Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning broke soft and golden over the edge of the forest, filtering sunlight in thin, syrupy beams through the thick boughs of pine and elder trees. Dew clung to the leaves like silver pearls, and the air carried the fresh, quiet chill of dawn—clean and earthy, tinged faintly with wildflowers and moss.

At the forest’s hem, where tree roots gave way to wild grass and meandering cobblestone, sat a crooked little cottage that looked like it had grown from the land itself. Its moss-covered roof was scalloped in thick green patches, and flowering vines curled lovingly around its stone walls, their blossoms open and reaching as if in worship of the sun. Smoke drifted lazily from the chimney, curling like a cat's tail against the pale blue sky.

Inside, Poppy hummed to herself.

Her voice was soft and lilting, no real song — just sound, something ancient and sweet that curled through the rafters and wrapped around the beams like ivy. The kettle hissed over a small hearth fire, fragrant steam rising from a pot filled with steeping calendula, rosemary, and chamomile. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the ceiling, swaying gently with the draft that rolled through the cracked windowpanes.

She moved with ease, barefoot as always, her feet nearly silent against the worn wooden floor. Her pink curls were pulled into a loose braid over her shoulder, the ends tangled with dried lavender and tiny bell-shaped flowers that seemed to shimmer when they caught the light just right. She wore a simple, moss-colored dress cinched with a belt made of woven twine and leaves. Her hands were stained with green and gold from the morning’s harvest, nails darkened with crushed plant matter.

Kneeling beside a long wooden table, she crushed a handful of feverfew petals into a smooth paste with a mortar and pestle. Her movements were steady, practiced — not mechanical, but mindful. Each press and turn of the stone felt like a conversation with the plant. A communion.

“Just a touch more comfrey,” she murmured to herself, reaching for a jar filled with dried leaves.

The cottage around her was alive with sound — birdsong drifting through the open windows, the gentle rustle of leaves, the creaking of beams, the occasional clink of glass bottles. But it was the silence between those sounds that made up the rhythm of her mornings. A soft, contented quiet. The kind that often felt like loneliness if she thought about it too long.

She didn’t.

Instead, she dipped her finger into the salve, tested its texture, and gave a quiet little nod of approval. “That should ease the swelling,” she said, more to the room than herself. Her voice was always a little musical, even when she wasn’t trying to be.

A knock at the door interrupted the stillness.

She didn’t flinch — she rarely did. But the song in her throat stilled as she stood and wiped her hands on a cloth, crossing the room.

She opened the door.

A young boy stood there, no older than ten. Freckled, anxious. Holding his arm awkwardly against his chest.

“Miss Poppy,” he said, barely meeting her eyes. “Ma says I twisted my wrist.”

Poppy offered him a smile — gentle, warm, though tinged with something quieter. “Come in, sweetheart.”

He hesitated. They always did.

But he stepped across the threshold, careful not to look too long at her ears, or her hair, or the way her eyes shimmered faintly when the light caught them. Her beauty wasn’t something she wore — it was something that happened to her. A truth she couldn’t undo. That made it more dangerous somehow, especially to those who didn’t understand.

Poppy led the boy inside, her hand lightly resting on his uninjured shoulder. He smelled of hay and soot, of wood smoke and childhood, and his feet were muddy to the knees. She didn’t mind. The floor was already spattered with earth and herb dust, and she liked the honesty of dirt. It didn’t lie the way people did.

“Sit here,” she said, motioning to a small cushioned bench near the hearth. “Let me see.”

The boy sat stiffly, careful not to touch anything, his wide eyes flicking over the hanging herbs like he was expecting one to leap from the rafters and bite him.

Poppy knelt before him, delicate fingers moving with featherlight care as she cradled his wrist. It was slightly swollen, flushed, but not broken.

“It’s just a sprain,” she murmured, more to soothe than to explain. “You’ll be just fine.”

She released him only to move across the room, her steps light, unhurried. She retrieved a small ceramic pot of the balm she’d finished minutes earlier, a strip of linen, and a jar filled with dried willow bark.

Behind her, the boy watched her every move like a bird ready to take flight.

“How did it happen?” she asked gently as she returned, dabbing her fingers into the salve.

“I fell,” he said quickly.

Poppy glanced up at him. “From a tree?”

He flushed.

“I told Ma I could climb it better than my brother,” he admitted, mumbling into his shirt. “I couldn’t.”

Poppy smiled, warm and private. “That sounds like bravery to me.”

He blinked. “It does?”

“Trying something hard, even when you're not sure you’ll succeed? That’s one kind of bravery.” Her fingers gently applied the balm, working it into the tender skin with small, practiced motions.

He stared at her — truly stared now, like he was seeing her for the first time. Not the pointed ears or the glow beneath her skin. Just her.

She didn’t meet his gaze. She rarely did anymore.

“I’ll grind some willow bark for you to take home,” she said instead, wrapping his wrist in the clean linen. “Tell your Ma to steep a pinch in hot water and have you drink it twice a day. It’ll help with the ache.”

He nodded. “Thank you, Miss Poppy.”

She smiled again. “You’re welcome, darling.”

He stood. For a moment, it looked like he wanted to say more — to ask a question, maybe, or offer something in return. But then the moment passed, and he only dipped his head and hurried toward the door.

“Be careful next time,” she called after him gently.

“I will,” he said without looking back.

The door shut softly behind him, and the cottage fell still once more.

Poppy stood there, hands still tinged with balm, staring at the door long after the boy had disappeared down the path. The silence now felt different. Heavier. Not lonely, exactly — she was long past calling it that.

Set apart. Always a little too much.

Too long-lived. Too beautiful. Too strange.

She remembered how his mother looked at her the last time she visited — eyes sharp and searching, like Poppy might twist her son into a toad if she weren’t careful. And yet, they always came. Always brought their sick and wounded and fevered. They needed her.

But they never stayed long.

Poppy turned back to her worktable, wiping her hands on a clean cloth. A strand of pink hair had fallen loose from her braid, curling along her cheek. She tucked it behind one pointed ear and glanced around the cottage.

There were no mirrors in her home. She hadn’t had one in centuries.

She didn’t need to see her reflection to know what it looked like — the bloom-petal skin, the luminous eyes, the sharp, delicate ears. People called her blessed when they were desperate, witch when they were afraid, and fae when they didn’t know what else to call her.

She supposed they were all right in their own ways.

She touched the place over her heart, feeling the thrum of her magic underneath her skin. It was gentle today, warm and steady, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. It always pulsed a little stronger after she’d helped someone. Healing made it sing.

Still, even that song had a lonely rhythm to it.

She moved to the small window that overlooked the trees. The forest stretched out like a green ocean beyond her garden, vast and quiet and full of secrets.

Something tugged at the edge of her senses.

Not danger.

Just… change.

The kind that comes on slow winds and begins with small things — a shadow in the trees, a ripple through the roots, the faintest pull in her bones.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. Her magic shivered beneath her skin.

Something was coming.

—

The knock came not long after the boy had gone, firm and rhythmic — three short raps, two quick ones, and a final thump that rattled the door on its hinges.

Poppy didn’t even flinch. She smiled.

Only one person knocked like that.

She walked over, brushing a bit of dried balm from her palms and unlatched the door.

“Morning, Smidge.”

Smidge practically burst through the doorway, brown boots thudding solidly against the wood floor. She was short — not just short, but tiny , barely over four feet tall — yet carried herself with the confidence of a towering knight. Her arms were muscled and bare beneath the rolled sleeves of her linen shirt, her chestnut hair tied back in a no-nonsense braid that whipped behind her as she moved.

She dropped a cloth-wrapped bundle on the table without ceremony and flopped into the nearest chair like she owned the place.

“I brought you the good bread,” she said, kicking her boots up onto the bench. “From that bakery two towns over. Don’t ask how I got it — just know it involved a flirtatious merchant and a questionable number of flexed biceps.”

Poppy laughed softly, closing the door behind her. “Did you flex your biceps or his ?”

“Mine, obviously. I practically lifted his cart.”

Poppy moved to the hearth, pouring two cups of steeped tea. “Remind me to send him a thank-you balm for his bruised ego.”

Smidge snorted. “Please do.”

She accepted the cup of tea with both hands, sniffed it, and blew on it like she had all the time in the world. Her energy was fire and stone — fast-moving, grounded, delightfully unbothered. She took a sip, then leaned forward suddenly, her whole body humming with anticipation.

“Okay. So. Listen. You know Milton?”

Poppy raised a brow over the rim of her cup. “The vampire who always wears gloves and quotes sad poetry at inappropriate moments?”

“Yes, that Milton,” Smidge said dreamily, setting her tea down with a clunk. “He requested me again last night.”

Poppy blinked. “Again?”

“Fourth time in two weeks.” Smidge practically vibrated in her seat. “And this time he brought me flowers . Actual, real flowers. Well, they were a little wilted — probably stolen from some rich guy’s windowsill — but still . That’s not nothing.”

Poppy couldn’t help the smile that tugged at her lips. “Are you sure he’s not just partial to your blood type?”

“Oh, hush,” Smidge waved her hand. “You know it’s more than that. He was gentle , Poppy. Like, asked before touching me. Warmed his hands first. Didn’t even go for the neck this time. Went for the wrist — soft as a sigh. I swear, I almost swooned. Like a maiden in a gothic romance.”

Poppy let out a soft chuckle and shook her head. “Smidge, you could bench-press Milton and everyone he’s ever fed on.”

“I know,” Smidge sighed dramatically. “Isn’t it tragic? He’s so delicate, and I’m over here like a brick house with legs.”

“You’re not a brick house,” Poppy said with quiet affection. “You’re… dependable. Strong. You anchor people.”

Smidge gave her a look. “Poppy. That’s code for sturdy like a tree trunk and we both know it.”

“You are my favorite tree trunk,” Poppy deadpanned.

Smidge burst into laughter.

It was moments like these Poppy cherished — where there was no fear, no careful half-glances, no whispers when she turned her back. Just warmth. Just a friend.

“You really like him,” Poppy said softly.

Smidge shrugged, but her grin betrayed her. “I mean, yeah. I like him. He’s… I don’t know. Sad and soft and poetic. Makes me feel like I could wrap him in a blanket and carry him around in my pocket. Also, have you seen his cheekbones?”

“I have ,” Poppy said, sipping her tea. “They could cut glass.”

“Right? I mean. I’m just saying. If he wants to whisper more tragic sonnets to me while sipping gently at my wrist, I’m not complaining.”

Poppy laughed again, light and real.

But even in the joy, something tugged at her chest — a quiet ache that lingered beneath the surface.

Smidge caught it. She always did.

“You okay?” she asked, voice softer now.

Poppy nodded, but it wasn’t convincing. “It’s just… strange, sometimes. You can give people everything — healing, safety, kindness — and still they flinch when you reach out.”

Smidge’s gaze settled on her, steady and strong.

“They don’t know you,” she said. “They only know what they fear. That’s not your fault.”

“I know,” Poppy whispered.

“But it still hurts,” Smidge finished.

Poppy met her eyes. “Yeah. It does.”

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping tea. The window behind them let in a shaft of sunlight, warming the wooden floor. The scent of rosemary and smoke curled through the air.

Smidge leaned back with a sigh. “Well. Maybe one day Milton and I will run away together and raise goats in the mountains. You can come live in a yurt next door and make potions out of snow lilies.”

Poppy smiled faintly. “Sounds peaceful.”

“Peaceful and hot,” Smidge added with a wink. “I bet Milton looks great in wool.”

Smidge drained the last of her tea and set the empty cup down with a satisfied sigh, stretching her arms behind her head like a cat in the sun.

“You know,” she said, watching the light flicker against the herbal jars lining the wall, “this place always smells like a dream. Like the woods after it rains. And… lemon balm?”

“Among other things,” Poppy replied, lips twitching in amusement.

Smidge grinned. “Bet Milton’s place smells like dusty books and regret. ”

Poppy burst into laughter again — honest, breathy, bright.

“You’re going to tease him into a flustered mess one of these days,” she said, rising to carry their cups to the washbasin.

“Ugh, I wish. He flusters so prettily. ”

Smidge stood too, brushing imaginary dirt from her pants, then gave Poppy a sidelong glance. “You sure you’re okay, though? Really?”

Poppy paused for a heartbeat.

“I am. Especially after seeing you.”

Smidge’s expression softened, sincere and open in a way that was rare around Poppy — most humans either worshipped or avoided her, but Smidge simply… saw her.

“You’re not alone, Poppy,” she said, tone low and grounding. “Not really. Not with me around.”

“I know,” Poppy murmured. “And I’m grateful. More than I say.”

Smidge reached up to squeeze her arm — a quick, firm squeeze that somehow said everything. Then she turned toward the door, pulling her cloak from a peg and slinging it over her shoulder in one fluid motion.

“I’ve got feeding duty again tomorrow,” she said. “If Milton asks for me again, I’ll be insufferable. Prepare yourself.”

“I look forward to it,” Poppy said with a small laugh.

“Good. Keep the bread safe,” Smidge added, pointing dramatically. “And don’t let the squirrels in again.”

“No promises.”

The door swung open, letting in the afternoon breeze — cool and scented faintly with pine. Smidge stepped out into the sunlight and down the path toward the village, whistling a jaunty, off-key tune that faded gradually into the trees.

And then the cottage was quiet again.

Not silent — not ever — but quiet.

The wind shifted.

Poppy turned slowly toward the open window. The herbs hanging in the rafters swayed gently, and the vines creeping along the outside walls rustled like fingers brushing a curtain. Her skin prickled.

She moved closer to the window, drawn by a feeling she couldn’t name — not fear, but awareness . Like something had turned its eyes toward her from deep within the forest.

The trees stood still, and yet… she could feel them shifting. Murmuring. Like breath held in the lungs of the world.

Something stirred in the magic beneath her feet. A thread of earth and energy and root, pulling gently at her bones.

She pressed her palm to the windowsill, grounding herself.

The forest was speaking to her.

Not in words, not exactly. But in sensation.

A wrongness, subtle but sharp. Like a note out of tune. Like a wounded thing in the underbrush — not crying out, but bleeding.

Come.

That was the feeling. Not a command. A call.

She closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, listening deeper.

For centuries, the forest had whispered to her — soft, playful, familiar. But this was different. This was urgent.

Something unnatural had brushed against the heart of the wild.

Poppy opened her eyes.

Outside, the sun had dipped slightly, casting the trees in long slashes of shadow. The path leading into the woods looked darker than usual — but it didn’t frighten her.

Her hands moved on instinct — gathering her satchel, slipping a vial of healing balm into its pouch, tucking a sprig of protective sage behind her ear. She moved like someone returning to a place she’d left only moments ago. She didn’t even stop to ask why.

She just knew.

Something was waiting for her in the trees.

And it needed her.

Chapter Text

The earth was cold beneath him, but he barely felt it anymore.

He lay still among the roots and fallen leaves, limbs slack, eyes half-lidded, staring up at the tree canopy as if it might collapse and bury him. His back pressed into the damp forest floor, but even the rot and chill and hunger had begun to feel distant. Like it was happening to someone else. A ghost of a ghost.

His body had long passed the point of protest. It didn’t shiver. It didn’t burn. It just… existed. Hollow. A corpse waiting for the final breath to be spent.

Good, he thought vaguely.

The hunger had stopped screaming. Now it whispered. A constant hum just beneath his ribs, dull and persistent like an old wound. There was no pain anymore. Just the ache of guilt.

He welcomed it.

This is what I deserve.

His mouth was dry, lips cracked, and there was blood under his fingernails — his blood, from where he’d dug his claws into his own palms days ago, trying to stop the urge when it came.

It always came.

Even now, near death, the scent of animals passing nearby made his instincts twitch, a buried reflex. But he didn’t move. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t risk it.

Not again.

The memory rose like bile — a flash of wide eyes, a scream, a heartbeat racing faster than he could stop it. Her name was—

He couldn’t say it.

His breath hitched. It sounded too much like a sob, but no tears came. Vampires didn't cry easily. Not even when they wanted to.

“Please,” he whispered, throat raw from disuse. “Let it end.”

He hadn’t fed in weeks. Not since he left the city. Not since he fled the Enclave, the volunteers, the safehouses, the synthetic blood.

Not since her .

