath stutters. “…Eddie?” you whisper, your voice barely there.

He takes a step closer. And the air around you drops, cold and suffocating, like something unseen has wrapped itself around your lungs.

“I told you,” he murmurs, his voice familiar but distant, like it’s echoing from somewhere far away, “you gotta get outta here.”

Your heart breaks all over again. Because it sounds like him. It looks like him. But whatever is standing in front of you isn’t. Your breath stutters, then breaks entirely.

“No–no, no–” you scramble backward, your foot slipping in the damp earth as you fall hard onto your hands, the impact jolting through your arms. Your chest heaves, panic crashing back in full force, sharper than before, more real. This isn’t him. It can’t be him.

Your head shakes violently, eyes wide, darting over him like if you look hard enough, you’ll find the flaw, the crack, the thing that proves this is exactly what you think it is. A trick. A sick, twisted trick.

“Stop it,” you choke out, your voice trembling as you push yourself further back, your palms dragging through mud and dead leaves. “Stop! This isn’t funny, this isn’t—”

Your gaze flickers to his face again, and your stomach drops. Because he isn’t reacting the way Eddie would. He isn’t rushing to you. Isn’t panicking, isn’t asking what’s wrong, isn’t anything.

He’s just watching you. Too still. Too quiet. Like he’s waiting. Vecna.

The name slams into you like a warning, cold and immediate. Of course. Of course, this is what it is. You let out a broken, breathless laugh, something hysterical creeping into it as you shake your head harder, tears spilling freely now.

“You don’t get to do this,” you snap, your voice cracking as you drag yourself to your feet, stumbling back another step. “You don’t get to use him—”

Your heel catches on uneven ground, nearly sending you down again, but you catch yourself just in time, your body already turning, already moving. Run.

The instinct hits fast and hard, adrenaline surging through your veins as you spin and take off, your breath ragged, your vision blurred by tears and darkness as you push yourself forward, away from him, away from whatever the hell is standing back there pretending to be something it’s not. Branches snap under your feet, the sound too loud, too sharp in the otherwise suffocating quiet of the night. Your lungs burn almost instantly, your body still weak, still exhausted, but you don’t stop.

“Don’t—” his voice cuts through the air behind you, closer than it should be, closer than makes sense. “Don’t run.”

You ignore it. Your heart is pounding too hard, your thoughts spiraling, the image of him burned into your mind in the worst way, wrongwrongwrong—A hand wraps around your wrist. Hard.

You’re yanked back so abruptly it knocks the air straight out of your lungs, your body jerking to a stop with a choked gasp as your feet stumble beneath you. The world tilts, disoriented, your free hand flying out to steady yourself as you try to twist away, panic surging all over again.

“Let me go!” you shout, your voice breaking as you struggle against the grip, your nails digging into his arm, pushing, pulling, anything to get free. “Get off me—!” But he doesn’t budge, not even an inch.

His hold is firm, unyielding, like iron, like something that doesn’t tire, doesn’t falter. Your chest heaves as you finally manage to turn toward him, your breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, fear written plainly across your face as your eyes lock onto his.

Up close, it’s worse. So much worse. Every familiar detail is there, every line and angle and piece of him you know by heart, but it’s like something has been hollowed out. Like he’s been pulled from somewhere he shouldn’t be.

“Look at me,” he says, and it’s quiet, but there’s something in it, something heavier, something that makes it feel less like a request and more like a command.

You don’t want to. God, you don’t want to. But you do, and your breath catches all over again. “Please,” you whisper, your voice shaking, your eyes searching his desperately, trying to find him, just him, somewhere in there. “Please don’t do this to me.”

Something in his expression shifts. The stillness fractures, just enough for something warmer to bleed through, something achingly familiar that makes your chest seize. Something him.

Your breath hitches. “Eddie…?” it comes out broken, barely more than a whisper, like saying it too loud might shatter whatever this is.

His grip on your wrist falters, less like a restraint. More like he’s holding on. “Just—” his voice catches, rougher now, strained in a way that feels wrong and right all at once. He swallows hard, like even that is an effort. “Just listen to me, okay? Please.”

The word please nearly undoes you. Because it sounds like him. Not the hollow echo from before. Not the distant, wrong thing that made your skin crawl. This sounds like Eddie at two in the morning, voice low, a little desperate, trying to get through to you when you’re both too stubborn to back down.

Your knees almost give out. You shake your head anyway, tears spilling faster now, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth like you can hold yourself together if you just try hard enough.

“No,” you whisper, the denial weak, unraveling even as you say it. “No, you’re not—you’re not him, you can’t be, I watched you—”

Your voice breaks. His face tightens, something pained flickering across it, like your words are landing somewhere deep, somewhere he can still feel.

“I know,” he says quickly, stepping closer without thinking, like instinct is pulling him toward you even if everything else is wrong. “I know, I know—I remember, okay? I remember you—” his voice stutters, falters, like the memory itself is too heavy to carry all at once. “You were there. I saw you.”

Your heart stutters violently. “I’m not—” he drags a hand through his hair, the motion almost frantic, almost alive, like he’s trying to piece himself together as he speaks. “I’m not… the same. I can feel that. I know that. But I’m still—” He stops, like he doesn’t know how to finish it. Like he’s afraid to.

His eyes find yours again, and this time, there’s no distance in them. No emptiness. Just something raw, searching, and terrified. “Just don’t run,” he says, softer now, the words careful, like he’s placing them between you instead of forcing them. “Please don’t run from me.”

For a second, neither of you moves. His hand is still wrapped around your wrist, but the tension in it has changed entirely, no longer something holding you in place, just something holding on.

Then, slowly, like he’s afraid the moment might shatter if he does it too fast, he lets go. Your skin feels cold where his touch disappears. He takes a step back, putting space between you, hands lifting slightly like he’s trying to show you he’s not going to stop you this time, not going to trap you here if you decide to run.

“I’ll explain everything,” he says, his voice steadier now, but still threaded with something urgent, something fragile. “I swear to you, I will. Just…” he exhales shakily, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to ground himself. “Just please don’t run from me.”

You don’t move. You don’t trust yourself to. Your chest is still rising too fast, your thoughts too tangled, but your feet stay planted where they are, even as every instinct screams at you to leave.

He notices. And something in his shoulders drops, just slightly, like he was bracing for you to disappear. “I tried,” he says after a moment, quieter now, his gaze flickering away from you briefly before returning, like even looking at you is something he has to build up to. “I tried to stay away.”

Your brows knit, confusion cutting through the fear. “What…?” your voice is hoarse, barely there.

“I didn’t want to do this to you,” he continues, shaking his head faintly, his jaw tightening. “Didn’t want you to see me like this, didn’t want to—” he cuts himself off, swallowing hard. “I thought it’d be easier if you just… remembered me the way I was.”

“But I couldn’t,” he admits, and there’s something raw in it now, something that sounds dangerously close to guilt. “I kept checking in. Just from a distance, making sure you were okay.”

“I saw you,” he says, softer now, like he’s stepping carefully through something delicate. “At the trailer. At night. You wouldn’t sleep. And when you did—” his expression tightens, something pained flashing across it. “You were having nightmares. Bad ones.” Your stomach drops.

