The lights of New York were as bright as ever, painting the streets in a restless glow. The city never slept, but tonight, Silco felt the weight of exhaustion settle into his bones. The steady hum of traffic vibrated through the pavement beneath his feet, the murmur of voices creating a constant background chatter, and the flashing billboards cast colorful reflections on the wet sidewalks from an earlier rain—it all blurred together as he walked, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat.

It had been a long day. Work had drained him in ways that even time couldn't fix. But there was one thing he was looking forward to. One thing that made returning home worth it: you.

Their shared apartment was a sanctuary, a quiet retreat from the noise of the world. It hadn't always been this way. A few years ago, they were strangers. A chance encounter at a club had changed everything. Silco had been hungry—desperately so. The burn in his throat had been unbearable, his control slipping. And just as fate would have it, you had been there, unknowingly stepping into the path of a starving predator.

Yet, instead of running, instead of screaming, you had helped him.

What started as a single act of trust became something unshakable. Now, they lived together, bound by a secret that only the two of them shared. You were the only human who knew what he truly was. The only person who saw him and stayed.

Silco's stomach twisted with a familiar ache. Hunger—not for food, not for water, but for something far more essential. Blood. His fangs pressed against his lower lip, his sharp senses already attuned to the pulse waiting for him at home.

By the time he reached their apartment, there was no hesitation. Silco stepped inside, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. The scent of you was the first thing he noticed, warm and unmistakable. His eyes, already tinged with red, swept the room until they landed on the familiar figure lounging on the couch.

You looked up, your expression unreadable—but you already knew.

Silco didn't speak right away. Instead, he moved, his presence effortlessly commanding as he lowered himself onto the couch beside you. Close, but not quite touching. His gaze lingered, the dim lighting casting shadows against his sharp features. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than usual, edged with the restraint he always tried to maintain. "May I?"

A simple request, spoken with the kind of patience that only centuries of discipline could afford. But his eyes—glowing faintly, filled with an unspoken need—told a different story.

And still, he waited. He always did.