He hadn’t killed her. He didn’t think he had. She’d survived — maybe. He remembered backing away, remembered running. But the moment played again and again in his mind, warped and fanged and red.

He’d nearly lost control.

That was enough.

He didn’t deserve to be alive.

Not when the monster was always there, just beneath the surface. Not when even one moment of weakness could end in death.

You’re better off dead.

The thought came again, as it always did. It didn’t hurt anymore. It just… echoed.

His eyes fluttered closed.

Darkness wrapped around him like a blanket. Cool. Quiet. Peaceful.

And then —

Light.

Not sun. Not fire.

Something softer.

He felt it before he saw it — a warmth against the edges of his fading consciousness. The scent of crushed herbs and something floral — lilac? no, heather — brushing against his skin like a memory.

His eyes cracked open.

She stood at the edge of the clearing.

A girl. No — a woman. Pink curls glowing like firelight, skin bathed in moonbeam shimmer, eyes that looked both impossibly young and impossibly ancient. She moved like water and wind and something older than time. Barefoot, silent, haloed by green-gold light that shimmered where she passed.

He blinked, dazed, sure he was hallucinating.

An angel?

Was he dead?

She was looking at him — seeing him — and yet she didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.

Her brows furrowed in gentle concern.

She stepped closer.

“Don’t,” he rasped. His voice cracked like dry branches. “Don’t come near me.”

But she didn’t stop.

“I’m not safe,” he hissed, forcing his head up, his body to shift. A mistake. Pain lanced through his stomach like a blade, and the world tilted sharply.

He collapsed back with a grunt, panting, shaking.

She knelt beside him — close enough now that her scent filled his lungs. Earth. Honey. Rain on stone.

Her fingers brushed his brow, cool and soft.

“I know what you are,” she said quietly.

He stared up at her, stunned.

“And I’m not afraid.”

—

She found him in a hollow of the forest — not far from the old creek bed where the moss grew thick and the ferns curled like sleeping fingers. The trees here stood tall and silent, as if they too were holding their breath.

She felt him before she saw him — a wound in the earth’s magic, a tear in the natural rhythm of things. The forest had pulled her here, like a heartbeat skipping out of sync, and now she understood why.

He was a shadow at first — a slumped figure half-buried in leaves, unmoving, nearly indistinguishable from the forest floor. But then the light shifted, and she saw the wrongness in the stillness. Not of threat, but of someone no longer trying to live.

She approached slowly, carefully.

And then he turned his face toward her — and she stopped breathing.

Even ravaged by hunger, he was striking. Unnaturally so. His skin, pallid and tight against sharp cheekbones. Thick black hair, tousled with dirt and dried blood. Lips cracked. His throat long and elegant, marred by bruises and restraint. And those eyes —crystal blue, glowing faintly like frozen fire in the gloom.

A vampire. Unmistakably.

But not like the others she had known.

There was something hollow in him. Something shattered. Like a temple torn down by its own gods.

He looked at her as if he had already decided she wasn’t real.

She knelt slowly, the hem of her dress brushing against the damp soil. Her magic stirred beneath her skin — not in defense, but in mourning.

This was not a predator.

This was something broken.

And beautiful.

And barely holding on.

“Don’t,” he rasped. “Don’t come near me.”

His voice was a threadbare thing, cracked and sharp. But it didn’t frighten her. He was trying to scare her away.

He was protecting her.

“I’m not safe,” he growled.

“I know,” she said softly, her voice a balm unto itself. “I know what you are.”

Their eyes locked.

“And I’m not afraid.”

She reached out and placed her fingers against his forehead. His skin was cold, too cold, and trembling under her touch. But he didn’t flinch.

Not from her.

Her heart ached at the feel of him — the pain in his body, the despair woven through his magic like rot.

Whatever he was… whatever he had done…

He did not want to be this way.

And that was enough.

Poppy moved slowly, intentionally — not out of fear, but so he could see her, choose her.

Too many people moved carefully around predators. She moved carefully around wounded things.

The man before her was both.

He looked like death incarnate — or the moment just before it. Gaunt, trembling, skin like parchment stretched thin over bone. His body was draped in shadows and dried blood, his scent thick with decay and wildness and something feral just under the surface. But his eyes… his eyes still held awareness. Terror. Self-hate. Pleas he didn’t voice.

She knelt beside him again, gently lifting his hand. The skin was chilled and rigid, his fingers twitching faintly at the contact.

“You need blood,” she said softly.

“No—” His voice was a scrape of sandpaper, and he tried to pull away, weakly. “Don’t. Don’t offer me that. I’ll take too much. I always do.”

“I’ll stop you if you do,” she replied simply.

He looked at her like she’d just spoken a language he didn’t know.

“You don’t understand what I am.”

“I do,” she said. “I felt you before I ever saw you.”

His eyes narrowed, sharp and suspicious. “What does that mean?”

Instead of answering, Poppy turned her gaze to the forest surrounding them. Her voice dropped to a whisper — not meant for him, but for the trees.

“Watch me.”

She reached her hand into the soil beside her, fingers sliding gently beneath the top layer of leaves and root. The moment her skin touched earth, the forest responded.

Vines from nearby trees curled forward in slow, deliberate motion. A branch overhead creaked as small blue blossoms bloomed along it — out of season, impossible. A soft wind rolled through the glade, carrying with it the scent of her magic — warm, deep, and alive.

The light shifted — just slightly. A shimmer settled over her skin.

She was no ordinary healer. No village hedgewitch or wandering apothecary.

She was made of something older. Wilder. Earth-born and moon-kissed.

She was power in bloom.

When she turned her head again to look at him, the vines near her hand followed her gaze — watching.

“I don’t offer lightly,” she said, voice low and steady. “But I do offer. And I will not be taken from. If you lose control, the forest will stop you. I will stop you.”

She wasn’t smiling.

But her eyes were full of something even more dangerous.

Compassion.

—

She was mad.

That was the only explanation.

Or perhaps he was hallucinating — brain rotted from starvation, mind spinning delusions of glowing women who touched the earth and made flowers bloom in winter.

But the vines… they had moved.

The blossoms had opened.

He’d seen it.

Even his dulled instincts stirred at the realization — a whisper of reverence, of predator recognizing power.

She wasn’t human. Not entirely.

“What are you?” he rasped, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.

She didn’t answer.

Just looked at him like he was some fallen bird she’d found on the roadside — not pitiable , but worth saving.

He hated that.

He hated her calm. Her softness. Her light .

He hated that she wasn’t afraid.

“You should be,” he whispered. “Afraid.”

Her brow furrowed — not in fear, but sadness.

“No,” she said. “I don’t think I should.”

And that — that broke something in him.

Because he couldn’t scare her. Couldn’t shake her. Couldn’t warn her off no matter how broken and bloodless he looked.

And worse…

Some part of him didn’t want to anymore.

—

His lips were chapped. His skin deathly pale. And yet when he looked at her — really looked — there was a storm in those eyes. Guilt and hunger, yes, but something deeper. Something frantic.

She didn’t look away.

Instead, she shifted, drawing her skirt aside, and leaned in just enough to expose the inside of her wrist.

The moment she did, she felt her magic rise. Not as a shield — but as a thread, a connection already sparking to life. It pulsed beneath her skin, just beneath the surface — warm and waiting.

She exhaled slowly.

Then extended her arm.

“Drink.”

His breath caught. She saw the war in his face — every instinct that told him no, don’t, you’ll hurt her —raging against the deeper, darker one screaming take it.

Still, he hesitated.

So she reached out and placed her fingers beneath his jaw — guiding him, gently, to her wrist.

“I trust you.”

She felt him flinch.

Then, slowly… he sank his fangs in.

The pain was sharp — a bright sting, clean and sudden — but it passed in a blink, swept away by the rush of something else.

Pleasure.

Warmth.

A deep, thrumming ache that wasn’t pain at all, but something primal and necessary — like the moment just before a kiss, or the first breath after holding it for too long. Her lips parted on a quiet gasp. Magic bloomed beneath her skin, curling around her like smoke and fire and bloom.

Her free hand braced against the mossy ground. Her head tipped back.

And in her chest, something shifted.

Not broken. Not shattered.

But opened.

And it felt like… fate.

—

Her blood hit his tongue like sunlight.

Not heat — not fire — but warmth the way he barely remembered it. Golden and alive and whole. It wasn’t just the taste — though gods, it was sweet , not like sugar, but like something that belonged inside him. Like he'd been starved of this particular light his whole life.

It burned away the ache in his bones, the rot in his soul, the poison of guilt that had choked him for weeks. His fingers curled against her wrist, not from greed but need —a need so deep it bordered on grief.

And the pleasure…

It was overwhelming.

Blood had always been sustenance. Sometimes a rush. Often a sin.

But this…

This was ecstasy.

He felt her magic moving into him — not just as flavor or texture, but as presence. It wrapped around his senses, filled the empty spaces inside him. Her heartbeat echoed in his ears like music. Her breath, soft and uneven, drove him mad in ways he didn’t know he could still feel.

And gods, the sound she made — that small, involuntary gasp when he bit down — it nearly undid him.

No one had ever given themselves to him like this.

Freely.

Without fear.

He wanted to stop — meant to stop — but her hand was still at his jaw, fingers curled lightly there, holding him in place.

She wasn’t afraid.

She was offering.

And he… he was falling.

—

She felt him feeding not as a taking, but as a joining.

Her magic had never behaved like this before — not even with other supernatural beings. It welcomed him. Poured into him. Not resisting, not defending — but meeting his hunger with healing.

She could feel his body warming.

His soul clawing its way back to life.

A flush had crept into his cheeks. His breathing, shallow before, deepened. One of his hands trembled where it gripped her arm. She could feel it — the part of him that hated this. That hated himself.

And so she opened herself further.

Let the magic soothe him. Let the pleasure carry her past the pain.

When his tongue brushed against her skin, slow and reverent — like he realized what she was giving — a moan escaped her lips, soft and unbidden.

Not lustful. Not yet. Although she was definitely aware that it could get to that point. 

But intimate.

Sacred.

—

He didn’t deserve this.

Didn’t deserve the taste of her blood, the warmth of her magic, the way her body leaned into his — not to give more, but because she wanted to.

She wanted him alive.

Even though she shouldn’t.

Even though she didn’t know what he was — what he’d done.

And it terrified him.

But he couldn’t let go.

Not yet.

—

His mouth moved over her wrist with a reverence she hadn’t expected.

Not greed. Not mindless hunger.

Something closer to worship.

Each draw of blood sent a new wave of warmth spiraling outward from the bite — a pulsing, honey-sweet sensation that spread through her limbs like liquid gold. It should have made her light-headed, but instead it made her feel… full . Rooted.

Connected.

She let out another quiet sound — half sigh, half shiver — as his hand gripped her arm a little tighter. Not to restrain her. Just to stay anchored. Like he might drift away if he let go.

She watched the color return to his skin — soft flush blooming at his cheeks, the trembling in his limbs easing bit by bit. His body, once stiff and starved, was beginning to loosen. To live.

The moment sharpened around them like glass catching light.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Let him take what he needed.

—

It was too much.

Too good.

Her blood filled him with light — not fire, but warmth. Comfort. Grace. He hadn’t felt that in decades. Centuries, maybe.

And the pleasure…

It wasn’t just his. He could feel her enjoying it — not in a detached, martyrdom kind of way, but in a way that terrified him. Like she wanted this. Him.

It made his throat tighten. His stomach twist.

He’d fed hundreds of times before. From strangers. From volunteers. From people who looked at him with fear they tried to disguise as consent.

But this was different.

This was…

Real.

He couldn’t stand it.

With a strangled breath, he pulled back.

“No—enough,” he gasped, breaking the connection. His mouth was slick with her blood. His chest heaved as he stared at her wrist, still bleeding in small, glistening drops.

Panic clenched his insides.

He moved forward again, almost clumsily, catching her arm.

“I— I have to seal it,” he muttered, shame thick in his voice.

Then, reverently, he leaned in and pressed his tongue to the wound — slow, gentle strokes. The magic in her blood responded immediately, knit itself together beneath his touch. Her pulse fluttered beneath his lips. The bleeding stopped.

And still, he lingered for half a heartbeat more than he needed to.

When he pulled away, he couldn’t look at her.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, though it did little good.

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, the words brittle and unfamiliar. “I… I don’t deserve it. But thank you.”

He hated the sound of his own voice — hollow and small.

She was watching him, still kneeling. Still steady. Her wrist cradled loosely in her lap, bloodless now but tingling with memory.

“You’re welcome,” she said, simply.

Then, after a breath:

“Now get up.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Get up,” she repeated, standing gracefully. “We’re going back to my cottage. You need more than blood. You’re still on the edge.”

“I don’t need—”

“You do,” she said, firm and final. “You need rest. Healing. Safety. You can barely stand.”

She offered him her hand.

And that was when something in him snapped again — not from anger, but from that overwhelming swell of everything he didn’t know how to hold.

Guilt.

Shame.

Confusion.

And something dangerously close to hope.

He shook his head.

“No,” he whispered. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Chapter Text

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. He forced himself to sit up straighter, jaw tight. “I’m not going with you.”

Poppy didn’t flinch.

She just tilted her head, the soft pink of her hair glowing faintly in the fading light, arms folding slowly across her chest.

“And why not?” she asked.

He scoffed. “You know why. I fed. I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” she said evenly. “You’re breathing like your body forgot how to do it. Your aura’s flickering like a half-dead candle. And your eyes haven’t stopped shaking since I touched you.”

“I didn’t ask you to touch me,” he snapped.

“No,” she agreed. “But you needed it.”

Her voice wasn’t smug. It was maddeningly calm. Understanding. As if she could see every broken thing in him and still didn’t back away.

He clenched his fists. “You don’t even know me.”

“Not yet.”

That stopped him.

She said it so simply, like it wasn’t terrifying.

Like the idea of knowing him —the real him—didn’t make her want to run.

He looked away, jaw flexing. The forest blurred at the edges of his vision. He didn’t want to feel this — the pull toward her, the safety in her voice, the unbearable warmth of her blood still singing through his body.

He’d come to this forest to die.

Not to be saved.

And yet…

I’m still here.

The thought crept in, uninvited. Sticky and aching.

Still here. Still breathing.

And she was still looking at him like that.

“I don’t want your help,” he muttered.

“I don’t care.”

His head whipped back around. “Excuse me?”

“I said I don’t care,” she repeated, shrugging. “You needed help. I gave it. That doesn’t mean I’m waiting around for you to like me for it.”

He stared at her, stunned into silence.

Gods, she was infuriating.

And... right.

He opened his mouth to argue again — and the world tilted.

Just a little.

A flicker.

His hands hit the ground to brace himself, but it wasn’t his body failing — not anymore. It was his mind. His soul. The weight of everything he’d been holding back came crashing down at once: the guilt, the grief, the isolation, the shame.

It hit him like a wave.

His breath caught.

Not from weakness, not from hunger —

But from the ache of still existing.

“I’m tired,” he whispered, more to himself than her. “Gods, I’m so tired.”

And that’s when her hands were on him — not forceful, not pitying. Just there.

Strong. Grounding. Warm.

“I know,” she said. “That’s why you’re coming with me.”

He let out a bitter breath of a laugh. “You’re relentless.”

“You’re insufferable.”

He looked up, and for the first time since she’d found him, his expression softened.

Resigned.

Not defeated.

Just… done fighting.

“Fine,” he murmured. “But if you turn me into a tree, I swear I’ll haunt your roots.”

Poppy smiled — not smug. Just... real.

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

She slipped her arm under his, steadying his weight against her shoulder. He was tall, heavy with muscle despite his starved state, but she handled him with surprising strength.

The vines nearby shifted again, parting to clear the way.

And together, slowly, they began the walk back to her cottage.

—

The cottage was warm. Too warm.

It smelled like lavender and damp moss and something citrusy simmering on the hearth. The walls were lined with shelves of glass jars and carved wood, bundled herbs hanging like sleeping bats from the beams. Everything about the place was quiet, clean, alive.

He hated it.

He hated how it made him feel. Like he didn’t belong here. Like if he breathed too hard, he might break something.

He sat stiffly on the edge of a worn but well-cushioned bench beside the fire, his legs stretched out in front of him, arms limp at his sides. He was shirtless now — she’d insisted on checking the deeper wounds on his chest and back. The skin still bore the signs of days spent collapsed in dirt and bramble, clawed by branches and whatever else had passed him in the woods.