“I didn’t mean for you to see me,” he adds quickly, like he can hear the panic starting to rise again. “Not like that. The ravens, the—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated, like he doesn’t have the words for it. “It’s just easier. For me. To be there like that.”

Your heart is pounding all over again. “You were… watching me?” you whisper, the words fragile, caught somewhere between fear and something else you don’t want to name.

His face falls. “Not like that,” he says immediately, shaking his head, taking another careful step back instead of forward this time. “I wasn’t—God, I wasn’t trying to scare you. I just…” he exhales, the sound uneven. “You were getting worse.”

“I saw you at the grave,” he continues, voice low, steady but strained. “Every night. And tonight—” his eyes flicker toward the lake, then back to you, something sharper settling in them. “You weren’t just sitting there anymore.” Your throat tightens.

“I couldn’t stay away after that,” he says quietly. “Not when I knew what you were thinking.”

Your legs give out before you can stop them.

The adrenaline drains too fast, leaving you shaky, hollow, your body suddenly too heavy to keep upright. You stagger back a step, then another, until your back hits the rough bark of a tree, the impact grounding and jarring all at once. Slowly, like you’re afraid of collapsing completely, you sink down, knees pulling into your chest, arms wrapping tightly around them like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

You can still feel where he touched you, but you don’t look at him, not yet. Your breathing is uneven, hitching every few seconds like your body hasn’t decided whether it’s safe to calm down or not. Your fingers dig into the fabric of your jeans, gripping too tightly, like you need something solid, something real.

“Why…” your voice cracks immediately, barely audible, and you have to swallow hard before trying again. “Why didn’t you—” You stop, shaking your head, the question falling apart before it can fully form. Nothing makes fucking sense.

Your eyes squeeze shut for a second, like maybe if you block it all out, it’ll go away, reset, something. It doesn’t.

“Why didn’t you come sooner?” you manage finally, the words rushing out unevenly, tripping over each other. “I—I was there, I was—every day, I kept going back, I kept—” your breath stutters, your voice breaking again as frustration bleeds into it. “You saw me, you said you saw me, so why didn’t you just—just—”

You let out a sharp, shaky laugh, something on the edge of hysterical as you drag a hand over your face, smearing tears you didn’t even realize were still falling. “I thought I was losing my mind,” you whisper, softer now, more fragile. “I thought...I thought I finally snapped or something, seeing you everywhere, hearing you—” your voice drops, barely there. “I thought it was just grief.”

Your head tilts back against the tree, eyes finally opening, staring up at the dark canopy above you like it might give you an answer you can’t find anywhere else. “But you were there,” you say, quieter, the realization settling in slowly, painfully. “You were actually there.”

Your gaze flickers toward him then, hesitant, uncertain, like you’re afraid he might disappear if you look too directly. “Why didn’t you just… come to me?”

His answer doesn’t come right away. For a moment, all you hear is the quiet rustle of leaves, the soft movement of water behind you, the uneven rhythm of your own breathing as you sit curled into yourself at the base of the tree.

“I tried.” Your fingers tighten around your knees.

“I did,” he repeats, softer now, like the words cost something. “I tried to come to you. More than once.”

Your head tilts slightly, brows pulling together. “Then why didn’t you?” Your voice shakes. “I was right there. I kept going back—I kept—”

“I know.”

He steps closer, slow, careful, like approaching something fragile that might shatter if he moves too fast.

“I saw you,” he continues, voice low. “At the grave. At the trailer. You wouldn’t sleep.” His jaw tightens slightly. “And when you did… I was there for that, too.”

Your stomach drops. “The birds,” you whisper.

He nods once. “Easier that way. Less me.” Silence stretches.

“You could’ve just come to me,” you say again, quieter now, more confused than angry.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair like he doesn’t even know where to start. “I’m not the same,” he says finally.

It’s subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t staring. But there’s something too still about him. Something too controlled. Like every movement is intentional, like he’s holding himself together instead of just being.

“What does that mean?” you ask, your voice barely steady.

He hesitates. Then, quieter, “I came back wrong.”

The words settle heavily between you. Your breath catches. “What kind of wrong?”

He lets out a short, humorless breath, glancing away for a second like he can’t stand to watch your reaction. “I can hear things,” he says. “Too much. Heartbeats. Blood moving. It’s like everything’s louder now, all the time.” His jaw flexes. “And it doesn’t stop.”

A chill creeps over your skin. “And when I get too close to people…” he trails off, shaking his head slightly. “It gets worse.”

Your heart starts pounding, and immediately, his eyes flick back to you. Too fast, too sharp, like he felt it. Like he heard it.

“I didn’t want you to see that,” he says quickly, taking a step back now instead of forward, like he’s correcting himself, putting distance where there wasn’t any before. “Didn’t want you to look at me and realize I’m not—” he swallows. “Not safe.”

Not safe.

“But I tried to stay away,” he continues, softer now. “Just check in. Make sure you were okay.”

A broken sound leaves you. “I wasn’t.”

“I know.”

His gaze drops for a second, something like guilt flickering across his face. “I saw you tonight,” he adds, voice quieter. “Walking into the lake like it didn’t matter if you came back out.” Your chest tightens painfully. “I couldn’t stay away after that.”

“There’s something else,” he says, more hesitant now.

You brace yourself. “What?”

He looks at you again. And this time, there’s no distance in it. Just something conflicted. Something restrained. “It’s you,” he admits quietly.

Your breath catches. “What about me?”

He lets out a slow breath, like he’s trying to stay in control of something you can’t see. “I can hear you,” he says. “Even when you’re not close. Your heartbeat, your breathing—” his voice drops slightly. “It cuts through everything else.”

Your pulse stutters.

“And it’s…” he searches for the word, frustrated. “It’s harder. Around you.”

Your chest rises and falls a little faster. His eyes flicker to your throat for half a second, then back to your face. “I haven’t hurt anyone,” he says quickly, like he needs you to know that. “I won’t.”

“I just didn’t trust myself to stand this close to you and still be me.”

You don’t say anything at first. You just sit there, staring at him like if you look long enough, hard enough, you’ll be able to separate what’s real from what isn’t. Your chest is still rising too fast, your thoughts tangled, but something in you has shifted.

The fear is still there. But it’s not the loudest thing anymore. “…I don’t care.” The words come out quieter than you expect, but they land heavy all the same.

His expression tightens immediately. “Don’t—”

“I don’t care,” you repeat, stronger now, your grip tightening around your knees before you push yourself up, unsteady but determined. “You keep saying that like it matters.”

“It does matter,” he snaps, sharper than before, something defensive flashing across his face. “You don’t get it—”

“No, you don’t get it.” Your voice breaks through his, raw and desperate, cutting him off completely. “You think I care about ‘safe’ right now?” The word sounds almost bitter on your tongue.

You take a step toward him, and he takes one back. That alone makes your chest ache.

“I watched you die,” you say, your voice dropping, quieter now but somehow more intense. “I held you while you were dying, Eddie. Do you understand that? I felt it. I felt you—” your breath stutters, your composure cracking as your voice falters. “And then you were just… gone.”

His face softens, something pained pulling at his features, but you don’t stop.

“And now you’re standing here,” you continue, tears slipping freely down your cheeks, your hands shaking at your sides. “You’re here. I can see you, I can hear you, I—” your voice breaks again. “And you’re telling me to what? Be careful? Be scared of you?”