He should’ve been ashamed.

He was .

But mostly he was uncomfortable.

Because she was touching him again.

Not like before — not in the heat of need, not in the soft shimmer of blood and magic. No. Now it was just her hands, cool and precise, pressing balm into the bruised stretch of his ribs like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And gods help him, it felt good.

Not just physically. Emotionally.

And that was worse.

“Still sore?” she asked, voice low, quiet, but not hesitant.

“No,” he lied.

Her fingers paused for a moment. Then resumed, slower now, more deliberate.

The balm smelled like clove and mint. Her touch was gentle. He hated how aware of her he was — the heat of her, the sound of her breath, the faint shimmer of magic that always seemed to trail behind her like perfume.

“You should rest,” she said, dabbing another cloth into a jar. “You’re still depleted. The feeding helped, but your system’s not stable yet.”

“I said I’m fine.”

She didn’t argue. Just pressed a little firmer against a bruise.

He flinched.

“You’re stubborn,” she murmured.

“You’re nosy.”

That earned him a quiet smile. She didn’t look at him, but he saw it.

He didn’t understand her.

She was beautiful in a way that felt like a trick of the light. Every movement had grace, but not practiced grace — not seductive, calculated. Just her. Natural. Like the curve of a stream or the sway of tree branches in wind. Wild. Uncontainable. And not even trying to impress him.

Which somehow made it worse.

He looked away.

“I don’t get you,” he muttered.

“What’s there to get?”

“You found a half-dead vampire in the woods, fed him your own blood , and then dragged him into your home like a lost cat.”

“More like a half-feral wolf,” she said, tilting her head as she reached for a different jar.

“I could still turn on you.”

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

She looked at him then. Really looked at him — eyes calm, unreadable, but holding a quiet truth that unnerved him more than any stake or fire ever could.

“Because you already did. Once. To someone else. And you hated yourself for it.”

That hit harder than it should have.

He went still.

She dipped her cloth again and moved behind him, fingers brushing over a gash along his shoulder blade. Her touch stayed steady even as he tensed.

“I know what grief looks like,” she said softly. “And you’ve been grieving yourself for a long time, haven’t you?”

He said nothing.

Because what could he say?

She pressed the cloth gently to his skin.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was… still.

Like she wasn’t waiting for him to speak.

Just letting him exist without demanding anything from him.

And somehow, that was worse than confrontation. Worse than pity.

It was kindness.

And he didn’t know how to live with that.

—

He could feel it happening.

His guard was cracking — not fast, but slow. Crumbling beneath every soft word, every careful touch, every moment she looked at him like she saw something worth saving.

And he hated it.

He hated how warm her cottage was. Hated how it smelled like healing and comfort and things he didn’t deserve. Hated the way her magic reached for him like roots toward water.

So he did what he’d always done when the world got too close.

He went for the throat.

“What are you?” he said, sharper than he meant to.

She didn’t flinch.

Just smoothed the cloth over the healing cut on his shoulder.

“You’re not human,” he added when she didn’t respond. “Not completely.”

“No,” she said calmly. “I’m not.”

“You speak to the forest. It listens.”

She hummed faintly. “It listens to anyone who speaks with respect.”

“That wasn’t respect. Those vines moved when you told them to.”

“I didn’t tell them,” she said, moving to the table to rinse the cloth. “I asked.”

Branch clenched his jaw.

“It responded like a servant,” he muttered. “Like you were its queen.”

Poppy chuckled under her breath. “Hardly. The forest doesn’t take kindly to royalty.”

She turned back to him, wiping her hands. Her expression was unreadable — calm, yes, but not distant. Just… centered. Like nothing he said could shake her. Not because she was closed off, but because she simply wasn’t afraid.

“You’re trying to distract yourself,” she said, voice quiet again.

“I’m trying to figure out if I should be worried.”

“You’re not worried. You’re overwhelmed.”

He looked away, jaw flexing.

“You keep doing that,” he said. “Like you know me.”

“I know hurt. ”

Her words landed with a soft but brutal kind of precision. Not a blade — not violent — but like a stone dropped into still water.

And he hated how true it felt.

So he turned his deflection into a challenge.

“I’ve heard stories,” he said. “About beings like you. Half-fae. Wild-blooded. Earth-walkers. Cursed immortals. Dangerous.”

“And yet,” she said mildly, “you’re here. Still breathing.”

“Because you let me.”

She nodded.

“Yes.”

Something in him twisted. That same loss of control he’d tried so hard to bury — the part of him that needed to feel powerful again. To feel like something more than a broken thing in a healer’s care.

“You don’t even know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t need to. Not tonight.”

“Why not?”

“Because tonight, you’re not a monster. You’re just tired. ”

And there it was again.

That unbearable grace.

He couldn’t look at her anymore.

He stood abruptly, the blanket slipping from his shoulders as he took two shaky steps away from the bench.

His body didn’t protest — but his soul did.

It was raw. Like something scraped open beneath his ribs.

“Stop looking at me like I’m worth saving,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

“I’m not.”

Behind him, her voice was softer now. But no less steady.

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” she said. “I’m just seeing you.”

And somehow, that was worse.

—

She didn’t speak again.

Didn’t try to argue, or reassure, or disprove the pain in his voice.

She simply watched.

Branch stood near the hearth, back turned, shoulders tight beneath his bare skin. The firelight flickered against his back — outlining every line of tension, every breath held too long, every wound not of the flesh. He was trying so hard not to be seen — to armor himself in silence — and yet he stood there trembling like something cracked wide open.

Poppy didn’t move toward him.

Didn’t ask questions.

Didn’t tell him he was wrong.

Instead, she sat back down on the bench he’d just left and rested her hands in her lap. For a long while, she just watched the flames dance, let the quiet settle thick around them. She could feel the tremor in the air between them — not fear, not magic gone wild.

Just hurt. Bare and aching.

The kind that had nowhere left to go.

After a few minutes, she rose.

Still not speaking, she picked up the used cloths and jars and carried them quietly to the back room — a narrow, herbal-smelling space filled with drying shelves and half-filled apothecary drawers. She busied her hands instinctively: rinsing glass, hanging herbs, wiping old smudges from the counter.

Letting him breathe.

Letting him fall apart.

—

He didn’t hear her leave the room.

One moment, she was behind him — too near, too quiet — and the next, only the fire remained. The warmth flickered on the walls like breathing. Her scent still lingered in the room. Earthy, floral. Calm.

It made him want to scream.

He clenched his fists.

Why was she doing this?

Why wasn’t she yelling? Demanding answers? Asking what he’d done, who he’d hurt, how many?

Why did her silence feel more unbearable than any judgment?

His knees buckled.

He dropped back to the bench, hands pressed to his face, and breathed.

A shuddering breath. The kind that comes after days of holding it in.

It didn’t stop the flood.

Memories surged forward in fractured images — the blood, the screams, the girl’s terrified face, the moment his control slipped and the monster clawed its way to the surface.

He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t wanted to.

But he had.

And no amount of forest balm or tea-scented magic could erase that truth.

He pressed his palms into his eyes until stars burst behind his lids.

“I should’ve died,” he whispered.

The fire crackled.

He heard the faint sound of glass tapping glass in the back room. A cabinet closing. Water being poured.

She wasn’t ignoring him.

She was giving him space.

And that hurt in a way nothing else had.

—

She ran her fingers along a row of tiny glass vials, searching by texture rather than label. Lavender, valerian, golden poppy, chamomile. Her hands knew what to choose even if her mind was elsewhere.

Her ears caught the soft sound of him breaking.

She didn’t intrude.

She didn’t need to.

Pain had its own rhythms. Its own timelines. And she had learned, long ago, that not every wound should be bandaged the moment it opens. Some needed air. Darkness. Time.

So she gave it to him.

Still, something in her heart ached.

Not from pity.

But recognition.

He reminded her of old trees struck by lightning — still standing, charred but proud, with smoke still curling from the hollow. Still there , even if they wished they weren’t.

Still breathing, she thought, running her fingers along the rim of the cup she poured.

She wondered if he’d ever realize that was enough. That being here, now, was enough for tonight.

She didn’t need his answers.

Just his presence.

And, in time, perhaps his trust.

—

When she returned to the main room, she moved like the quiet itself — slow, unintrusive, careful not to spook the moment that had settled. Branch had gone still again, hunched on the bench with his elbows on his knees, head bowed. But his eyes were open. Focused. Present.

She set a steaming cup of tea beside him without a word, letting the scent of valerian and lavender curl into the space between them.

He didn’t look at it. But he didn’t push it away either.

“I thought you might like to clean up,” she said gently. “There’s a small bath down the hall. The water heats quickly, and the soap’s not too floral.”

Still no answer.

She gestured to a small wicker basket she placed on the nearby table. “I put out a clean set of clothes. Loose ones. I keep spares for patients.”

His fingers flexed slightly. His body was so still it seemed carved.

Then her voice softened further. “And if you’d prefer something softer than that bench… my bed’s just through that door.”

That did it.

His head lifted slowly.

He blinked at her with narrowed eyes, as if sure he must have misheard. And then, voice gravel-dry and laced with disbelief, he said:

“You’re offering me your bed? ”

“Yes,” she said plainly.

“You think I’m the kind of monster that would kick a lady out of her own bed?” His tone was sharp — incredulous. The faintest edge of something that might have once been wit flickered in the words. “What’s next? You want me to borrow your favorite scarf and take your last slice of pie?”

There it was.

A glimpse.

Poppy blinked — and then laughed. Truly laughed. Bright and unexpected, like the first rain after a drought. It bubbled up from her chest and slipped through her lips, and she didn’t care that he looked even more stunned now than when she’d offered him her bed.

“Okay, there he is,” she said, beaming at him. “I knew you had a personality under all that brooding and self-loathing.”

He scowled immediately. “Don’t get used to it.”

She grinned, unbothered, and turned toward the open space near the hearth. The floor was clear, just wooden planks worn soft by time.

She lifted her hand.

The magic responded instantly.

Vines wove up from the cracks between the floorboards. Moss unfurled like velvet. Wildflowers bloomed in slow motion, colors soft and muted under the firelight. In seconds, a full, lush bed had risen from the earth — soft grasses, layered petals, spongy green moss beneath a blanket of curling leaves and pale blue blossoms.

It smelled faintly of mint and clean rain.

She turned to him, eyes warm.

“You wouldn’t be stealing my bed,” she said gently. “I can make my own.”

For a heartbeat, he looked like he might actually accept.

His eyes flicked to the nature-bed. Then back to her.

But then… the wall went back up.

The scowl returned.

“No,” he muttered, standing stiffly. “The couch is fine. It’s what I deserve.”

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t press.

Just watched as he crossed the room again, slowly, settling onto the worn couch like it was a throne of penance. He pulled the blanket she’d left for him over his lap and turned his face toward the fire.

His profile was sharp in the orange light. A beautiful ruin.

Poppy watched him for a long moment, her hands still humming faintly with magic.

She didn’t try to stop the ache in her chest. It wasn’t pity.

It was hope.

Because he’d spoken.

He’d snarked.

And even if he was still buried under years of guilt and grief… somewhere in there, beneath the ash and ice, something still burned.

She smiled faintly, and turned toward her conjured bed, deciding to stay close to him for tonight.

We’ll get there, she thought, settling into the flowers.

One bloom at a time.

Chapter Text

Branch hadn’t slept that well in years.

Real sleep — not the kind that dragged him into suffocating memories, not the fevered half-trances that came with starvation, not the stillness of pretending to be dead. No dreams had clawed at him. No flashes of blood or screams or guilt. Just… silence.

Soft, deep, healing silence.

When he opened his eyes, the fire had gone out, but the cottage still held its warmth. Faint blue light spilled through the windows, filtered by leaves and vines, casting slow-moving patterns along the wooden beams. The scent of moss, flowers, and citrus lingered in the air — her scent , he realized, still clinging to the space like a blanket.

He blinked against the quiet, disoriented but not panicked.

His body didn’t ache. His mind wasn’t racing.

He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling.

And for the first time in what felt like a century… he felt rested.

Not fixed. Not whole. But not splintering either.

His eyes shifted across the room — and landed on her.

She’d fallen asleep on the conjured bed of moss and wildflowers just a few feet away, curled beneath a thin woven blanket. Her breath was soft and steady, arms tucked beneath her cheek, pink curls spilling messily across the pillow of petals. Her magic still clung faintly to the makeshift bed, keeping it fresh, humming gently beneath her.

She had stayed close.

All night.

His brow furrowed slightly. He wasn’t sure why that hit him so hard — the idea that she’d kept herself nearby, just in case.

She looked different like this.

Softer.

In the firelight, she had looked like something divine. Something dangerous. The forest’s chosen.

But here, now, half-lit by dawn, she looked young. Not in years — she was clearly ancient, timeless — but in essence. There was something delicate in her sleep. Something defenseless and still.

Her ears twitched faintly in response to the shift in light. Her lips parted, just slightly, as she breathed out a slow, even sigh.

He swallowed.

His eyes lingered longer than they should have.

The curve of her cheek.

The way her lashes kissed her skin.

The barest glimpse of the collarbone beneath her loose tunic, glowing faintly with magic.

She’s beautiful , he thought — unwillingly, stupidly.

Beautiful in a way he hadn’t expected. Not just striking. Not just ethereal. But real.

And for a moment, something in him ached.

Not hunger.

Something worse.

Desire.

Want.

Longing.

He shook himself, blinking hard.

This was ridiculous. He was projecting. He was just grateful. Or maybe sleep-deprived. Or still delirious.

He turned his face away, trying to shut it down —

But that was when it hit him.

The smell.

Her .

It wrapped around him slowly — not with the iron punch of bloodlust, but something subtler. A call. A scent like warm honey and crushed rose petals, drifting up from her skin like a whispered promise. He could feel her pulse. Slow. Steady. Thrumming through her like a song.

His breath hitched.

His fangs ached — just barely. A phantom itch along the edges of control.

She was only feet away. Open. Unprotected. Trusting him enough to sleep beside him like that.

He could taste her memory on his tongue still.

The sweetness.

The way her magic wrapped around his like vines.

And now, her pulse — gods, he could hear it.

A steady, silken thrum beneath her skin.

His fingers clenched around the edge of the blanket.

One breath. Then another.

Don’t move.

Don’t look.

Don’t feel.

But the hunger was rising again — not desperate, not savage, but slow and insistent.

And she was so close.

The sound of her heartbeat was torture.

Not violent. Not loud. Just… constant. Rhythmic. Drawing him in with every throb beneath her skin like it was made for him. A perfect tempo. A perfect song. His ears caught every note of it now — the rush of blood, the inhale and exhale of her breath, the slow stretch of her limbs as she shifted slightly in her sleep.

He didn’t want to hurt her.

Gods, he didn’t even want her blood.

Not really.

He just wanted to be near it. To feel it. To pretend, for a second, that the way her pulse reached out to him meant something.

That he wasn’t a monster.

That he could be trusted.

His throat burned.

He dug his fingers into the armrest of the couch, forcing his eyes away from her. Look anywhere but her. The wooden floor. The extinguished fire. The woven blanket over his lap. He focused on the texture, the itch of it, the smell of moss and clove clinging to the fibers.

But it didn’t help.

Because even when he looked away, he could feel her.

He hated this.

Hated how easily he could lose himself again. How quickly the bloodlust bloomed, even after a single peaceful night. How fragile his control really was.

This is who you are , whispered the old voice inside him. A creature with teeth, a curse wrapped in skin. A mistake.

His breathing quickened.

Not enough to wake her.

But enough to frighten himself.

If he fed again… would he lose it?

Would he slip?

Would he hurt her?

She trusts you.

That thought nearly broke him.

Because she shouldn’t.

And yet—

“Branch,” came a quiet voice from across the room.

He froze.

His name — said so gently, so certainly — rang louder than any shout.

He turned his head.

She was awake.

And she was watching him.

Her hair was a little mussed, one cheek pink from the moss-bed, her eyes soft with sleep. But even half-drowsy, she knew.

She saw.

She sat up slowly, her blanket falling away, revealing the curve of her neck and the smooth line of her collarbone. Her pulse ticked just below it — visible now.

And gods, she wasn’t hiding it.

“I can feel you struggling,” she said softly. “You didn’t move. You didn’t act on it. You held yourself back. ”

He opened his mouth, ready to deny it, deflect, destroy the fragile tenderness forming between them.

But nothing came out.

She stood, bare feet quiet against the floor, and crossed the small space between them. Her steps were slow, deliberate. Unthreatening.

When she reached the couch, she knelt beside it, so they were eye-level.

She didn’t touch him.

She just looked.

“I was asleep. Unprotected. You could have taken what you wanted.”

He clenched his jaw.

She continued, voice never rising, never judging.

“But you didn’t.”

“I almost did,” he whispered. “I… I wanted to.”

“I know.”

“I still do.”

“I know.”

He finally looked at her.

There was no fear in her eyes.

Only quiet strength.

“Branch,” she said, “you’re not the monster you think you are.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“No. But I know what you didn’t do.”

She reached up then — slowly — and brushed her fingers along his wrist. A light touch. A grounding one.

“You can do this. You can feed without violence. Without guilt. I’ll help you.”

He shook his head, breath ragged. “I don’t deserve—”

“Yes, you do.”

He blinked, stunned.

“You deserve control. You deserve to know you’re stronger than the hunger.”

“I’m not.”

“But you were. Just now.”

Her voice dropped to a near-whisper.

“You don’t have to fight this alone. Not here.”

He stared at her, and for the first time, the fire inside him… eased.

Not extinguished.

Not forgotten.

But gentled. Like her voice had wrapped around it, doused it in cool riverwater.

He let out a long, slow breath.

He still felt the hunger.

But it wasn’t drowning him anymore.

And in its place… was something quieter.

A pull.

Not of blood.

Of her.

He nodded, barely — the smallest movement.

She smiled — not victorious, not smug.

Just warm.

“Good,” she said. “Then when you’re ready… I’ll be here.”

—

She could still feel the heat of his eyes on her.

Even now — even after his body had stilled, after his voice had softened, after his breath had finally slowed — that hunger hummed in the space between them like a second heartbeat.

And yet, she wasn’t afraid.

Not of him.

Not of what he could do.

She had felt him hold himself back. Had seen the fight in his clenched jaw, his trembling hands. His whole body had been a study in resistance. A man trying desperately not to be what the world told him he was.

It should have broken her heart.

Instead, it stirred something deeper.

Respect. Admiration. Even a touch of awe.

She had spent her long life surrounded by people who feared their shadows — who saw power as something to control or deny. But Branch had looked his monster in the eye… and refused to let it win.

Even now, she could feel the tension still coiled under his skin. His muscles were wound tight, like a bowstring pulled to its breaking point.

But he was listening to her.

That mattered.

She stood slowly, giving him space, and stepped back into the glow of the hearth.

The warmth there soothed her, but it also gave her a moment to breathe.

Because as much as she trusted him… as much as she believed in his ability to hold himself steady… this wasn’t just an act of healing.

It was an act of intimacy.

Letting him feed again — choosing to offer herself — wasn’t just about helping him survive.

It was about giving him back a piece of himself. His control. His humanity.

His right to touch without taking. To need without destroying.

She closed her eyes for a moment.

Let her magic settle beneath her skin, steady and warm, humming low in her bones.

This is the right thing, she told herself. And I trust him.

And if it happened again — if he slipped?

She would stop him.

She had stopped worse.

But gods… she didn’t think she would have to.

Not this time.

She opened her eyes.

He was watching her.

Not with hunger.

But with something closer to fear.

Not for her.

Of himself.

She gave him a soft, reassuring smile — the kind you give to a wounded creature that hasn’t yet realized it’s safe.

Then she crossed the room toward him again, slow and steady.

And when she reached him, she sat at his side — close enough that their knees brushed.

She didn’t speak yet.

She wanted to give him the chance to choose.

To want.

To ask.

Her wrist lay open in her lap, bare and waiting.

The same hand he had touched the night before.

The same place where their story had started.

—

She sat beside him without fear.

That alone should have shaken him. Should have sent him retreating back into himself — because gods, didn’t she know what he was?

But she didn’t treat him like a predator. Not like prey either.

Just a man.

Just… him .

And there it was again, that awful warmth — not in his throat, not in his gut, but in his chest. That thing she kept giving him, without permission:

Hope.

Her wrist lay in her lap, bare. Offered.

Not thrust. Not demanded. Not bait.

Just… open.

He stared at it — at the pale skin, soft and warm, faint blue veins threading delicately beneath the surface. He could hear her pulse again, but it didn’t scream this time. It called .

Steady.

Measured.

Trusting.

He looked up at her, searching her face for any flicker of doubt.

She only nodded once.

And that broke something in him.

Because she meant it.

She wanted this.

Not for herself.

For him.

Slowly — almost reluctantly — he shifted on the couch. Turned to face her, knees to knees, heart to heart. His fingers hovered above her arm for a long moment before they made contact. Just a brush. His skin against hers.

It was warm.

Alive.

Please let me be worthy of this.

He lifted her wrist with both hands — like a prayer, not a meal.

His lips parted.

He met her eyes one last time.

She didn’t blink.

And then, slowly, reverently, he leaned down… and bit.

This time, he didn’t lunge.

He didn’t lose himself.

He felt everything — the resistance of her skin, the give, the rush of warmth against his tongue. Her blood was still sweet. Still laced with magic and sunlight and all the wild, living things she carried inside her.

But it wasn’t overwhelming.

It was intentional.

He drank slowly. Carefully. Tasting, not devouring. Savoring.

And gods, it still filled him with pleasure — but not the sharp, painful kind. This was gentle . Like sinking into warmth after years of cold. Like drawing breath after nearly drowning.

He heard her inhale softly — not in pain, but in response.

He felt her free hand rest lightly on his shoulder.

And his entire body relaxed.

His fangs retracted on instinct as he pulled back slightly — not done, but needing a moment. Her blood still coated his mouth, warm and golden.

He licked the wound, sealing it gently. Her skin knit beneath his tongue, as if her body wanted to be whole for him.

He sat back, breath shaking.

She was watching him with those endless, patient eyes.

No fear.

No disgust.

Just quiet awe.

He couldn’t speak. His throat was too full — not with blood, but with everything he didn’t know how to say.

So he whispered the only thing that mattered.

“…Thank you.”

She smiled.

And it was the first smile he let himself return.

Not fully.

Not yet.

But enough.

The air between them was warm and quiet, filled only with the steady crackle of kindling and the fading echo of breath.

Branch had leaned back slightly, his head bowed, shoulders rising and falling with slow, careful control. His hands still rested in his lap, clenched lightly as if afraid of their own weight. Blood no longer called from his throat, not violently — but she could see the strain in him. The lingering hollow behind his eyes.

He’d stopped himself too soon.

She knew it.

And worse — he knew it.

He was trying to ration his healing. Punish himself even in this.

Her wrist tingled faintly where the skin had knit closed. The sensation always lingered after a feeding — not pain, but connection.

Poppy watched him for a moment longer, then reached out and gently laid her hand on his knee. His eyes flicked up, startled. Still guarded.

But not distant.

“Did you take enough?” she asked softly.

He opened his mouth, but she held up her other hand to stop him. “Think before you lie to me.”

That earned the smallest flicker of amusement behind his gaze — there and gone.

His lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m fine.”

She arched a brow.

He sighed, long and low. “Fine… enough. ”

“That’s not good enough,” she said. “Not for someone still recovering from starving himself into the forest floor.”

His jaw tensed. But he didn’t deny it.

She scooted slightly closer. Her hand was still light on his knee, grounding but not pressing. Her voice remained calm. Steady. Measured.

“You were in control,” she said. “I wasn’t afraid. You didn’t hurt me. You stopped before you were ready, because you thought you should. ”

His throat bobbed.

“You didn’t take too much,” she continued. “You didn’t lose yourself. You were present. With me. That matters.”

She paused.

Then gently held her wrist out again.

The faintest scar was already fading — just a mark of memory now.

“If you need more,” she said, “I want you to take it.”

He looked at her — really looked — and she saw the turmoil there, the storm beneath the surface. The guilt. The resistance.

But also… the want.

Not just for blood.

But for permission.

“For once,” she said quietly, “let yourself be full.”

He blinked, and something in his eyes softened — not surrendered, but simply tired of fighting.

“Just a little more,” he said, voice barely audible.

She smiled.

“Good.”

She offered him her wrist.

And this time, he didn’t hesitate.

His lips found her wrist again — slower this time, no tremble in his hands, no panic in his eyes. Just intent. Restraint.

She inhaled as his fangs slid through skin — gentle, practiced now. The sting was brief, the pleasure blooming almost instantly beneath it. Not overwhelming. Not wild. Just… warm .

He drank softly, mouth steady against her, his fingers barely brushing the edge of her arm. Each pull was slower than the last, deliberate, like he was memorizing the taste of her. Like he didn’t want to take — only to receive.

Her magic responded.

Not in sparks or vines or bloom — but in thrum.

A deep, low hum under her skin, resonating where their bodies connected. It wasn’t calling out. It wasn’t protecting her.

It was offering .

And for once, she let herself feel it — really feel it.

The heat in her belly, the way her chest rose just a little quicker, the tremble of connection threading quietly between them. It wasn’t just the bite.

It was him.

His breath fanned her skin. His mouth moved reverently. Each sip filled her with warmth — not just because he was taking, but because he was choosing not to take too much.

He was trusting her.

And more than that… himself.

When he pulled back this time, it was slow. His fangs retracted. His lips lingered for just a moment longer than necessary — not to tempt, not to tease.

But as if grateful.

She let her breath out in a long, quiet exhale, her wrist resting gently between them. Her pulse steadied quickly, soothed by the familiarity of her own magic.

There was silence.

Not awkward.

Just full.

Full of the things neither of them could say yet.

And then Poppy blinked, a slow smile tugging at her lips.

“You know…” she said softly, brushing her pink curls back from her face, “we haven’t introduced ourselves.”

He looked up at her, startled.

His mouth parted like he hadn’t realized it either — and then something flickered across his face. Hesitation. Maybe shame.

“Right,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… I’m—”

He paused, like the name itself carried weight.

And then, low and rough, he said it.

“Branch.”

The sound of it was simple.

But there was history in it. Layers he didn’t explain.

She let it settle, then nodded once.

“I’m Poppy.”

She smiled again — brighter this time.

And for the first time since she’d found him half-dead in the woods, he didn’t look like he wanted to disappear.

He just looked at her.

Like maybe, just maybe, he wanted to stay.

Chapter Text

He didn’t know where to stand.

That was the first problem.

He lingered near the doorway of her small kitchen nook like a ghost trying to decide whether or not he belonged in the world of the living. His arms were crossed too tightly. His posture too stiff. He hadn’t spoken in ten minutes.

Poppy, of course, moved through the cottage like a breeze. Effortless. Sure-footed. Humming softly to herself as she sliced dried fruit and sprinkled something green and fragrant over a pan. The fire beneath it crackled with a faint, enchanted blue glow.

The scent was obnoxiously good.

Something sweet and herbal, warm and sharp, like apples and thyme with just a hint of clove. It made his stomach twist — not with hunger, exactly, but awareness . Like his body was remembering what it meant to want things again.

“You can sit,” she said without looking up.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

“You keep saying that. I’m starting to think it’s your version of ‘please stop talking to me.’”

He blinked. “It’s not.”

She glanced over her shoulder with a half-smile. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning to.”

He shifted awkwardly and stared at a jar of dried flowers on the shelf like it might rescue him. It didn’t.

She plated the food with graceful, efficient hands — two wooden bowls, one clearly portioned with care, the other heaped more generously. She set them on the small table near the hearth, where the chairs didn’t quite match and the tablecloth was embroidered with little vines.

Everything in the cottage felt lived in. Alive. Like the house itself exhaled gently when she moved through it.

She turned toward him, wiping her hands on her apron. “You can eat, you know. Your body still needs real food, even if blood does most of the heavy lifting.”

He hesitated. “You made two bowls.”

“I’m not going to sit here and eat in front of you like you’re in a zoo, Branch.”

That startled a quiet, almost incredulous snort out of him.

“You know,” he muttered, “you’re not exactly what I expected from a mysterious forest-dwelling immortal.”

“And you’re not what I expected from a half-dead vampire with martyr issues,” she replied, breezy as anything.

He gave her a sidelong look.

She winked.

And for reasons he didn’t understand, that worked.

He sat.

It was stiff at first — elbows too sharp on the table, shoulders hunched like he was expecting a trap. But the bowl of warm, fragrant food in front of him helped. He didn’t realize how long it had been since he’d tasted something that wasn’t blood.

The first bite nearly made him groan.

She pretended not to notice the way his eyes fluttered slightly at the taste.

He hated how much he liked it.

Halfway through the bowl, he set his spoon down and cleared his throat.

“I should… shower.”

Poppy looked up. “Good idea.”

He stood slowly. “You said the room’s down the hall?”

“To the left,” she said, nodding toward the back of the cottage. “Clean towels on the bench. Clothes are folded on the stool — they might be a little loose, but they’ll do.”

He hesitated at the doorway.

“Thanks.”

She smiled — not softly this time, but easily. “You’re welcome, Branch.”

He looked at her a beat longer than he meant to.

And then he disappeared down the hall.

The shower was small, tucked into the corner of a cozy stone-tiled room that smelled faintly of sage and peppermint. There were flowers pressed between the seams of the windowpanes, and vines curled politely along the ceiling beams, as if they were minding their own business.

He stepped into the warm spray and immediately sagged against the wall.

Steam rolled around him, washing over skin that hadn’t felt heat in weeks. Dirt and dried blood ran in lazy trails down his chest, swirling across the stone like old guilt rinsed clean.

He stood there for a long time, unmoving.

Just… breathing.

He let the water trace the lines of his spine, let it soothe the bruises that still lingered, the ones even her balm hadn’t yet erased. His fingers found the soap — some kind of forest blend, clean and sharp and vaguely citrus — and he scrubbed until his skin stung. Like if he could just clean enough, he could strip away the filth inside too.

He didn’t feel new when it was over.

But he didn’t feel broken either.

He stepped out, wrapping the soft towel around his waist, and caught a glimpse of himself in the fogged mirror.

He looked tired.

But not hollow.

That was new.

The folded clothes were where she said they’d be — soft, loose, clearly meant for recovery. A simple linen shirt, wide-necked and sleeveless. Woven pants that sat low on his hips. He dressed slowly, methodically.

When he emerged into the hallway again, the cottage air greeted him like a warm sigh.

And he felt it for the first time:

He wasn’t just alive.

He was safe.

—

She was wiping down the table when she heard his footsteps.

Soft. Hesitant.

She turned, cloth still in hand — and stopped.

He stood just inside the threshold, the morning light from the kitchen window pouring in behind him like a gentle halo. His dark, wavy hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends. The loose shirt exposed his collarbones, the lines of his arms — not showy, but defined, lean muscle built from years of survival.

But it wasn’t the way he looked that caught her breath.

It was the shift in him.

He looked… real. Not a ghost. Not a wounded animal. Just a man — worn down, yes, still cautious — but standing upright. Present.

His eyes met hers.

And in that moment, she saw him.

Not the vampire. Not the victim.

Branch.

“Hey,” she said softly, smiling like she’d seen the sunrise.

He looked away — almost bashful. “Your clothes are… comfortable.”

“I can tell,” she teased gently, stepping closer. “You’re not scowling.”

He huffed under his breath — not quite a laugh, but not far off either.

And Poppy felt it again — that small, delicate blooming in her chest.

He wasn’t fixed. He wasn’t healed.

But he was here.

And that meant everything.

—

The knock at the door hit him like a thunderclap.

It wasn’t loud — three light, polite raps, spaced just so — but Branch still froze where he stood, halfway to the small table where Poppy was steeping something in a teapot.

Every muscle in his body locked.

His eyes snapped to the door.

Someone was outside.

Human.

Poppy glanced up, immediately reading the shift in him. “It’s okay,” she said softly, already wiping her hands on a cloth. “They come by sometimes.”

He didn’t answer. He could barely breathe.

His legs moved before he could stop them — backing away, toward the hallway, toward the safety of the dim back room. Not because he smelled blood. Not because of hunger.

Just fear.

Old. Deep. Inescapable.