You laugh, but it’s hollow, uneven. “I’ve been sleeping in your bed for three weeks,” you whisper. “Talking to a grave like you could answer me. I almost—” you cut yourself off, your throat tightening painfully. “I almost walked into that lake just to be with you again.”

His entire posture shifts at that, something darker flickering across his face, something angrier, but not at you, but at himself.

“You don’t get to come back,” you say, softer now, your voice trembling, “and then tell me to stay away from you.”

You take another step forward. This time, he doesn’t move. “I don’t care if you’re different,” you whisper. “I don’t care if you’re dangerous.”

Your eyes lock onto his. “I don’t care if you hurt me.”

Something in him snaps. “Don’t say that,” he says immediately, his voice low, strained, like it’s being held together by sheer force. “Don’t—don’t say that like it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing,” you shoot back, your chest heaving. “It’s everything. It’s—” your voice cracks, softer now, more fragile. “It’s you.”

Silence crashes down between you. You can see every detail of his face, every familiar line twisted slightly by something new, something darker, something he’s trying so hard to keep contained. His eyes flicker to your throat again.

Just for a second, but you see it. And this time you don’t step back. “If that’s what this is,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper now, but steady. “If that’s what you are now, then fine.”

Your breath catches slightly as you take one last step forward, closing the distance completely. “Do it.”

His entire body goes rigid. “Don’t,” he warns, his voice rough, almost breaking. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

Your heart is pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear it. Maybe he can. “I already lost you once,” you whisper, your eyes searching his desperately, something reckless, something aching bleeding into every word. “I’m not losing you again because you’re too scared of what you are now.”

His breathing changes. Like he doesn’t need it, but something in him is reacting anyway. “You think I don’t want this?” he mutters, more to himself than you, his jaw tightening. “You think standing this close to you isn’t—”

He cuts himself off sharply, turning his head away like he can’t trust himself to keep looking at you. Your hand lifts before you can stop it, hovering and shaking. Then, you press it against his chest.

The contact is enough. His breath catches.

His hand moves fast, grabbing your wrist: not rough, but firm, like he has to anchor himself before he does something he can’t take back. “Don’t,” he says again, but this time it’s quieter, more desperate. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

Your fingers curl slightly against his shirt. “Then show me.”

The woods swallowed the last of the moonlight as you followed him deeper, away from the lake, away from the open vulnerability of that clearing. Eddie moved like the shadows had learned to obey him; silent, deliberate, every step placed with a predator’s care that the old Eddie never needed.

He didn’t hold your hand. He didn’t crack a joke or offer some dramatic, theatrical line about “leading his fair maiden into the unknown.” He just walked, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, like he was fighting a war with every inch of ground you covered together.

You didn’t care. You’d follow him anywhere now.

The trees thickened, branches clawing low enough to brush your shoulders. The air grew heavier, damp with night and moss and the faint metallic tang that always seemed to cling to him since he came back. Your heartbeat was a drum in your ears: loud, reckless, alive. You knew he could hear it. Every frantic thump. Every stutter when his gaze flicked back to you over his shoulder.

He stopped in a small clearing ringed by thick pines, the ground soft with fallen needles and moss. No one came here. Not at night. Not this deep. It felt like the woods had been waiting for something exactly like this.

Eddie turned. Slowly.

His eyes caught what little light filtered through the canopy; dark, hungry, ringed with that unnatural red that caused your breath to hitch.

“You still sure?” His voice was low, rougher than before, like gravel dragged across velvet. No theatrical flourish. No “princess” or “sweetheart” thrown in for flair. Just Eddie, raw, edged, the aggression simmering right under the surface because he was trying so damn hard not to let it out. “Once I start, I’m not stopping easy.”

You swallowed, throat dry, but nodded. “I meant it. All of it.”

He exhaled through his nose, something almost like a growl caught in it. Then he moved.

One hand fisted in the front of your shirt and yanked you forward, not gentle, not careful. Your chest collided with his, and his mouth crashed down on yours: hungry, demanding, teeth nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to sting. You tasted the faint copper where he’d broken skin, and he groaned into the kiss like it was the best thing he’d ever had. His free hand shoved up under your shirt, palm hot and rough against your bare waist, fingers digging in like he needed to feel you were real.

When he pulled back, his breathing was ragged even if he didn’t strictly need it. “Fuck.”

He spun you, pressing your back against the rough bark of a thick pine. The tree scraped through your clothes, but you didn’t care. His body pinned you there, one thigh shoving between yours, pressing up hard against your core. You gasped at the sudden pressure, hips rolling instinctively, and he let out a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest.

“Greedy already,” he muttered against your ear, lips brushing the shell. “That’s my girl.”

His mouth trailed down wet, open kisses along your jaw, your throat, until he reached the curve where neck met shoulder. He paused there, lips hovering, breath cool against your heated skin. You felt his fangs: long, sharp, and they grazed lightly, teasing.

“Do it,” you whispered, threading your fingers into his wild hair and tugging. “Eddie, bite me.”

A shudder ripped through him. Then he struck.

His teeth sank into the soft flesh just above your collarbone, deep and sure. Pain flared bright and hot for a split second—then melted into something liquid and filthy and perfect. You cried out, back arching hard against the tree, but it wasn’t a scream of hurt. It was pure, overwhelming want.

The pull of his mouth was rhythmic, greedy, each swallow sending sparks straight down your spine and between your legs. Warm blood trickled down your skin where it escaped his lips, and he chased it with his tongue, lapping it up like he couldn’t waste a drop.

“Fuck—Eddie—” Your voice broke into a moan as he ground his hips against you, the hard line of his cock pressing insistently through his jeans. He was already rock hard, rutting slow and deliberate like he was savoring the way you fell apart from his bite alone.

He pulled back just enough to speak, lips smeared dark red, eyes blown wide and feral. “Tastes so fucking good,” he growled, voice thicker, more aggressive. “Like you were made for this. For me.” He licked over the fresh punctures again, slower this time, and you felt the throb of the bite marks pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

Then he bit down a second time, a little lower, reopening and deepening the mark on your collarbone. The pain spiked sharper this time, but it only made the heat between your legs worse. Your hands scrabbled at his back, nails digging through his shirt as pleasure coiled tight and vicious in your belly. Every pull of his mouth synced with the slow grind of his thigh against your clit, dragging you closer and closer to the edge without even getting your clothes off.

He finally released the bite with a wet sound, licking over the wounds once more. Blood still welled slowly from the two deep punctures, staining your skin and the collar of your shirt. He didn’t try to close them. Just stared at the mess he’d made, breathing hard, something dark and possessive flashing across his face.

“Need you,” he rasped. “Right fucking now.”

His hands were frantic but sure: yanking your jeans open, shoving them down your hips along with your underwear just enough to free one leg. He didn’t bother with the rest. One of his hands shoved between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your slick folds and pushing inside you without warning. You keened, head falling back against the tree as he curled them deep, stroking that spot that made your vision spark.

“So wet already,” he muttered, almost accusing, as it pissed him off how ready you were for him. “All this for a dead man?”

“For you,” you gasped, hips bucking into his hand. “Always for you.”