He couldn’t be seen.

Not yet.

If they saw him — recognized what he was — what if they panicked? What if he panicked? What if someone screamed?

What if history repeated itself?

Poppy had already gone to the door, her expression calm, composed.

He disappeared around the corner and into the shadows before it opened.

She opened the door to find a girl — maybe fifteen — standing nervously on the front step, bundled in a shawl that didn’t quite cover her freckled shoulders.

“Miss Poppy?” the girl said, voice small. “Sorry for bothering you. Mama said it’s just a cold, but I can’t get the cough to stop.”

Poppy smiled gently, stepping aside and motioning her in. “You’re not a bother, sweetheart. Come in. Let’s take a look.”

The girl hesitated at the threshold, eyes darting past Poppy as if scanning the room. As if checking to see whether anyone else might be watching.

Poppy’s smile didn’t falter. “It’s just me.”

And that wasn’t a lie.

Not entirely.

The girl stepped inside, glancing at the shelves of herbs and the strange little moss-bed still blooming beside the hearth. Her gaze lingered there with a kind of awestruck wonder. “Your house always smells like spring.”

“Magic has good taste,” Poppy replied, guiding her to the chair. “Sit. Let’s check your chest.”

As the girl settled, Poppy moved easily into healer mode — warm hands, quiet murmurs, the soft rustle of glass jars. The girl’s cough wasn’t serious. A bit of irritation. Something herbal tea and a touch of magic would clear up within a day or two.

But still… she felt Branch’s absence like a shadow in the room.

She could feel him hiding.

Feel the way his heartbeat was thudding faintly, deeper in the cottage.

Not erratic. Just tight.

Wrapped in panic.

When the girl was sipping her tea and distracted by the warmth in her hands, Poppy glanced toward the hallway.

She didn’t say anything.

Just let the silence speak.

He was safe.

She had it under control.

And when the girl stood to leave, cheeks pink from the heat and with a jar of syrup in her hands, Poppy saw her pause again at the doorway.

“Do you… ever get lonely out here?” she asked.

Poppy blinked, caught off guard.

But then she smiled.

“Not anymore.”

The girl looked puzzled. But she nodded politely, offered a grateful, croaky thank you , and disappeared down the path toward the village.

The door shut quietly behind her.

And Poppy turned toward the hallway.

“Branch,” she said gently. “It’s alright now.”

He didn’t come out right away.

Even after he heard the door shut, even after the girl’s footsteps had faded down the garden path, Branch stayed in the small, dim room off the hallway — standing in place like prey waiting for danger to pass.

His heartbeat was slowing. The air no longer felt thick in his lungs.

But the tension in his chest hadn’t let go yet.

He hated this feeling.

Not the fear itself — he was used to that.

But this . The hiding. The part where he curled inward and let the world pass him by. The part that made him feel like a caged thing, too dangerous for daylight.

He didn’t want to be that anymore.

But he didn’t know how to stop.

A few minutes passed in stillness.

Then he heard it — soft steps on wood, and the gentle sigh of a cushion as Poppy sat.

Not in front of him.

Not in his doorway.

But just outside it, in the hallway.

Close enough to be there , but far enough to let him choose .

She didn’t say anything.

She just sat.

The silence stretched.

And somehow, that did more for him than any well-meaning words could’ve.

It gave him space.

It gave him control.

And eventually… it gave him the strength to move.

He stepped out slowly, barefoot, shoulders hunched. She was sitting cross-legged against the wall, her hands resting loosely in her lap, eyes turned toward the window where the morning light filtered through the vines.

She glanced up as he appeared.

Said nothing.

He slid down the opposite wall, sitting on the floor across from her.

Still no words.

Just breath. Just presence.

And that was what undid him.

Just a little.

“I wasn’t even hungry,” he said, voice flat and brittle. “Not for her blood. I wasn’t… tempted.”

Poppy nodded once. “I know.”

“I just—” His jaw tensed. “I panicked anyway.”

“I know,” she said again, softer.

He stared down at his hands, knuckles pale from clenching.

“They don’t even have to do anything. Just being near them… I feel like I’m back there.”

A pause.

Then: “I see her face. The one I almost—”

His throat closed.

He shut his eyes.

And just like that, the door in him slammed shut again.

The shame flooded back in, fast and choking.

He shifted, curling slightly toward the wall, hiding behind his hands.

Poppy didn’t reach for him.

Didn’t ask for more.

She just stayed.

She was still there.

And for now… that was enough.

—

The sun dipped low beyond the trees, scattering gold across the floorboards and turning the shadows long and warm. The day settled into that gentle hush between light and night — the hour when magic softened, when even the birds seemed to take a breath.

Poppy stood near the hearth, stirring a pot with one hand, the other resting lightly on the curve of her hip. The stew inside was simple — root vegetables, mushrooms, lentils — but it smelled like comfort, like coming home after too long in the cold.

Behind her, Branch moved in silence.

He hadn’t retreated back to the shadows. He hadn’t tried to disappear again. He wasn’t hovering, exactly… but she could feel his presence.

Still hesitant.

Still raw.

But present.

He was sitting on the floor beside the fire now, back against the wall, long legs folded awkwardly beneath him. His damp hair had begun to curl more fully as it dried. He looked younger in this light. Less guarded.

His hands were busy — not fidgeting, but focused. He’d found a loose bit of twine on the side table and had started twisting it between his fingers, threading it over and under in small, practiced knots.

She said nothing about it.

Just watched from the corner of her eye as she added a pinch of salt to the pot.

The silence between them was soft now. Not strained. Just there .

When the food was ready, she ladled it into two bowls, handed him one, and sat beside him without ceremony.

They ate in easy quiet, the fire flickering in front of them, casting orange light across the worn floorboards and their bare toes.

Outside, the wind sighed through the trees.

Inside, time stretched.

And neither of them rushed to fill it.

Eventually, when the bowls were empty and the light had dipped fully into dusk, Poppy leaned back against the wall and let her head fall gently to the side — just enough that her temple brushed his shoulder.

She didn’t press.

She didn’t look at him.

Just rested.

His body went still.

But he didn’t pull away.

He didn’t lean into it either.

Not yet.

But she could feel it — the slow, almost imperceptible way his muscles began to unclench .

Like maybe… just for tonight… he didn’t have to hold everything so tightly.

Chapter Text

He woke to birdsong.

Not the shrill, chaotic kind from the city’s edge, but the layered, almost orchestral kind — morning trills and low chirps, rustling leaves and the faint breath of wind through branches.

He lay still for a long moment, just listening.

And for the second morning in a row, he wasn’t braced for violence. No nightmares. No jolting awake in a cold sweat. Just warmth. Breath. The quiet creak of the cottage waking up around him.

He exhaled, eyes still closed, and rolled onto his side on the couch, curling one arm beneath the pillow. The scent of dried herbs, smoke, and something sweet hung in the air. He could hear movement in the kitchen — faint, unhurried. A spoon against ceramic. The bubbling of water over the hearth.

And humming.

Soft. Light.

Poppy.

He cracked one eye open.

She was at the stove again, barefoot and wrapped in the same loose tunic she’d slept in, her hair a halo of pink curls barely tamed into a braid. Her hands moved with familiar grace — pouring tea, plating something golden and crispy onto two mismatched plates.

He sat up slowly, stretching with a soft groan.

She looked over her shoulder.

“You’re awake.”

“You’re humming.”

She smirked. “Observation: not your strong suit before breakfast?”

“I didn’t dream,” he said, voice still rough from sleep.

That made her pause — just a second — before she turned back to the stove.

“Good,” she said. “That’s twice now.”

He stood and crossed the room, hesitating near the edge of the kitchen like stepping across an invisible threshold. “Smells like… actual food.”

“You say that like you expected bark stew and wild roots.”

“I did, actually.”

She handed him a plate. “Then consider this your reward for not biting me in my sleep.”

He blinked, almost confused by the joke — and then a quiet huff of air escaped him. A laugh. Not a full one.

But a start.

Poppy beamed.

She handed him a fork and motioned toward the little table, where sunlight was already slanting in through the window and painting golden stripes across the floor.

He sat.

He didn’t even flinch this time.

And for the first time since waking in this strange little house on the edge of the woods, Branch felt something bloom in the hollow space behind his ribs.

Stillness.

Not safety, not yet.

But something close .

Something worth staying for.

They ate in companionable silence for a while.

The food was simple — pan-fried bread with herbs, something sweet and sticky folded between the layers, and a smear of soft goat cheese on the side. He hadn't realized how much his body had been missing this kind of nourishment. The kind that said: you’re home. You’re safe. You can stay.

Poppy refilled his tea without asking.

He watched her hands — graceful, sure. The way she didn’t hover. She just existed next to him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eventually, he spoke without really meaning to.

“You’ve done this before.”

She looked up, mid-sip. “Fed a half-starved vampire and kept him from collapsing into a guilt spiral?”

He gave her a flat look.

She grinned. “Kidding. Mostly.”

Branch rolled his eyes and leaned back in his chair, cradling the warm cup between his hands.

“I meant… this,” he gestured vaguely around the cottage, “the healing. The caretaking. You’re good at it.”

“I should hope so,” she said, voice light. “I’ve had time to practice.”

He glanced at her sideways. “How much time?”

There was a flicker — not hesitation, but something thoughtful — in her eyes. She leaned back in her own chair, one knee drawn up beneath her.

“You ever counted tree rings?”

Branch raised a brow. “Is that your way of not answering?”

“It’s my way of saying more than you’d guess, ” she said, smiling into her tea.

He watched her a moment longer.

There was something strange and comforting about it — the way she held her age not like a burden, but like a well-worn shawl. Something she’d folded around herself and gotten used to.

“I’ve lived on the edge of this village for… a long time,” she continued. “Long enough for three different generations to call me ‘the fae woman in the woods’ like I’m some kind of myth. Which, I guess, I kind of am.”

“They know what you are?”

“They know enough. ” Her voice gentled. “They come when they need me. They leave when they don’t.”

“And they’re not afraid of you?”

Her smile dimmed just slightly.

“Some are. Most aren’t anymore.” She paused. “Respect is easier to earn than trust. But both can grow if you tend them.”

He looked down into his tea, absorbing that.

She didn’t press.

Didn’t ask the obvious question in return — what about you? Who did you have before all this?

She didn’t need to.

She was letting him come to the questions in his own time.

“I’m still not used to… all this,” he admitted after a moment, voice quiet.

“What part?”

“The quiet.”

She nodded once, like that made perfect sense. “It takes getting used to. But eventually… it stops being silence. And starts being peace.”

He glanced up at her again.

And for the first time… he believed her.

—

The sun had climbed higher by the time they stepped out into the garden. The dew was gone, but the air still carried the sweet bite of mint and loam, and the soil beneath her bare feet was warm, pliant. Familiar.

Poppy knelt by the first row of herbs, letting her fingers sink gently into the dirt, like she was greeting an old friend. Which, in a way, she was.

Branch hovered at the edge of the garden path, looking deeply unsure of what to do with his hands.

She looked over her shoulder at him.

“You can come closer. They won’t bite.”

“Some of them look like they might.”

She gave him a delighted grin. “That’s fair. Don’t touch the red-tipped nettle near the back unless you want a rash in places you don’t want to scratch in public.”

He stepped gingerly onto the narrow path, his sharp gaze sweeping across the rows of greenery with more suspicion than reverence.

She pointed to a cluster of bushy purple-tinted leaves. “This is Sage—no, not the plant. I mean this plant is Sage. I named her that when she sprouted extra early one year. Bit of an overachiever.”

Branch raised an eyebrow. “You name your plants.”

“Of course I do.”

“That’s…” he paused, searching, “…a choice.”

Poppy scoffed, brushing her hands along the next set of wide-leafed stalks. “This one’s Bernard. He’s very dramatic about temperature changes, so I have to coddle him.”

“Do they know you’ve assigned them personalities?”

“Of course they do,” she said matter-of-factly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Plants aren’t just decoration. They’re company.”

He gave her a look that was somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

She handed him a small woven basket and motioned toward a cluster of pale yellow blooms. “You can help by picking the calendula. Just the flowers, gently. They bruise easily.”

He crouched stiffly — clearly not used to bending his body for anything so mundane — and reached out with slow, cautious fingers.

The first blossom popped off cleanly. The second slipped from his hand and rolled toward a patch of moss.

Poppy leaned in and whispered, “That one’s Mildred. She’s slippery on purpose.”

He shot her a narrow-eyed glare.

She laughed. “You’re doing fine.”

“I haven’t killed anything yet. That’s a win.”

“High standards you’ve got there.”

“I’m new at this.”

“I can tell. You’re scowling at the calendula like it owes you rent.”

He glanced sideways at her — and for just a second, smiled .

Not big.

But real.

It hit her somewhere behind the ribs.

They worked in silence for a few more minutes. The breeze picked up, rustling the leaves like a lullaby. Birds flitted from branch to branch overhead. The world didn’t feel heavy out here — it felt held.

After a while, she sat back on her heels, brushing a curl from her cheek.

“You’re good at this, you know.”

He raised a brow. “I’ve picked like… seven flowers.”

“I mean being here,” she said softly. “Being gentle. Being… you. ”

Branch looked down at the calendula blossoms in his palm, then away again, toward the forest beyond the garden wall.

“I don’t know who that is anymore,” he muttered.

She didn’t answer right away.

Just reached out, plucked a small blossom from the basket, and tucked it lightly behind his ear.

He went completely still.

“That’s Calla,” she said with a grin. “She likes you.”

—

Evening settled like honey — slow, golden, sweet.

Poppy poured hot water over a blend of lemon balm, chamomile, and a hint of lavender, the scent filling the little cottage like a lullaby. The fire crackled gently in the hearth, not for heat — the summer night was warm — but for the softness of the light. Firelight always made people feel safe. Held.

Branch was curled into the corner of the couch again, barefoot, sleeves rolled up, the calendula still tucked behind his ear. He hadn’t noticed it was still there, and she didn’t have the heart to tell him.

He looked… not at ease, exactly.

But unfolded.

Less coiled. Less braced.

She set his mug down on the low table in front of him and sat nearby, tucking her feet beneath her, one leg brushing lightly against his where the couch narrowed.

He didn’t pull away.

They sipped their tea in silence.

The kind that comes not from awkwardness, but from familiarity.

She could feel it between them now — not tension, not fear, but something alive. A hum in the air that wasn’t her magic and wasn’t his hunger.

Just… them.

And it was soft.

She felt his gaze drift toward her now and then. Not lingering. Just checking. Like he was still getting used to her being real.

Eventually, he spoke — voice low, a little rough.

“I’ve gone longer without feeding.”

She turned slightly, watching the way he held his mug. “But?”

His jaw tightened. “I know I shouldn’t.”

Poppy let the quiet stretch.

“You don’t have to justify it,” she said gently. “I can feel it. You’re getting low again.”

“I’m not losing control.”

“I know.”

He was silent for a moment.

Then: “It’s easier now.”

She smiled faintly at her tea. “That’s because we’re not strangers anymore.”

He didn’t respond. But the air between them shifted — not tense, but charged.

Soft. Heavy. Warm.

She set her cup aside and turned toward him fully.

“You can feed,” she said, her voice steady. “If you want to.”

He didn’t answer right away.

But his eyes met hers.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

Her words hung in the air like a thread.

“You can feed. If you want to.”

She said it softly, as if it wasn’t a heavy thing.

But it was.

Because she wasn’t just offering blood.

She was offering trust . Proximity. Intimacy.

Branch sat motionless on the couch, his tea cooling in his hands, his body suddenly too aware of everything — the warmth of the room, the hush of firelight, the soft hum of her magic brushing up against the edge of his senses like silk.

Poppy didn’t move closer.

She didn’t need to.

The air between them was already thin.

His eyes lingered on her wrist, resting lightly on the edge of her thigh. Bare skin, pulsing gently with life. With her.

But he didn’t reach for it.

Not yet.

Instead, he let his gaze rise to her face.

Her expression was unreadable — patient, but present. Like she was watching him carefully, but not waiting . Her legs were still tucked under her, one knee brushing against his. She made no effort to close the space.

And somehow, that made it feel like he could .

His fingers twitched on the rim of his mug. He set it down.

The silence held.

Then Poppy shifted — just slightly — and reached out.

She didn’t touch his wrist or his shoulder.

She brushed her fingertips against his knee. A light touch, brief as breath.

“Not because you need to,” she murmured, “but because you want to.”

His throat felt tight.

He hadn’t realized how long it had been since someone had said something like that to him.

Maybe ever .

He swallowed hard. His voice was quiet, rough.

“I don’t know the difference anymore.”

“You will,” she said. “If you let yourself feel it.”

He looked at her again.

And this time, he let his hand move.

Slowly, he reached out and laid it over hers.

Not possessive.

Not hesitant.

Just… there .

Poppy’s gaze met his — soft and open, the corners of her lips lifted just slightly, like the smile was waiting for permission.

And in that stillness, in the firelight and the hush, she whispered one phrase:

“Come here.”

Two words.

And yet somehow, they cracked something open in his chest.

He didn’t move right away. Just stared at her hand under his, her skin warm and small against his palm, steady in a way he didn’t understand.

Then, slowly, he shifted closer on the couch.

Not much.

Just enough that their knees touched fully. That the space between them narrowed to nothing but breath.

Poppy turned slightly to face him, one leg folded beneath her, her curls falling loose around her shoulders. Her wrist was still bare and resting in her lap — an unspoken invitation — but she didn’t offer it again.

She didn’t have to.

She was waiting for him to choose .

He dragged his gaze upward.

Her throat.

The soft curve where her jaw met her neck.

The slow, pulsing rhythm just beneath her skin — like her heartbeat was answering something in him. Calling to it. To him .

His hand moved before he could stop it.

He reached up, brushing his knuckles along her jaw — light, reverent. Just once. Her skin was warm, velvet-soft. She tilted slightly into it, not enough to crowd him, but enough to show she didn’t mind.

Didn’t fear him.

Still didn’t fear him.

And gods, that undone something in him.

“You’re not afraid,” he said quietly, almost like he was trying to convince himself.

Poppy shook her head. “No.”

“Even now?”

“Especially now.”

He exhaled, shaky.

“I could hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that. ”

She reached up then, her fingers brushing his forearm, guiding his hand gently downward — not away, but toward her collarbone. To where her pulse beat strongest.

“I do,” she said. “Because you don’t want to. And I trust you.”

His hand settled against her neck, fingers curving lightly against her skin. She was so close now, her breath mingling with his, the scent of her rising — wildflowers and magic and something uniquely her.

Every part of him was wound tight with the need to be careful.

To not want this too much.

And yet… he did.

Not just the blood.

Her.

The heat of her. The steadiness. The way she looked at him like he was still someone.

Not a monster. Not a ruin.

Just… Branch.

His thumb brushed the side of her throat, and her eyes fluttered half-closed. She leaned in, just enough for her lips to brush his cheek — not a kiss, just a breath of contact. Enough to tell him:

It’s alright.

He closed his eyes.

And slowly, so slowly, let instinct take over.

He kissed her skin first.

Not out of instinct — not hunger — but something gentler. A moment of reverence, lips brushing the curve of her neck in a silent thanks before the bite.

She sighed softly, her hand still resting on his forearm, not restraining — just anchoring . A reminder that she was there. That she was choosing this.

Choosing him.

His fangs slid free with barely a whisper of motion. His breath caught — not from fear this time, but from how much he wanted to get this right .

And then he bit.

Gently.

Her blood rose to meet him like it knew him.

And the moment it touched his tongue, something inside him broke open.

She was sweet . Not like sugar — not like anything he could describe — but like warmth . Like sunlight on skin after a long winter. Like soil and flowers and rain. Like home.

He moaned before he could stop it — low, quiet, reverent — and pulled her closer, cradling the back of her neck with one hand as he drank.

Slow.

Deep.

Every swallow was a promise.

And for the first time since he’d been turned, feeding didn’t feel like losing control.

It felt like finding it.

She didn’t flinch.

Didn’t tense.

Just breathed — calm and steady — letting him take. Letting him need.

His senses blurred.

The world shrank to her heartbeat.

—

She felt him soften against her — his body no longer braced for restraint or shame, but drawn in by something deeper . His mouth was warm at her neck, his grip steady but not harsh, his breathing beginning to sync with hers in a way that made her stomach flutter.

Every pull of his mouth sent a shiver through her — not from pain, but from something deeper.

It was like he was reaching past her skin.

Like he was drinking from her soul.

Her magic stirred again — not rising in defense, but in response.

Vines in her chest curling toward him, roots threading beneath her skin in search of his.

Something in her wanted to give .

Not just her blood.

Her calm.

Her strength.

Her self.

And gods, the way he was holding her — not gripping, but cradling — like she was fragile and precious and his.

She didn’t know when she’d started to shake. Just a little.

It wasn’t fear.

It was… feeling.

A lot of it.

Her free hand drifted up, sliding gently into his hair, fingers threading through the thick, damp waves. He let out a breath — soft, startled — and pressed in closer.

She whispered his name without meaning to. Just once.

“Branch…”

And something answered.

A pulse beneath the magic. A hum inside her chest.

His drinking slowed.

Not because he was done.

But because something else had caught his attention.

He felt it too.

The connection.

The shift.

The start of something ancient and powerful and unnamed.

He pulled back, fangs slipping free with delicate precision, and closed the wound with a slow drag of his tongue. It was almost… tender .

She was breathless.

So was he.

But neither of them moved.

They just stared.

The silence wasn’t empty.

It throbbed.

With magic.

With questions.

With the quiet, dangerous beginning of want

Chapter Text

He didn’t let go right away.

Even after he sealed the wound, even after her magic stopped buzzing at the edge of her skin, Branch stayed close — forehead bowed against her shoulder, one hand still cradling the side of her neck like he couldn’t quite make himself let go.

Poppy didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

She just stayed there with him, breathing gently, her fingers still threaded through his hair.

She could feel the tremor in his chest — not weakness.

Emotion.

He was feeling it too.

The shift.

The something.

Her heart beat a little too fast, and she knew he could hear it — could probably feel it pulsing in the place where his mouth had been moments ago. But she didn’t look away, didn’t shrink from it.

She wanted to know what this was.

What they were becoming.

But then…

He tensed.

It started slow — a stiffening in his shoulders, a breath that caught too sharply in his chest — and then he pulled back.

Not abruptly.

But definitively.

His hand slipped away from her neck. His eyes dropped. And that familiar guardedness — the steel and shame and guilt he wore like armor — began sliding back into place over his face.

Poppy felt the cold of it the second he stepped away.

“Branch…” she began softly, unsure what she was going to say.

He shook his head.

“Don’t,” he said — not cruelly, but tightly. “Please.”

She blinked, her throat tightening.

He stood, turning away from her, one hand dragging through his hair.

“I shouldn’t have—” He cut himself off. “It was just feeding.”

A quiet ache bloomed in her chest.

She nodded slowly, even if it wasn’t true.

“Okay,” she said, voice gentle. “If that’s what you need to believe right now.”

He didn’t answer.

Just folded into himself like a closing door.

The tension in the room was thick and bruised.

She stood, too, brushing imaginary dust from her dress.

“I’ll take my bed tonight,” she said after a beat. “You should have the couch and living room to yourself. You’ll sleep better.”

Still, no answer.

She stepped quietly into the hallway, pausing just once to look back at him — standing in the firelight, arms wrapped around himself like he might come apart otherwise.

And then she left.

The door to her bedroom closed with the softest click.

—

The fire had burned down to embers by the time he finally sat.

He didn’t light more wood. Didn’t fetch a blanket. Just lowered himself onto the couch with the weight of someone drowning slowly and called it rest.

But sleep didn’t come.

Of course it didn’t.

He stared up at the ceiling, arms folded tightly over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it ached. Her scent was still everywhere — wildflowers, forest moss, the faint trace of blood where his lips had pressed against her skin.

He touched his mouth, then snatched his hand away like it had burned him.

It was just feeding.

He’d said it.

He’d needed to say it.

But the lie tasted sour in his mouth.

Because nothing about tonight had been just feeding.

The feel of her hand in his hair.

The way her magic had curled toward him like it knew him.

The softness of her voice — saying his name like it meant something.

And the moment her blood touched his tongue?

He’d felt it.

Not hunger.

Not lust.

Something else.

Like she’d cracked open a door inside him that he’d welded shut years ago. And what had come spilling out wasn’t darkness…

It was light.

Hope.

Want.

And it terrified him.

Because hope was a luxury.

Wanting something — someone — meant risk. It meant believing there was a future, a version of himself worth offering to someone else.

He didn’t deserve her.

Not her kindness. Not her magic. Not the way she’d looked at him like he was something more than a ruined thing crawling back from the edge.

She’d offered him peace.

And he’d recoiled from it.

Because he didn’t know how to stay.

—

She lay in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the soft glow of starlight filtering through her vine-woven window.

The pillow still smelled faintly of dried lavender and calendula.

She hadn’t bothered to blow out the bedside candle. It flickered quietly in the corner, casting gold across the sheets.

And no matter how still she tried to be…

Her heart wouldn’t stop aching.

Not a sharp pain.

A longing ache.

She’d felt it the moment he pulled away — the way his walls slammed back into place, the guilt storming in to sweep away the gentleness between them. It had hurt, yes.

But she didn’t blame him.

He didn’t know how to trust what he was feeling yet.

But I do, she thought.

Because she had felt it, too. That something .

It had started before the feeding — in the garden, in his shy smile when she teased him, in the way he crouched awkwardly beside the calendula and tried to remember their names. It had been building ever since.

And tonight… it bloomed.

What he’d taken from her — and what she’d given — was more than blood.

It was connection.

It was real.

She turned on her side, curling her arms beneath her pillow.

Her throat still tingled where he’d fed. But she didn’t feel weak.

She felt full.

Warm.

Like something inside her had finally stopped sleeping.

She whispered into the quiet, a breath of truth she wasn’t ready to say aloud:

“I’m falling for you…”

And it was terrifying.

And beautiful.

And she meant it.

—

He hadn’t slept.

Not really.

He dozed, here and there — but it was the kind of sleep that never sank deep. The kind that came in fragments, haunted by flashes of memory and phantoms of guilt.

Every time he drifted, they found him.

The woman he’d almost killed.

Her eyes.

Her blood.

The hunger.

Only now it wasn’t her in the dream.

It was Poppy.

He woke just after dawn, drenched in sweat, the fire long cold, his limbs aching like he’d been hunted through his own nightmares.

He sat up slowly, pressing a hand to his chest like he could will it to slow down.

You’re here, he told himself. You didn’t hurt her.

But his throat was dry, his skin too tight.

And all he could feel was the ghost of her warmth — her hands in his hair, her breath on his neck, her blood blooming against his tongue like it belonged there.

He’d tried to bury it last night. Tried to wall it off.

But it clung to him.

She trusted you.

And he’d walked away.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, elbows on knees, trying to breathe through the weight in his chest.

But eventually, he heard the soft creak of a door down the hallway.

Her door.

Light footsteps. No shoes.

She always moved like the forest — quiet but alive.

He didn’t look up right away.

But then she appeared in the doorway to the living room, pink curls tousled from sleep, wrapped in a soft robe the color of fresh moss.

She didn’t smile.

Didn’t tease.

Just… looked at him.

And he hated how much he wanted to see kindness in her eyes.

He expected distance.

He got something else.

—

He looked wrecked.

Not physically — he’d fed enough that he wasn’t weak — but his eyes were dark, rimmed with exhaustion. His hair was a mess, shirt wrinkled, fingers pressed hard against his brow like he could erase the night with sheer will.

He hadn’t slept.

She knew that look. She’d worn it herself, many times.

Poppy stepped into the room, moving slowly, deliberately, like she might startle him if she came too close.

But he didn’t flinch.

He just watched her.

Waiting for judgment.

Instead, she said softly, “Do you want tea?”

His gaze dropped. “Yeah.”

She nodded, already turning toward the hearth.

The kettle was still warm from the night before. She didn’t ask him how he slept. Didn’t press. Just went about the gentle rhythm of making tea, her hands steady, her movements slow.

He hadn’t fled.

He hadn’t shut her out completely.

And that… meant something.

When the tea was steeping, she glanced at him over her shoulder.

“You can sit at the table, if you want,” she said gently. “It’s warmer in the light.”

A beat.

Then he stood.

Wordless.

And followed her into the soft morning sun.

—

The tea steamed softly between them, golden-amber in the early light. She’d added a touch of lemon balm to soothe the nerves and a pinch of honey from the jar on the windowsill.

Branch didn’t touch his right away.

He just sat, curled in on himself slightly, shoulders hunched like he was still bracing for something — or maybe everything. His fingers drummed once against the edge of the mug. Then stilled.

Poppy wrapped her hands around her own cup and watched the steam curl upward, letting the silence breathe between them.

It was a different kind of silence than the ones they’d shared before.

This one felt fragile.

Like if she reached for it too quickly, it might crack.

So she didn’t.

She sipped her tea and waited.

Eventually, he spoke — voice rough with fatigue.

“I didn’t mean to…” He paused, jaw flexing, not finishing the thought. “Last night. I just—”

“I know,” she said gently.

He looked up, startled.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“I don’t need to.” She smiled softly. “I felt it.”

That made him go still again.

Poppy set her mug down on the table and rested her arms on the wood. Not leaning in. Just being present.

“There’s more than one kind of hurt,” she said quietly. “And more than one way to heal.”

He said nothing. But he didn’t look away.

“I’ve spent a long time learning how to fix things,” she continued. “Wounds, sickness, poison… you name it. But it took me longer to understand that sometimes the injuries no one sees? The ones under the skin, in your chest, your memory, your spirit—” she touched her sternum lightly, “—those take even longer to heal.”

Branch swallowed.

His gaze dropped.

“And you think you can… fix that too?”

She shook her head. “Not fix. That’s not how healing works.”

She let that hang in the quiet for a breath.

“I can sit with you while it heals. I can help guide it when it gets messy. I can remind you that it’s allowed to hurt and still be worth it.”

She reached out, her fingers resting lightly on the table, close to his.

“I can help. If you let me. ”

His eyes lingered on her hand.

He didn’t touch it.

But he didn’t move away either.

And in that stillness, she saw the flicker of something in him that hadn’t been there before.

Hope.

Just the beginning of it.

But still.

A beginning.

Her hand didn’t reach for his.

It just sat there, near his, warm and still — like it would be okay if he never touched it, but also okay if he did.

It was the opposite of pressure.

It was invitation.

He stared at it for a long time, unsure what to do with the sudden burn behind his eyes.

He swallowed it down. Again.

But the silence between them felt safe now. Like it could hold the weight of what he didn’t know how to say.

So he spoke, quietly.

“I haven’t… let anyone this close since I turned.”

Poppy didn’t move. Didn’t answer with words. Just stayed open.

“It’s not just the blood. Or the guilt,” he went on, voice low and rough. “It’s like… when they turned me, it didn’t just change my body. It burned through everything. My trust. My instincts. My—”

He stopped. Exhaled hard.

“My sense of who I even was.”

The admission hung there, raw and unfinished.

Poppy finally moved — slowly — resting her fingertips just slightly over his.

Her touch was barely there.

But it was enough to ground him.

Enough to anchor.

“You’re still in there,” she said softly.

“You don’t know that.”

She gave a gentle shrug, her smile small but unwavering. “I’ve seen enough of you to believe it.”

He was silent for a moment, staring at their hands — the way hers curved delicately over his knuckles, like she was coaxing something living from beneath all the rubble.

He didn’t pull away.

But his voice dropped into a whisper.

“I’m afraid of what else is in there too.”

She nodded. “That’s okay.”

He looked up at her, and for a heartbeat — just one — he let it show.

The ache.

The longing.

The tiny, stubborn flicker of hope.

And the thing behind it all that scared him most: wanting to be known.

Poppy held his gaze.

And said, quietly:

“We’ll find it. Together.”

They sat there for another moment, the hush between them no longer fragile, but full.

Her fingers still rested lightly over his, a point of warmth that didn’t demand anything — just offered it.

Eventually, Poppy exhaled softly and stood, gathering their empty mugs with quiet grace.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” she said, glancing back at him with a half-smile. “Something simple. You’ll eat, right?”

He hesitated.

Then nodded.

Poppy’s smile grew just a little — not smug, not victorious. Just pleased.