He snarled, like actually snarled, and pulled his fingers free. You heard the clink of his belt, the harsh rasp of his zipper, and then the blunt, thick head of his cock was nudging at your entrance, slick with your own arousal. He didn’t ease in. He thrust forward in one rough snap of his hips, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch burned in the best way. You cried out, legs wrapping around his waist as best you could with your jeans still tangled around one ankle. Eddie didn’t give you time to adjust. He fucked you hard against the tree: deep, punishing strokes that slammed you back into the bark with every thrust. One hand gripped your hip hard enough to bruise, the other braced beside your head, fingers digging into the wood.

Every thrust dragged against that perfect spot inside you. Every snap of his hips made the bite marks on your collarbone throb hotter, blood still slowly trickling down your chest. You were dripping down his cock, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet woods.

“Look at me,” he demanded, voice dark and rough. When you did, his eyes were glowing faintly, fangs still extended, lips and chin stained with you. “That’s it. Want you to see exactly what’s fucking you.”

You moaned his name like a prayer, fingers clawing at his shoulders as the coil inside you wound tighter and tighter. He leaned in and bit down on the same spot on your collarbone again, shallower this time, more possessive than feeding; teeth sinking in just enough to reopen the wounds and send fresh sparks of pain-pleasure shooting through you.

That was all it took. You came with a broken shout, walls clamping down around him so hard your vision whited out. Eddie groaned against your skin, hips stuttering, and followed you over the edge a few brutal thrusts later. He spilled deep inside you, hot and endless, grinding through it like he never wanted to stop.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hoot of an owl.

Eddie slowly pulled his fangs free, licking over the still-bleeding bites with surprising gentleness, smearing the blood across your skin rather than sealing it. He stayed buried inside you, forehead pressed to your shoulder, body still trembling with aftershocks.

“…Still me?” he asked quietly, voice hoarse, the aggression bleeding back into something almost vulnerable. “Even like this?”

You carded your fingers through his hair, tugging lightly until he lifted his head and met your eyes. Your collarbone throbbed, warm blood still trickling slowly down your chest, but you didn’t care.

“Yes,” you whispered, voice wrecked.

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, then kissed you: slow this time, tasting like blood and sex and home. The woods felt quieter now. Safer. Like, even the trees approved. He didn’t pull out right away. Just held you there against the pine, cock softening inside you, arms wrapped tight like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

He doesn’t say much after.

The shift is immediate, almost jarring, compared to what just happened. The sharp edge of him dulls, the hunger settling back under his skin like something leashed, barely. He helps you fix your clothes without making a big deal out of it, hands slower now, more careful, like he’s overcorrecting.

You notice he avoids looking at your neck for too long. The walk back is quiet.

His shoulder brushes yours every now and then, like he can’t help it, like he needs the contact to remind himself you’re still there. The woods feel different now, less threatening, like they’ve already taken what they wanted from the night.

When you reach the edge of the trailer park, he stops. You take another step before realizing he didn’t follow. Turning back, your chest tightens at the sight of him standing just beyond the dim glow of the streetlight, half-shadowed, like he belongs more to the dark than the world you’re about to walk back into.

“You’re not coming?” you ask softly.

His jaw shifts. “I can’t… not right now,” he says, quieter than before, like he’s choosing restraint over instinct. “Too many people. Too close.”

Your hand lifts slightly, like you’re going to reach for him again, but you stop yourself.

“Hey,” he adds quickly, taking a step closer, just enough to soften the distance but not close it completely. His eyes flick over you, lingering for a second on your collarbone before snapping back up. “You okay?”

You nod, even though your body still feels like it’s humming. “Yeah.”

“You?”

He huffs something that almost sounds like a laugh. “Ask me tomorrow.”

That earns the smallest ghost of a smile from you. Silence lingers for a second longer before you turn, walking the rest of the way alone. You don’t look back, but you can feel him there, watching, making sure you make it inside.

The next day feels wrong. Too bright. Too normal. The hum of the cafeteria, the clatter of trays, people laughing like nothing ever happened. It all feels like it’s happening behind glass.

You sit across from Dustin, barely picking at your food, your body still heavy with exhaustion, your mind somewhere else entirely. You can feel it. Every little movement pulls at your skin differently now, a dull ache blooming across your collarbone where his teeth had been.

You thought you covered it. You really did. A hoodie. Hair down. Sitting just right. But Dustin’s eyes narrow slightly.

“…You good?” he asks, already suspicious.

You nod quickly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

His gaze lingers, scanning your face, your posture—then drops, just for a second, to your collarbone where your hoodie has shifted ever so slightly.

His expression changes. “Whoa—hey, what is that?”

Your stomach drops. “What?” you ask, too fast.

“That,” he says, leaning forward a little, pointing subtly. “On your neck—did you—did you fall or something?”

Your hand flies up instinctively, covering it. “Oh, yeah,” you laugh, but it comes out tight, forced. “I, um… slipped. Last night. By the lake.”

Dustin’s brows pull together immediately. “By the lake?” he repeats. “At night?”

You shrug, avoiding his eyes, picking at your sleeve like it’s suddenly very interesting. “Yeah, I just… went for a walk. Cleared my head. Tripped on something.”

He leans back slowly, still watching you. “…That looks like more than a fall,” he mutters.

Your heart is pounding now. “It’s not,” you insist, a little sharper than you mean to. Then softer, quickly, “I’m okay, Dust. Really.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies you, like he knows you’re lying. “…Okay,” he says finally, but there’s no conviction in it. “Just—be careful, alright?”

You nod. But your fingers are still pressed lightly against your collarbone. And you can still feel it. The faint, lingering throb of where Eddie had bitten you. Like something that hasn’t quite let go.

By last period, you couldn’t sit still anymore. The classroom felt too loud, too bright, too normal, like the world had the audacity to keep spinning when yours had been completely ripped apart and stitched back together wrong. Your fingers kept drifting to your collarbone, wincing at the dull, throbbing ache beneath your hoodie, a constant reminder of last night. Of him.

“Not safe.”

The word echoed, over and over. You couldn’t accept that. So you left.

Mumbling something about needing the bathroom, you slipped out of study hall and down the quiet hallway, your footsteps echoing too sharply against the tile. The library was nearly empty, just the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the soft rustle of pages somewhere in the distance. Good. You didn’t want anyone to see you like this.

You moved straight to the back, where the older shelves sat untouched, fingers trailing over worn spines until you started pulling books at random: occult, folklore, mythology, stacking them in your arms until it was almost too much to carry.

You dropped into a chair, the stack hitting the table with a dull thud, immediately flipping one open. Vampires.

Your stomach twisted. You skimmed quickly, eyes darting across the page. Wooden stakes. Garlic. Sunlight. You scoffed quietly, flipping past it. That wasn’t him.

Another page. Another book. More of the same. Until something different. Your eyes slowed.

“In certain cases, transformation does not erase identity, but distorts it. The subject may retain emotional memory, particularly toward individuals of strong attachment, though this often manifests as intensified fixation or hunger.”

Your breath caught, your fingers clenching against the page. You could hear it again, your heartbeat last night. The way his eyes flicked. The way he stepped back.

You swallowed hard, flipping the page faster now. Curecurecure. There had to be something.

You scanned, jumping between paragraphs, piecing together fragments that didn’t quite fit.