She moved around the kitchen like it was second nature, every step part of some rhythm he hadn’t yet learned to hear. The sound of the fire rekindling. The clink of ceramic. The soft sizzle of something hitting a hot pan.

Branch watched her from the table, his fingers still tingling faintly where she’d touched him.

It wasn’t just that she was kind.

It was that her kindness had weight. Patience. Presence.

She didn’t need to fill silence. She didn’t reach for him when he pulled back. But when he leaned in — even a little — she was already there.

When she returned to the table, she placed a bowl in front of him — warm porridge sweetened with honey, and sliced fruit on the side.

Before she turned away, her hand brushed his again.

Not an accident.

Not a hesitation.

Just a moment of reminding him that she was still here.

He looked up at her.

And this time, when she smiled…

He let himself return it.

Just a little.

Chapter Text

The knock came mid-bite.

Not loud. Just two sharp raps on the door — precise, familiar.

And it still made Branch flinch.

His whole body tensed before he could stop it. The spoon froze halfway to his mouth. His pulse kicked up like it expected a fight.

Poppy looked up from her chair at the small table, blinking once.

Then smiled.

“Smidge.”

She said it with certainty — and, somehow, affection.

Branch’s grip didn’t loosen.

His eyes flicked toward the door. “Who?”

“She’s a friend,” Poppy said gently, setting her bowl aside. “The only person from the village who visits regularly. She’s loud, incredibly short, and not afraid of anything.”

He didn’t look convinced. “That’s… not reassuring.”

Poppy chuckled softly. “She’s also kind. And trustworthy. One of the humans who volunteers as a feeder, actually.”

Branch’s stomach clenched at that.

“Relax,” she added quickly, “she’s not here to offer you blood. She usually just shows up to talk my ear off about Milton.”

“Milton?”

“You’ll see.”

He shot her a wary glance.

Poppy stood, brushing a curl out of her eyes. “This might actually be a good chance for you.”

“For what?” he muttered.

“To interact with a human,” she said, soft but steady. “One who isn’t afraid of you. One who might even like you.”

He opened his mouth to argue, to object, to hide—

But her expression stopped him.

Not forceful.

Not pushy.

Just… hopeful.

You can do this, it said. You’re safe here.

His jaw clenched.

And, finally, he gave a small, reluctant nod.

Poppy smiled.

Then turned toward the door and called, “Come in, Smidge!”

The door creaked open before he could brace himself.

And then she burst in.

She was… tiny.

Shorter than Poppy by a full head, dressed in thick leather boots and fingerless gloves despite the warm weather, her muscles bulging like she bench-pressed boulders for fun. A short, swishy braid bounced behind her as she strode into the cottage like she owned it.

“There you are!” she declared, hands on her hips. “Took you long enough to open the door. I almost died of anticipation.”

Branch blinked.

Poppy grinned. “You knocked like five seconds ago.”

“Time is relative. Especially when I have MILTON NEWS.”

Smidge practically threw herself into a chair across from Poppy’s spot at the table, arms flopping dramatically over the backrest. That’s when she noticed him.

Her eyes snapped to Branch. Bright. Assessing. Completely unbothered.

“Oh.” She blinked. “You’re new.”

Branch stiffened. “Uh—”

“That’s fine.” She waved him off, already digging into the pouch slung across her chest. “I’m Smidge. You’re tall, scowly, and probably have centuries of brooding under your belt. Poppy’s type.”

Poppy sputtered into her tea.

Branch stared.

Smidge arched a brow. “Too soon?”

“Smidge,” Poppy said, cheeks pink, “be nice.”

“I am being nice. I didn’t even mention the intense wounded-soul thing he’s got going on.”

“I’m right here,” Branch muttered.

She winked at him. “Oh, I know. ”

He opened his mouth, unsure whether to run or growl.

Smidge leaned in toward Poppy, stage-whispering like he wasn’t there. “Okay but listen — Milton.”

Poppy set her mug down with a fond, exasperated sigh. “Here we go.”

Smidge’s expression turned suddenly earnest .

Like the whole world had narrowed to one singular, magical topic.

“I think I’m in love.”

Branch blinked.

Poppy blinked.

Smidge clutched her chest dramatically. “I know. ”

Poppy tilted her head. “What happened this time?”

“First of all,” Smidge said, holding up a finger, “he asked for me. Again. Not like they paired us up by default. He asked. Specifically.”

Poppy smiled. “That’s the third time.”

“The fourth,” Smidge said dreamily. “And he was so gentle. He always is. Like he’s not just feeding, y’know? Like he cares about how I feel during.”

Branch went still.

Smidge didn’t notice. She was off and glowing.

“It’s not just the feeding anymore, Pop. It’s the after. I feel floaty for hours. My heart’s all weird and tingly and warm and I think I might’ve cried a little last time— in a good way. ” She fanned herself dramatically. “What the hell is that? ”

Poppy’s eyes softened.

Branch’s stomach turned over.

Smidge paused, eyes sparkling. “I think something’s… happening. Between us.”

“You feel safe with him,” Poppy said gently.

“Yes. And seen. Like it’s not about hunger at all.”

She gave a dreamy sigh and looked over at Branch, who sat frozen and extremely unsure what to do with his face.

“Feeding isn’t all bad, y’know,” Smidge added. “When it’s done right. When it’s mutual. It can feel like…”

Her voice dropped.

“…like something real.”

Branch didn’t speak.

But something cracked, quietly , inside his chest.

Smidge took a sip of tea from the cup Poppy had magicked onto the table for her, completely unfazed by the silent emotional implosion she’d just caused.

Branch still hadn’t moved.

His pulse was loud in his ears — not from hunger this time, but from something tangled and raw. Her words wouldn’t stop echoing.

“Like he cares about how I feel during.”
“It’s not about hunger at all.”
“It can feel like… something real.”

He knew she wasn’t talking about him.

But gods, the timing.

Smidge glanced sideways at him, eyes narrowing just a little.

“So…” she said casually, “what’s your deal, anyway? Besides the obvious brooding and tragic vampire thing.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

Poppy gave her a look. “Smidge.”

“What?” Smidge gestured at him. “He’s clearly going through something. Let the man talk about his feelings. Or at least, like, grunt them at us.”

Branch stood abruptly.

The chair scraped back across the floor.

“I’m gonna go… outside.”

Poppy stood partway. “Branch—”

He held up a hand, not rudely — just… tired.

“It’s fine,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “I just… need air.”

And then he was gone — the door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.

—

The moment he left, Smidge winced.

“I crossed a line, didn’t I?”

“A little,” Poppy said gently, though she didn’t sound upset.

Smidge flopped back into her seat. “Damn. I wasn’t trying to break him, I just thought maybe poking him would make him talk.”

“He’s not a crab, Smidge.”

“Well, he’s definitely got a shell.”

Poppy smiled faintly, brushing her fingertips around her teacup rim.

“He’s trying,” she said after a moment. “More than he wants to admit.”

Smidge tilted her head. “You like him.”

It wasn’t a question.

Poppy didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled quietly, almost to herself.

Smidge leaned in. “You really like him.”

Poppy stood and started collecting the dishes.

“Okay, I’m leaving before this turns into something tender and poetic,” Smidge muttered, hauling herself to her feet. “But tell him I said sorry. Or, like, not sorry. Whichever won’t make him spiral.”

“I’ll handle it,” Poppy said with a small laugh.

Smidge gave her a playful salute and headed for the door.

Right before she stepped out, she paused and glanced over her shoulder.

“He’s lucky,” she said softly.

Then she was gone.

—

The air outside was cool, quiet, and useless.

He stood beneath the old willow by the path leading into the woods, fingers digging into his forearms, trying to ground himself in anything that wasn’t the mess in his head.

The grass was dewy underfoot. Birds chirped in the trees. The light breeze stirred the leaves like it didn’t know what to do with his tension.

He hated how much it helped.

Just being out here, surrounded by green and quiet.

By her world.

His mind was still spinning.

Smidge’s words had pierced through him like arrows dipped in honey — sweet, but sharp. She’d spoken with the kind of ease he didn’t know how to even pretend to have. Joy and certainty, wrapped around a truth he hadn’t been ready to face.

“It’s not just the feeding anymore…”
“I think something’s happening between us.”

And the way she’d glowed when she said it — flushed cheeks, sparkling eyes, like the act of giving had left her feeling more whole .

Branch didn’t understand that.

Didn’t know how to.

He still remembered the sound that woman made the night he lost control. The gurgle in her throat. The helpless way her hands had scrabbled at his chest. He remembered the shame, the horror, the hunger that had twisted into something sick.

How could that same act be gentle?

Beautiful?

Wanted?

And worse — why did he want that to be true?

Why did something inside him ache at the thought of feeding meaning more?

Of Poppy touching his face the way Smidge described Milton touching hers?

Of Poppy looking at him the way Smidge looked when she said, “I think I’m in love.”

He exhaled shakily, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes.

He wasn’t in love.

He wasn’t.

This wasn’t safe. It wasn’t smart. And it wasn’t allowed.

But the memory of her hand on his… the warmth in her voice… the way she smelled when she leaned in and whispered his name…

He wanted more.

And that terrified him.

—

She found him under the willow.

The early light filtered through the canopy above, dappling the soft grass in shifting patterns of gold and green. Branch stood motionless near the edge of the path, half-shadowed by the tree’s long hanging limbs, arms folded tightly across his chest like he was holding himself together.

Poppy didn’t say his name.

Didn’t call out.

She just walked — soft footsteps on dew-wet grass — until she was close enough for him to hear her presence.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t move.

But he spoke.

“I didn’t mean to storm out like that.”

“I know.”

His jaw flexed. His gaze stayed forward, fixed somewhere in the trees.

“She’s a lot,” he muttered.

“She is,” Poppy agreed. “But she means well.”

Silence stretched.

Poppy stepped beside him — not close enough to crowd, but enough that their arms nearly brushed.

She tilted her face toward the sunlight, closing her eyes for a moment as the warmth touched her skin.

“I used to come out here a lot,” she said softly. “Before you.”

Branch glanced at her.

She smiled faintly, eyes still closed. “It was peaceful. Easier than being inside too long with only my own thoughts for company.”

He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh. “Still is.”

They stood like that for a long moment — not speaking, just breathing .

Then, quietly, she said, “You don’t have to talk about it. I just wanted you to know I’m here.”

His shoulders shifted.

Not relaxed — but not quite so tight.

And after another long beat, he asked, “Why aren’t you afraid of me?”

Her eyes opened.

She looked at him, really looked at him — pale, drawn, shadowed from the inside out.

But beneath all that?

There was light.

A flicker.

And she saw it.

“Because I see you,” she said.

He looked away fast, like the words cut too close.

But he didn’t walk off.

Didn’t run.

Instead, he sank slowly to the grass beneath the willow, sitting back against the tree with a quiet exhale, as if the weight of everything had finally become too much to carry standing up.

Poppy hesitated.

Then sat beside him.

Their shoulders didn’t touch.

But they were close enough.

And this time, Branch didn’t pull away.

—

The cottage was quiet.

Soft, flickering shadows danced across the walls as the fire cracked gently in the hearth, its golden light brushing over shelves of herbs, bundles of dried flowers, and the half-full kettle warming for tea.

Poppy sat on the floor in front of the fire, legs curled beneath her, a small plate of honey biscuits in her lap. The smell of lavender and sweetbread lingered in the air, warm and familiar. She wasn’t sure if he’d come sit with her.

But she’d left space.

Two cups on the low table beside her.

The extra cushion across from her fluffed just enough.

And the kettle?

Waiting for two.

She heard him before she saw him — the soft creak of the floorboards, the shift of weight just beyond the hall. She didn’t turn, just reached for the teapot and poured two cups, slow and steady.

A moment later, Branch stepped into view.

He looked… tired , but softer than he had earlier. Shoulders not quite so drawn in. The dark look behind his eyes less storm, more cloud.

He stood awkwardly at the edge of the room, eyes darting to the fire, to her, then to the cushion waiting across from her.

She patted it gently.

He hesitated.

Then — slowly — sat.

Not close enough to touch.

But close enough to feel her warmth.

She handed him the tea.

He accepted it in silence.

For a while, the only sounds were the fire, the quiet clink of porcelain, and the wind pressing gently against the cottage walls.

Poppy broke the quiet first, her voice soft and deliberate.

“Did the fresh air help?”

Branch sipped his tea, staring into the flames.

“…Yeah.”

She smiled faintly.

“I used to think healing only happened through touch. Magic. Movement.” Her gaze slid toward the window, half-lidded and distant. “But sometimes it starts in the stillness. In just… sitting with something long enough to stop fearing it.”

He didn’t speak.

But his breathing slowed.

His hands, still curled around the tea, didn’t shake.

And after another long stretch of quiet, he asked, “Do you always make tea at night?”

“Not always,” she said. “But lately… yes.”

“Why?”

She looked at him.

And her answer was simple.

“Because I think you sleep better when the house smells like honey and firelight.”

That pulled his gaze to her, slow and searching.

Like he wasn’t sure what to do with that kind of care.

But he didn’t look away.

Not this time.

Not even when she smiled at him — soft and without expectation.

Just warm.

Just present.

And he stayed.

—

The tea was still warm in his hands.

He couldn’t remember the last time something had felt so ordinary.

So… safe.

He glanced sideways at her — Poppy, curled into the cushions like she belonged there, her mug held between both hands, her head tilted toward the firelight. The glow painted her skin in soft gold, catching in the pink of her hair, brushing her lashes.

She looked like something out of a dream.

Or maybe something that could anchor him in waking.

He didn’t know which was more dangerous.

“You really believe this can work,” he said quietly.

She blinked, turning to look at him. “What?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely — to the fire, the tea, them . “All of it. Me.”

There wasn’t judgment in his voice. Just doubt.

And something beneath it. Like maybe, just maybe , he wanted to believe it too.

Poppy set her mug down and turned fully to face him, folding her hands in her lap.

“I believe in healing,” she said softly. “In second chances. In people being more than the worst thing they’ve ever done.”

Branch’s throat tightened.

“And I believe,” she added, “that whatever happened to you — whatever hurt you — it didn’t destroy the part of you that wants to be good.”

He swallowed hard.

A beat passed.

Then he murmured, “You’re not what I expected.”

She smiled. “Neither are you.”

That drew the faintest huff of breath from him. It could have been a laugh if it wasn’t so quiet.

He set his tea down slowly, carefully.

And in the pause that followed, his fingers brushed hers on the table between them.

Light. Uncertain.

But intentional.

Poppy didn’t flinch.

She turned her hand, letting their fingers curl together.

Her palm was warm against his. Smaller. Steady.

He stared at their joined hands.

And whispered, “I don’t know what this is.”

“Me neither,” she said gently.

“But I’m not afraid of it.”

That silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was full.

Of things unsaid. Of breath. Of comfort.

And a shared heartbeat pulsing gently between them in the dark.

Chapter Text

He woke up warm.

Which was strange.

He didn’t do warm.

Didn’t do soft furniture, didn’t do peaceful sleep, and definitely didn’t do—

His brain caught up.

Poppy’s head was on his shoulder.

Her curls brushed the edge of his jaw, her hand resting lightly over his forearm like it had just… found its way there sometime during the night. Her breath was steady. Slow.

Still asleep.

And they were still on the couch.

Which meant at some point, they must’ve just… drifted. Together.

His back protested the angle. His hip was numb. But all of that was drowned out by one, immediate fact:

She was snuggled against him.

And he hadn’t pulled away.

He didn’t even want to.

He stared down at her, frozen, unsure if he was allowed to breathe.

She looked peaceful.

Beautiful.

And terrifying.

Because she looked like she belonged there.

Like she fit.

A sudden spike of panic surged up his spine — not the bad kind, but the kind that came with not knowing what to do with something good.

He shifted slightly.

And that was enough.

Poppy stirred, a soft hum in her throat, her lashes fluttering.

Then…

“...Mmmph—?”

She blinked sleepily.

And then froze.

Very slowly, her eyes traveled up to meet his.

Her expression didn’t shift at first.

But then one delicate brow arched. “Good morning.”

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking anywhere but her face. “Morning.”

A pause.

Then she sat up abruptly, curls flying, cheeks faintly pink. “Oh gods—I didn’t mean to—sorry, I didn’t realize we—!”