Some claimed:

kill the one who turned them restore humanity through emotional anchors blood rituals, reversal rites

Nothing was consistent, nothing was certain. Your chest tightened. “No…” You whispered under your breath, flipping another page, more frantic now. “There has to be something—”

Another book. You grabbed it quickly, fingers trembling slightly as you opened it, scanning faster, messier—And then you stopped. Your eyes locked onto a section halfway down the page.

“Methods of becoming vary across accounts. In most traditions, transformation requires the exchange of blood: the human must ingest the vampire’s blood, followed by death. Upon revival, the subject completes the transition through their first feeding.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach. You read it again, slower this time. Exchange of blood. Death. Revival.

Your grip tightened on the page. Your mind flickered—His blood. His teeth. The way he said you didn’t know what you were asking for. Your breathing started to pick up. You shouldn’t keep reading. You knew you shouldn’t, but you did.

“In rare interpretations, the act is voluntary, often driven by emotional attachment. However, such transformations are considered unstable, as pre-existing bonds may intensify both loyalty and dependency between the two.”

Your chest rose sharply. Voluntary. Your fingers drifted back to your collarbone again, pressing lightly against the tender skin, feeling the faint pulse beneath it. You thought about the lake. About how close you were. About what you said to him.

“I don’t care if you hurt me.”

Your throat went dry. Because now, this wasn’t just about saving him. Your eyes lingered on the page, unmoving. Because now you knew there was a way to stay with him. Forever.

By the time you make it back, the sky has already gone dark. The trailer park is quiet in that eerie, late-night way, a few dim porch lights flickering on in the distance, but Eddie’s trailer sits still and dark, just like it has every night this past week.

Wayne’s at the plant, you already know that. Still, the silence feels heavier tonight.

You fumble with the handle, stepping inside, the door creaking softly behind you as it shuts. The air is cool, untouched, the faint scent of him lingering in a way that makes your chest ache before you can stop it.

You don’t turn the lights on. You just stand there for a second. Letting your eyes adjust. Letting the quiet settle around you. Your bag slips from your shoulder onto the floor with a soft thud, your fingers drifting absentmindedly to your collarbone again, tracing the tender skin beneath your hoodie. Exchange of blood. Death. Revival.

Your stomach twists. You take a step forward, and a hand clamps over your mouth. Your body jerks violently, a scream caught in your throat as you’re yanked backward, your back hitting a solid chest, your heart instantly slamming against your ribs in pure panic—“Shh—hey, hey—”

The voice hits you first. Low. Familiar. Your breath stutters. And then, a quiet, almost amused hum against your ear.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Your entire body goes still. The hand over your mouth loosens slowly, like he knows you won’t scream now, like he knows exactly what that voice does to you. You turn in his hold, your breath uneven, eyes wide, and there he is.

Closer than he’s been since last night. Closer than he probably should be. Your chest rises sharply.

“You—” your voice catches, still shaky from the suddenness of it. “You scared the shit out of me—”

“Yeah, I got that,” he murmurs, something almost playful threading through his tone as his hands settle at your waist, steadying you like you might fall apart otherwise. But something’s different. Not just that he’s here. It’s the way he’s looking at you. Brighter. Sharper.

There’s an energy to him now that wasn’t there last night, something less restrained, less afraid. Like whatever was holding him back has loosened. Your breath catches slightly.

“You’re… here,” you say, softer now, like you’re still not entirely convinced this is real.

“Yeah,” he says easily, like it’s nothing, like showing up in your dark house unannounced is completely normal. His thumb brushes absentmindedly against your side, a small, grounding touch that lingers a second too long. “Miss me?”

There’s a hint of something there. Something warmer. Something almost possessive. Your stomach flips.

His gaze flickers over your face, then lower, to your throat. To your collarbone. Where the marks sit hidden beneath fabric. His jaw tightens for just a second. Then relaxes.

“You went digging today,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Your heart stops. “…What?”

His lips twitch slightly, like he’s entertained by your reaction. “Library,” he adds, tilting his head just a bit, watching you carefully. “Back shelves. Occult section. You always go straight for the good stuff.”

Your breath goes shallow. “How do you—”

“I can feel you,” he cuts in, softer now, stepping just a little closer, his voice dropping slightly. “Remember?” Your pulse spikes instantly.

Something in his expression shifts at the sound of it, something darker, something pleased in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“Told you,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard. “I was just looking,” you manage, your voice uneven.

“For a cure?” he asks.

Your silence is answer enough. A quiet hum leaves him, something thoughtful, something almost amused.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Figured.”

Your brows pull together. “You don’t want one?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

His eyes snap back to yours. And for a second, there’s something intense there. Something that wasn’t there before. “Why would I?” he asks, quieter now, but there’s weight behind it.

Your chest tightens. “Because this isn’t—this isn’t you,” you say, stepping back slightly, even though you don’t really want to. “You said it yourself, you’re not the same—”

“I said I’m not safe,” he corrects, stepping forward to close the distance you just created, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. Or maybe he does.

“That doesn’t mean I’m not me.” His voice is firmer now, more certain. And there’s something else underneath it, something that feels dangerously close to attachment.

“I feel more like myself than I have in a long time,” he adds, quieter, his gaze softening just slightly as it traces over your face. “Everything’s clearer now.”

Your heart is racing again. And he’s closer, so much closer.

“You,” he says softly, almost like he’s thinking out loud now, his hand lifting without hesitation, brushing lightly along your arm. “You’re louder, though.”

Your breath hitches. His fingers trail slowly upward. Intentional. Measured. Until they stop just beneath your collarbone. Right where it still aches.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he murmurs, his voice dipping lower, something warmer creeping back in. “Could feel it from here.”

Your pulse jumps violently. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and focused. “Tell me what you found,” he says softly. It doesn’t feel like a request. Your throat feels tight. His fingers are still resting just beneath your collarbone, warm, deliberate, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, like he can feel every shift in your pulse under his touch.

You swallow hard. “I…” your voice falters for a second, your eyes flicking down before forcing yourself to meet his again. “I found a way.”

That catches his attention immediately. His hand stills. “A way to what?” he asks, quieter now, something cautious slipping into his tone.

Your heart pounds. “To turn,” you admit, the word sitting heavy between you. “Like you.”

His expression changes. Not dramatically, not violently, but enough. The warmth in his face pulls back slightly, something more guarded taking its place, something that wasn’t there a second ago.

“No,” he says, almost instantly. It’s not loud, but it’s firm.

You blink. “Eddie—”

“No,” he repeats, sharper this time, his hand dropping from your collarbone as he takes a small step back, like he needs the space to think. “We’re not—no.”

Your chest tightens. “You didn’t even hear what I found—”

“I don’t need to,” he cuts in, running a hand through his hair, pacing once like he did the night before, like he’s trying to burn off the reaction. “You don’t get to just decide that.”

“I’m not deciding,” you snap back, frustration creeping in. “I’m thinking about it, because you’re standing here telling me you’re not safe, and I’m supposed to just—what? Pretend that fixes itself?”

“That’s not your problem to fix,” he says quickly.

“It is if it’s you,” you shoot back.

He stops pacing, turning to look at you. Something flickers again: conflict, frustration, something softer buried underneath. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he says, quieter now, but no less serious.

“And you don’t get to decide that for me,” you reply, just as soft, but stubborn.

Another silence, longer this time. Then, he exhales, long and slow. Like he’s letting the tension bleed out instead of letting it explode. “…We’re not doing this tonight,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

Your brows knit. “What?”

“We’re not talking about this,” he clarifies, glancing at you again, something gentler creeping back in despite himself. “Not when you just—” his jaw tightens slightly. “Not when everything’s still this.”

Your frustration lingers, but it softens around the edges. “…Then what are we doing?” you ask.

He hesitates. Then something shifts. “Normal,” he says, like he’s testing the word out. “We’re gonna try normal.”

You almost laugh. “Normal?” you echo.

“Yeah,” he shrugs lightly, though there’s something intentional behind it. “Like we used to. Before all the—” he gestures vaguely, meaning everything. “Sit on the couch. Watch something stupid. Not much talking, especially not about blood or turning or any of that.”

Your chest tightens from the effort in it. At the way he’s trying. “…Okay,” you say quietly.

The TV hums softly in the background. Some random late-night rerun you’re not even really paying attention to flickers across the screen, casting dim light across the trailer. The only real illumination in the room.

Your shoulder brushes his, and this time, he doesn’t pull away. Neither do you. For a while, it’s quiet. Almost normal. Almost. Until his hand finds yours. Slow. Careful. Like he’s asking without saying anything.

You turn slightly toward him. He’s already looking at you. And something about that look; softer now, less restrained, but still intense—makes your breath catch.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

You huff out the smallest breath of a laugh. “Hi.”

And then he leans in. The kiss is slower than last night. Not desperate. Not hungry in the same way. But it’s still him.

Warm, familiar, a little rough around the edges, like he doesn’t quite know how to do gentle anymore but he’s trying anyway. His hand lifts to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek as he deepens it, pulling you just a little closer.

You melt into it. Your fingers curl into his shirt, grounding yourself in something that feels real, something that feels like before, even if it’s not. His other hand settles at your waist, steady, holding you there like he doesn’t want to let go.

For a moment, you almost forget. Forget the lake. Forget the blood. Forget everything. It’s just him. Just you. Just this. Until—

“—authorities are still investigating what appears to be a brutal animal attack—”

The words cut through the room. Sharp. You both freeze. The TV drones on, the volume low but suddenly too loud.

“…local Hawkins farm reported multiple livestock found drained of blood earlier this morning…”

Your stomach drops. Eddie goes completely still beside you. You pull back slowly, your breath catching as you look at him. His eyes are locked on the TV. Unblinking.

“…no signs of known predators—”

The reporter’s voice continues, but it fades under the sound of your own heartbeat. His throat moves like he’s swallowing something down. “Eddie…?” you whisper.

He doesn’t look at you. Not right away. When he finally does, there’s something different there again. Something darker.

“I didn’t do that,” he says quickly. Too quickly. Your heart stutters.

“I didn’t,” he repeats, softer now, like he needs you to believe it. “I haven’t—” He cuts himself off. Because the silence after that says enough.

The silence after the TV report lingers longer than it should, stretching thin and tight between you like something waiting to snap, the low hum of the broadcast still flickering in the background as neither of you moves, neither of you quite sure how to bridge the space that just opened up.

You’re still half turned toward him, your body angled in, your lips parted like you were about to say something, but the words stall somewhere in your throat when you catch the way he’s looking at the screen, too still, too focused, like he’s listening to something deeper than the report itself.

“Eddie…” your voice comes softer this time, less accusing, more careful.

He exhales through his nose, dragging a hand down his face as if he’s trying to steady himself before he answers, and when he does, his voice is quieter, but more grounded. “I didn’t do that,” he says, not defensive now, just certain, his gaze finally shifting back to you. “I haven’t gone anywhere near the farms.”

Your shoulders loosen slightly at that, not fully, but enough, your eyes searching his face for any sign of hesitation, any crack in what he’s saying.

“Then what have you been doing?” you ask, your tone gentler now, curious more than afraid.

There’s a brief pause, like he’s deciding how honest to be, before he answers. “I feed,” he says simply, the bluntness of it still making your chest tighten, even if you were expecting it. “Just not like that.”

You nod slightly, like you already understand, like you’ve already accepted it in a way that surprises even you. “On what?” you ask quietly.

“Whatever I can find out in the woods,” he says, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. “Deer, squirrels… anything that keeps it under control without hurting anyone.”

The way he says it, like it matters, like you matter in that equation, settles something in your chest instead of stirring fear. Your gaze drops briefly, then lifts again, softer now. “And me?”

The question comes out gently. Something shifts in him again, but this time it isn’t sharp or defensive; it’s quieter, more intentional, the kind of care that feels heavier than anything else he’s said.

“That’s different,” he says, stepping closer, slow and deliberate, like he’s making sure you have time to move away if you want to.

“I only feed on you if you let me,” he continues, his voice low, steady, grounded in something that feels like a promise instead of a warning. “I’m not gonna take from you. Not unless you ask me to.”

Your breath catches slightly, but not from fear. From the weight of it. From the way he’s choosing restraint, even now. You nod once, small but certain, your fingers brushing lightly over your collarbone where the marks still ache faintly beneath your clothes.

“Okay,” you say softly. And you mean it.

Something in his shoulders eases at that, just slightly, like he was waiting for resistance that never came, like your acceptance steadies him more than anything else could. The quiet settles again, but it feels different now, less sharp, less threatening, like something fragile has been acknowledged instead of avoided.

And then—A knock. Loud. Sudden. Jarring against everything you just built. You both flinch slightly, your head snapping toward the door as the sound comes again, sharper this time.

“Hey! Open up!”

Your stomach drops instantly. “Shit,” you breathe, already moving, already piecing it together.

“Who is that?” Eddie asks quickly, his body shifting, alert now, the ease from seconds ago gone in an instant.

“Dustin,” you say, your voice rushing as you glance toward the door, then back to him. “And—wait—”

Another voice filters through. “…and Mike and Will.”

Everything in the room shifts. Eddie stills for half a second, then moves, the motion so fast it barely registers, one moment standing in front of you and the next already at the window, pushing it open with quiet precision as the curtain flutters in the sudden rush of cool air.

“Eddie—” you start, your voice catching as you follow him with your eyes.

He glances back at you once, his expression sharper now, focused. “Act normal,” he says quietly. And then he’s gone. The absence hits just as quickly as his presence did, the window left slightly ajar, the night air slipping in as if nothing had happened at all.

Another knock rattles the door. “Seriously, open up!”

You force your breathing to steady as you move toward it, your hand lingering on the handle for half a second before you pull it open. Dustin stands there, eyes wide and alert, with Mike and Will just behind him, all three of them looking like they came here with a purpose.

“What’s going on?” you ask, keeping your tone as even as possible as you step aside to let them in.

Dustin doesn’t answer right away, already moving past you into the trailer like he’s mid-thought, like he’s been running through something in his head for a while now. “Okay, don’t freak out,” he says, which immediately makes your chest tighten, “but something weird is going on.”

Mike shuts the door behind them, glancing back at you briefly before looking at Dustin again. “The farm thing isn’t normal,” he adds quickly. “Like, at all.”

Will lingers near the doorway for a second longer, his expression more unsettled than the others, his gaze flickering around the space like he’s trying to place something he can’t quite name. “It doesn’t feel like before,” he says quietly. “But it’s still… wrong.”

Your heart is still beating a little too fast, but you keep your posture steady, your expression neutral. “…What are you saying?” you ask.

“That it might be happening again,” Dustin says, turning toward you now, his voice dropping slightly. “Like, Vecna, Upside Down, again.”

The words settle heavily in the room. Behind them, the window remains cracked open, the curtain shifting slightly with the breeze. Dustin pauses. His nose wrinkles slightly. He takes a small step forward, like he’s trying to place something.

“…Do you guys smell that?” he asks slowly.

Your entire body stills.

Mike frowns, glancing around. “Smell what?”

“Like—” Dustin gestures vaguely. “Smoke, or something.”

Will tilts his head slightly, his expression tightening. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I do.”

Your mind moves quickly, faster than your fear can catch up. You let out a small breath, shaking your head lightly as if it’s nothing, stepping casually further into the room, subtly positioning yourself between them and the window.

“It’s probably just me,” you say, your tone easy, almost dismissive. “I’ve been staying here all week, remember? Wearing his clothes and everything.” You give a small shrug, like it’s obvious. “They still smell like him.”

Dustin studies you, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he takes that in, like he’s weighing it, turning it over. “…Yeah,” he says finally, though it comes out slower than before. “Okay. That makes sense.”

But something in his expression lingers, like he’s not fully convinced. And as the conversation shifts, as they start throwing around theories and half-formed explanations, your attention drifts anyway, your focus pulling somewhere else entirely.

Toward the window. Toward the dark just beyond it. Because even though he’s gone, you can still feel him there. Waiting.

The conversation drags on longer than you can focus on, Dustin pacing, Mike throwing out theories, Will quieter than the rest, his eyes drifting every so often like he’s trying to feel something just out of reach. You nod when you’re supposed to, answer when they look at you, but your attention is already somewhere else.

The window. The slight movement of the curtain. The feeling that hasn’t left your chest since he disappeared. Eventually, they leave.

Not all at once, not dramatically, just a slow unraveling of urgency that turns into, “We’ll check the farm tomorrow,” and “Just—be careful, okay?” and Dustin lingering for a second longer than the others, like he wants to say something else but doesn’t.

The window is still open, the curtain lifting slightly with the night air, and for a moment there’s nothing there, just darkness and trees and the distant hum of insects. Your heart sinks—“Miss me already?”

You don’t even flinch this time. He’s sitting on the edge of the window frame like he never left, one leg inside, one still outside, his hands braced loosely on either side of him, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

You exhale, something soft and almost relieved escaping you. “You’re not subtle,” you say quietly.

He smirks, just a little. “Never claimed to be.”

But there’s something else there tonight. He drops down fully into the trailer, landing without a sound, straightening slowly as his eyes find you again, and the air shifts almost immediately, like something has tightened between you without either of you saying a word.

“You okay?” he asks, softer now, stepping closer.

You nod. “They think it’s Vecna again.”

His jaw ticks slightly. “Figures.”

Then your eyes flick to him, something heavier sitting behind them now. “I found something else,” you say.

He already knows where this is going. You can see it in the way his shoulders shift, in the way his gaze sharpens just slightly.

“We’re not—” he starts.

“I’m not saying we’re doing it,” you cut in quickly, stepping closer, your voice quieter now but more intense. “I’m just saying… I know how.”

That stops him. Not fully—but enough. Your heart is already starting to race again, your thoughts moving faster than your caution.

“It’s not random,” you continue, your words coming a little quicker now, like if you stop you won’t be able to say it at all. “It’s controlled. Blood, then—death, then—”

“Stop.” The word is soft, but it sticks.

“You shouldn’t even be thinking about that,” he says, quieter now, his voice losing its edge and slipping into something lower, something more dangerous in a completely different way.

“Why?” you ask, your breath catching slightly. “If I were like you, you wouldn’t have to hold back.”

His eyes snap to yours, and something flickers. Not anger, not exactly. Something deeper. “You think that fixes it?” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice dropping with each word. “You think that makes this easier?”

Your heart is pounding now, loud and fast. He hears it, clenching his jaw. “I think it means I don’t have to watch you fight yourself every time you look at me,” you whisper.

That does it. The space between you disappears. He’s in front of you in a second, one hand coming up to your jaw, not rough but firm, tilting your head just enough that you have no choice but to look at him.

“Do you have any idea what you’re asking me to do?” he asks, voice low, strained, but not pulling away this time.

Your breath stutters. “Yes.”

And you mean it. That’s what makes it worse. His gaze drops to your throat, your collarbone, the marks. Still there. Still his. His thumb brushes just beneath them, slow, deliberate, like he’s remembering exactly how they got there. Your pulse spikes.

His breath catches. You nod your head, eyes flicking between him and your neck.

That’s all it takes. He leans in, but not to kiss you. His mouth hovers just above your skin, right where your pulse is strongest, his breath cool against the warmth of you, and for a second, just a second, he doesn’t move. Like he’s deciding. Like he’s choosing.

Then, his hand tightens slightly at your jaw. And he bites. This time, it’s not hesitant. His teeth sink in deeper, sharper, a sudden flare of pain that makes your body jolt, your hands gripping onto him instantly—but it melts just as quickly into something heavier, hotter, pulling a broken sound from your throat as your knees threaten to give out.

His arm wraps around your waist before you can fall, holding you upright as he drinks, slower than before but more certain, like he’s stopped second-guessing himself, like he’s giving in just enough to take what he needs without losing control completely.

Your heartbeat is everywhere. In your ears. In your chest. In him. He groans softly against your skin, the sound low and rough, and it sends something sharp down your spine, your fingers tangling in his shirt as your body leans into him instead of away.

“Fuck—” he breathes, barely pulling back, his lips brushing over the wound before he presses in again, not as deep this time, more controlled, more measured, like he’s pacing himself.

You don’t tell him to stop. You don’t want to. Your vision blurs slightly at the edges, your body warm, heavy, your head falling lightly against his shoulder as your grip on him tightens.

After a moment, seconds, minutes, you’re not even sure, he pulls back. Breathing harder than he should be. Eyes darker than before. But still him. Still there. His thumb brushes over the bite, slower now, almost grounding, like he’s checking you, making sure you’re still with him.

“…You okay?” he asks, quieter now.

Your breath is uneven, but you nod. “Yeah,” you whisper. And you are, that’s the problem. Because now, you don’t want him to stop.

He doesn’t move right away after pulling back. His hand stays on you, steady and grounding, like he doesn’t trust what happens if he lets go too soon, his thumb brushing slowly over the fresh mark he just left behind, the motion softer now, almost absentminded, like he’s trying to remind himself that you’re still here, still breathing, still okay.

“…You okay?” he asks again, his voice quieter this time, rough around the edges in a way that doesn’t come from feeding alone.

Your breathing is uneven, but not in the way it was before, not panicked or disoriented, not slipping out of your control. Something else. Something warmer. You nod, but it comes a second too late, like your body is catching up to the answer your mind already settled on.

“Yeah,” you say softly, your voice slower than usual, a little lower, like it has to travel farther to reach him. “I’m okay.” And you are. That’s the part that feels strange.

Because you don’t pull away, don’t create distance, don’t do anything that would make this feel like something to recover from. Instead, you stay exactly where you are, your body still close to his, your forehead brushing lightly against his shoulder for a second as your fingers tighten in the fabric of his shirt, not out of weakness, but out of something steadier, something more intentional. You feel aware.

Your heartbeat is still fast, but it no longer feels chaotic, no longer something your body is struggling to control. It feels loud, purposeful, like you can feel it everywhere at once, in your throat, in your chest, in the tips of your fingers, like it’s echoing through you instead of staying contained.

Your hand lifts slowly, almost unconsciously, drifting back to your collarbone where the bite sits warm beneath your skin, your fingers brushing over it lightly as if you expect it to hurt more than it does. It doesn’t. If anything, it pulses.

“That didn’t feel like last time,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him. He stills immediately, you feel it. Not just in the way his body goes quiet, but in the way his attention sharpens, his gaze locking onto you with something that wasn’t there a second ago.

“What do you mean?” he asks, slower now, more careful.

You hesitate, trying to find the right words, your fingers still resting against your skin. “I don’t know,” you admit softly, your eyes flicking up to meet his. “It just… didn’t hurt the same.” That’s not entirely true. It did hurt. But it wasn’t the part that stayed with you.

Your hand drops back down slowly, your fingers brushing against his shirt again without really thinking about it, grounding yourself in him instead of pulling away.

“I feel fine,” you add, quieter now, but certain. “Better than fine, actually.”

That’s what makes his expression change. Not dramatically, not all at once, but enough. Something sharper underneath both. “You shouldn’t,” he says, almost under his breath, like the words slip out before he can stop them.

Your brows knit slightly. “Why not?” you ask, stepping just a little closer, not enough to overwhelm him, just enough to close the space he created when he pulled back.

His eyes flick down again. Your throat. The mark. Then back up.

“Because that’s not how this is supposed to go,” he says quietly, though there’s less certainty in it now than there was before. “You’re supposed to feel it. The drop. The weakness. Not—” he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “Not like this.”

You tilt your head slightly, watching him, something softer creeping into your expression, something that almost looks like understanding. “Maybe I’m just different,” you say lightly.

He huffs out a quiet breath, shaking his head, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s not—” he starts, then stops, like he doesn’t have an answer he trusts.

You step closer again. This time, he doesn’t move. Your hand lifts slowly, deliberate now, resting lightly against his chest again, right where you can feel the absence of a heartbeat beneath your palm, something that should feel wrong but doesn’t, not anymore.

“You don’t have to hold back with me,” you say, your voice soft but steady, your eyes locked onto his.

Something in him tightens instantly. “You’re not supposed to want that,” he murmurs, his voice lower now, rougher, like he’s fighting the pull of something he doesn’t fully understand.

Your fingers curl slightly into his shirt. “I want you,” you answer.

And that’s what makes it dangerous. The air between you shifts again, heavier now, charged in a way that feels different from before, less frantic, more intentional, like something is settling into place instead of breaking apart. His gaze lingers on you longer this time, searching, conflicted, but not pulling away. Not saying no.

After everything settles, after the tension ebbs into something softer, something heavier and more fragile, the two of you don’t say much. The TV keeps playing in the background, some late-night rerun neither of you is watching anymore, the low glow casting shadows across the trailer as the night stretches on around you.

At some point, you both drift toward his room without really deciding to. It feels natural. Familiar. Like muscle memory, and your body hasn’t forgotten. The bed dips slightly as you sit, then shift, then settle, the space still carrying that faint, lingering trace of him that you’ve been clinging to all week, except now he’s actually there, close enough to touch, close enough to feel.He hesitates for a second before lying down beside you. Not too far, but not close enough to overwhelm.

The quiet between you isn’t uncomfortable, just full, like there are too many things sitting underneath it to sort through right now. Your fingers drift absently over the blanket, your mind still caught somewhere between what just happened and what it means.

“You should sleep,” he says after a while, his voice softer now, worn down in a way that feels more human than anything else tonight.

You let out a small breath. “You don’t?”

“Don’t need to,” he corrects lightly.

You turn your head slightly toward him, your voice quieter. “You can still stay.”

He pauses, like he’s really thinking about it. Then, “…Yeah."

Not touching at first, just lying there beside you, the space between you small but intentional, like he’s still trying to hold some kind of line even now. But sleep comes quicker than you expect, your body heavier than it should be, your thoughts slipping under before you can follow them all the way through.

The last thing you feel is the faint shift of him beside you. Closer.

When you wake up, the room is empty. The space beside you is cold. You don’t panic, not this time. There’s no jolt, no sharp inhale, no frantic search of the room like he might still be hiding somewhere just out of sight. Instead, you just lie there for a second, staring at the ceiling, your fingers drifting slowly across the sheets until they find the place he had been.

You sit up slowly, your body still feeling off. Not weak. Not sick. Just different. Your hand lifts almost immediately to your collarbone, brushing lightly over the marks, expecting them to feel worse in the morning.

They don’t. If anything, they feel… settled. Like your body has already accepted them. Your brows pull together slightly at that, your thumb pressing there again, testing it, but there’s no sharp pain, no lingering soreness that matches what should be there.

“That’s not…” You murmur under your breath, trailing off. Your stomach twists. You already know where you’re going.

The library is quieter than yesterday. Or maybe it just feels that way. You move faster this time, more focused, more intentional, heading straight for the same section without hesitation, pulling the same books, plus a few more, stacking them in front of you like you’re building something out of answers you haven’t found yet.

You flip through pages quickly at first, scanning, searching, your fingers moving faster than your thoughts can organize. Vampires. Feeding. Transformation. Bonding. Your eyes catch on a section you didn’t notice before.

You slow, reading more carefully this time.

“In certain traditions, a vampire’s bite is not solely predatory, but also manipulative. The saliva introduced during feeding may contain compounds—supernatural or otherwise—that dull pain and heighten emotional response, often resulting in increased attachment, euphoria, or compliance in the victim.”

Your breath stills. You read it again, slower. Dull pain. Heightened emotional response. Attachment.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the page. “…Okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than anything else. That explains it. The way it felt was different. The way you didn’t pull away. The way you didn’t want to.

You flip the page.

“Repeated exposure may intensify these effects, reinforcing emotional bonds between vampire and human subject. In some cases, individuals may begin to seek out the bite voluntarily.”

Your chest tightens. Your mind flashes back: the way you stepped closer, the way you said you didn’t care, the way you told him not to hold back.

Your hand lifts again, brushing over your collarbone, slower this time. Intentional. “…That’s not me,” you murmur, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to you. Another line catches your eye.

“Despite these effects, the subject remains fully human unless transformation is completed through ritualistic means. Emotional influence should not be mistaken for physical conversion.”

You exhale slowly and steadily. So you’re not turning. But something is happening. Something that makes it easier to say yes. Easier to want more. Your gaze lingers on the page a second longer before you close the book, your fingers resting on the cover as your thoughts settle into something quieter, something more dangerous.

i hope you all enjoyed! be on the lookout, Petals 3 will be out soon. as always, thank you for the love and support. till the next one <3

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