“You drooled,” he deadpanned.

Her mouth fell open. “ I did not. ”

“Little bit,” he said, now turning to stretch his sore shoulder with mock nonchalance. “Right here.” He pointed vaguely to his collarbone.

“I hate you,” she said, covering her face with both hands.

“Do you?” he asked, glancing sideways at her, his voice just a little too smug.

She peeked through her fingers, eyes narrow. “Don’t get cocky. You fell asleep first.”

“I was keeping watch,” he lied.

She snorted. “Sure you were.”

“Guard duty. I take it very seriously.”

“You were snoring.”

His mouth twitched. “That’s slander.”

“You were snoring on me, ” she said, poking his arm. “I was your pillow.”

“You drooled on me,” he shot back.

They both paused.

And then—unexpectedly, quietly— laughed.

Just a soft, shared sound, unburdened by fear or guilt.

And when the laughter faded, Poppy was still smiling.

“You know,” she said, brushing a curl behind her ear, “I don’t… usually do that. Fall asleep like that with someone.”

Branch met her gaze.

“Me neither.”

And in the quiet that followed, something else settled between them.

Something good.

—

It started with a glance.

Poppy had been pulling herbs from the drying racks, humming faintly under her breath, the afternoon sun making her hair glow like the petals of her beloved calendula.

And then she turned.

And looked at him.

Not with question.

But with invitation.

She felt it too.

The pull. The heat. The hum beneath the skin that had only gotten louder since that morning on the couch.

Neither of them said a word.

She just set the bundle of lavender aside and stepped closer.

He felt her magic move first — soft and slow, like vines curling toward him on instinct.

She reached for his hand.

And he took it.

Without hesitation.

Without fear.

Just want.

—

His pulse wasn’t frantic this time.

Still fast — but not out of panic.

Out of desire.

And she could feel it.

Feel him.

Not just the surface — but what lived just beneath. The tension, the need, the flicker of something brighter that was finally pushing its way up through all the ash and shame.

Her thumb brushed his wrist. His eyes fluttered shut.

And when she stepped in closer, placing his hand against her waist — letting him ground himself — he didn’t pull away.

He leaned in.

—

The scent of her hit him first — all moss and wildflowers and something distinctly her , and gods, he was getting drunk on it already.

She tilted her head, exposing the slope of her neck, and something inside him tightened .

But it wasn’t like before.

It wasn’t hunger clawing at him.

It was something reverent.

He hovered there, mouth just above her skin, the heat of her pulse calling to him like a whisper down a dark hallway.

“Go slow,” she murmured, one hand coming up to rest gently on the back of his neck. “Feel it.”

He did.

And when his fangs sank into her skin — slow , deliberate — the sensation that crashed through him was nothing like the first time.

It wasn’t fire.

It was velvet.

And light.

And her.

—

The instant he bit down, her breath hitched — not from pain, but from the rush of it. A flood of warmth and pleasure that pulsed through her body like music that only they could hear.

But this time… there was more.

She could feel him.

Not just his mouth or the draw of her blood, but his emotions.

Need.

Longing.

Wonder.

It curled into her own, until she couldn’t tell which heartbeat was hers.

Her fingers slid into his hair, breath coming faster now, lips parting with a soft sound she didn’t mean to make — but didn’t stop.

Because it felt good.

Too good.

Right.

—

Her pleasure lanced through him like heat down his spine.

He tasted it in her blood.

Felt it in her pulse.

It synced with his own until he couldn’t separate where he ended and she began.

His grip on her waist tightened.

She pressed closer.

And gods help him, he wanted more.

But not more blood.

More of this.

This connection.

This giving.

The desire curled through him, warm and dangerous, and suddenly he knew: this was no longer about hunger.

This was about bonding.

About something older and deeper than thirst.

He pulled back slightly, licking the wound gently closed and felt the final wave of connection roll through them both like the tide claiming shore.

—

She was breathless.

Eyes closed.

Hands still tangled in his hair.

And every inch of her still tingled.

Not just from the bite — but from the way he’d touched her, felt her, understood her body like it spoke to him without words.

She opened her eyes slowly.

He was watching her.

And she knew — knew — he’d felt it too.

The shift.

The something-more.

He didn’t speak.

But his hand slid slowly from her waist to her wrist.

Their fingers laced.

And neither of them let go.

—

The warmth still hummed in her skin.

It lingered where his hands had held her — her waist, her wrist, the dip of her spine — as if his touch had left a mark even after it was gone.

He hadn’t spoken.

But he hadn’t moved away either.

He stood there, fingers still tangled in hers, chest rising and falling with careful, quiet breaths. His eyes searched hers like he was looking for something he wasn’t ready to find.

Her voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper.

“Did you… feel that too?”

Branch blinked slowly.

Like he hadn’t expected her to say it.

Or maybe like he had , and still wasn’t ready.

His throat worked. His gaze dropped to their hands.

“I don’t know what it was,” he murmured.

His voice sounded hoarse. Wrecked in a different way than before.

Poppy leaned in just slightly — not to close the space, but to ease the weight of it.

“I think,” she said gently, “it was more than just a feeding.”

Branch’s jaw clenched.

But he didn’t pull back.

His thumb brushed over the back of her hand, slow and uncertain. Like his body was moving before his mind caught up.

“I felt you,” he whispered. “Not just your pulse. Not just the blood.”

She nodded. “I felt you too.”

Their eyes met again.

And this time, neither of them looked away.

There was heat in it, yes — that low, coiled desire that still lived between them, breathing quiet and steady.

But there was something softer , too.

Something tender.

Like they’d crossed into something fragile and sacred and were both still learning how to hold it.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he admitted, voice barely audible. “But when I’m with you… it doesn’t feel wrong.”

Poppy’s heart squeezed.

She gave him the smallest, most radiant smile.

“It doesn’t feel wrong to me either.”

Another beat passed.

And then — slowly, gently — she lifted his hand to her lips and pressed a soft kiss to his knuckles.

Not claiming.

Not asking.

Just… offering.

His breath caught.

And still, he didn’t let go.

—

He felt her before he saw her.

Not through sound.

Not through scent.

But through something else entirely.

Joy. Quiet and subtle — not laughter, not even a smile, but that feeling of rightness that bloomed when she was surrounded by green and warmth and the slow, sacred rhythm of tending to life.

It tugged at him like a thread, winding through the cottage and curling around his chest.

Poppy was outside in the garden.

He hadn’t seen her go — only realized she’d stepped out when the echo of her happiness trickled into his chest like sunlight through shutters.

It didn’t overwhelm.

It didn’t intrude.

It just… was.

And it made him pause, standing in the kitchen with one hand on a teacup he’d forgotten how to pour.

What the hell was happening to him?

—

She knelt between two rows of thyme and mint, fingers buried in the earth, the morning sun kissing her shoulders, and still—

She could feel him.

That quiet, deep-tide presence that had begun to hum inside her in the last day or so — a weight, a pull, a knowing.

He wasn’t afraid anymore.

Not in the same way.

Not of her.

His emotions moved under her skin like whispers — hesitation, curiosity, a flicker of peace that hadn’t been there before.

And underneath all of it?

He was thinking of her.

That strange, charged awareness sent a warm flush up her neck.

She closed her eyes, letting the sun and the scent of herbs settle around her.

This, she thought. This is the beginning of something.

—

He stood in the doorway now, watching her from just inside.

She hadn’t seen him yet.

Her head was tilted up, eyes closed, hands stained with soil, surrounded by everything she loved.

And still — he knew she knew he was there.

Something flickered through her chest — not surprise, not urgency.

Just… welcome.

And somehow, he felt it.

Not in his mind. In his body.

It pulled at him, made him step forward onto the porch, just to be a little closer.

She didn’t look up.

She didn’t need to.

“Enjoying the tea?” she called, without opening her eyes.

He froze mid-step.

“How did you—?”

“I felt you smile.”

She opened one eye, lips tugging up into a knowing curve.

And gods help him, he had been smiling.

—

The sun was warm on her back, and the air smelled of mint, clover, and something wild on the wind.

But the most grounding thing in her garden wasn’t the soil beneath her knees.

It was Branch.

He’d joined her not long after she felt his presence stir at the edge of the porch — awkward at first, quiet in his steps, but curious. Watching. Letting himself exist beside her.

Now, he knelt across from her in the thyme patch, sleeves rolled to his elbows, carefully weeding the spaces between rows with a focus that made her smile.

“You’re very serious about this,” she teased lightly.

“I’m trying not to kill anything.”

She laughed. “They won’t hold it against you. Plants are forgiving.”

“Tell that to the dandelion I decapitated earlier.”

“That was grass,” she said with a wink. “It had it coming.”

He huffed, and she felt it again — that flutter of emotion through the space they shared.

Soft amusement.

Contentment.

It echoed inside her chest like a warm ripple across still water.

—

He didn’t understand how this had happened.

How something so mundane — kneeling in a garden, sun on his shoulders, dirt under his fingernails — could feel like everything.

But it did.

Because she was here.

Because every time her fingers brushed his as they reached for the same stalk of sage, it sent a small pulse through his blood that left him a little breathless.

Because he could feel her, in ways that had nothing to do with touch.

She hummed as she worked, a little tune without words. He didn’t recognize it, but it felt like it had always been playing somewhere, just outside his hearing.

He kept sneaking glances at her.

The way her hair curled where the humidity touched it. The dirt streaked across one cheekbone. The focus in her brow when she tied a bundle of herbs with twine.

She looked so alive.

And being near her made him feel like maybe he was, too.

—

Later, they sat in the shade just beyond the garden, surrounded by bundles of fresh-cut herbs drying in the sun.

Poppy leaned back on her hands, legs stretched out, head tipped toward the sky.

Branch sat beside her, close but not touching.

Until he did.

Not by reaching — just by leaning. A little. Barely enough to notice.

But she did.

She felt it in her ribs, her breath, the pulse between them that was growing louder each day.

“I used to do all of this alone,” she said softly.

Branch looked over.

She wasn’t smiling. But she didn’t look sad.

“Did you like the solitude?” he asked.

She shrugged one shoulder. “I thought I did.”

“And now?”

She turned to meet his gaze.

“I like the quiet better when you’re in it.”

Something inside him stumbled at that.

And in the warmth of the late afternoon, he didn’t speak.

He just let his shoulder stay there, pressed softly to hers.

Chapter Text

The sun was just beginning to crest the treetops, sending long streaks of amber light through the windowpanes. Poppy pulled the satchel over her shoulder, giving the buckles one last tug before glancing toward the hearth, where Branch stood with his arms loosely crossed, watching her in that quiet, storm-eyed way of his.

“I won’t be long,” she said, soft but upbeat. “Just a few deliveries.”

He nodded.

She smiled. “I figured I could pick up a few things while I’m there. Some tea, dried citrus, more ribbon…” She hesitated, voice gentling. “And maybe something that actually fits you.”

His brow lifted. “What’s wrong with your sweater?”

“It’s swallowing you.”

He looked down at the oversized knit he was currently wearing — a faded sage-green piece she’d loaned him weeks ago. It hung loose on his frame, the sleeves pushed to his elbows out of necessity.

“It’s cozy,” he muttered.

“It’s mine,” she teased, brushing past him with a smirk. “You deserve something that’s yours, not borrowed.”

He didn’t answer that.

So she stepped in close again and added, quieter, “Come with me, if you want.”

Branch’s eyes flicked to hers, searching.

She didn’t press.

Didn’t pull.

Just offered.

But he shook his head after a beat. “I’m not ready for that. Not yet.”

“I understand.”

And she meant it.

She always did.

But something flickered through his expression then — a shadow of hesitation. Or maybe… regret.

“You’re safe with me,” she said, voice barely more than a whisper. “Even when I’m not right beside you.”

His jaw flexed.

And for a second, she thought he might change his mind.

But then he stepped back.

So she gave him a soft smile, reached up to brush a piece of hair from his temple, and whispered, “Don’t burn the cottage down while I’m gone.”

“Not making promises,” he muttered.

But his voice was too quiet to be sarcastic.

It was something else.

Something more like… lonely.

The door closed behind her with a soft click.

And the silence that followed was immediate.

Crushing.

He stood there for a moment, unmoving, eyes fixed on the empty doorway like it might fill itself in with her shadow again. Like maybe she’d forgotten something and would rush back in, breathless and smiling.

But she didn’t.

She was gone.

Only for a while.

Only down the path to the village.

But the ache that bloomed in his chest was out of proportion to the distance.

It left him cold.

And hollow.

He moved through the cottage on instinct, reaching for the rhythm they’d built together — tea, blankets, idle conversation, the soft scratch of her tools as she worked by the window — but none of it was here.

None of it felt right without her.

He touched the edge of the table, fingertips grazing where her hand had rested that morning.

Still warm.

He closed his eyes.

And whispered to no one:

“…Come back soon.”

—

Time didn’t pass the same way without her.

The minutes were longer. The air quieter. Even the shadows in the corners of the cottage felt a little heavier, as if waiting for her to return and chase them away with the warmth of her voice.

Branch sat at the window bench, elbows on his knees, hands tangled together like they didn’t know what to do without her fingers in them.

He’d tried to occupy himself. Tidied the kitchen. Reorganized the dried bundles of herbs hanging near the hearth. Poured a cup of tea and let it go cold.

But his mind kept drifting back to her.

And worse — so did his chest.

There was a thread there now. He could feel it.

Not just ache.

Not just longing.

But something real.

At first, it had been faint — a hum under his skin, like the memory of her smile.

But then—

A sudden flicker of emotion.

Not his.

Hers.

Joy, bright and flickering — like sun through leaves. He could almost see her in his mind: walking through the market, herbs tucked under her arm, stopping to chat with someone who smiled back at her like she belonged.

And then, abruptly—

Concern.

Like a drop of shadow into a still pool.

His breath caught.

He sat up straighter, chest tightening with an echo that wasn’t fear — but worry. He didn’t know who she was speaking to, or what was wrong, but he felt the shift in her heartbeat, the tension curling into her thoughts.

She was with someone who needed help.

And she was already softening again — coaxing a smile, applying balm to skin or spirit, healing in that way she did without even trying.

And just like that, he felt her pulse settle.

Steady.

Kind.

Poppy.

He pressed a hand to his chest, stunned by the way his own body responded — not just in empathy, but in alignment.

She was there.

And so was he, even if only through the tether between them.

Is this what it feels like to belong to someone?

The thought whispered through him, uninvited but unstoppable.

Not possession.

Not control.

Just connected.

Like he was no longer standing in a place alone.

His hand curled into a fist.

He wasn’t ready for what that meant.

But gods help him—

He didn’t want to go back to what it felt like before.

—

It started with a single line.

Scrawled in the corner of a page he found tucked between two old books on her shelf — a notebook she said he could use, left out with quiet intention like she already knew.

He hadn’t meant to write it.

He’d only meant to think it.

But the moment he touched pen to paper, it came out:

She smells like clover and firelight and something that makes me feel like I could be more than what I am.

He stared at it for a long time.

Not because he was embarrassed.

But because it was true.

It had been years since he wrote anything that wasn’t meant to be hidden, buried, silenced. Words had once been the only way he knew how to survive — poetry scribbled in journals he burned, stories of lives that weren’t his but gave him something to cling to in the dark.

He’d stopped when he changed.

Stopped when he became this.

Because what did monsters write about?

What did guilt have to say?

But now…

Now she was here.

And she looked at him like he was still made of story.

He turned to a clean page and began again, slower this time, the words arriving like footsteps across soft ground:

The way she walks through the garden like the plants lean toward her for warmth.

The way she hums like she doesn’t realize the song’s inside her.

The way she touches me like I’m not going to break — or break her.

I think I’m scared of what she’s doing to me.

I think I’m more scared of what I’m letting happen.

I think I want it anyway.

He stopped.

The pen hovered over the page.

And then, with an almost startled breath, he laughed.

Soft and disbelieving.

Because he knew exactly what this was.

Not just poetry.

Not just impulse.

It was the beginning of a truth he hadn’t let himself name.

Not yet.

But it was there.

And he didn’t want to rip it out this time.

He closed the notebook gently and tucked it beneath the pillow on the window bench — not to hide it, not really, but to keep it safe.

Because if she ever found it…

He wouldn’t deny it.

Not forever.

But for now?

He whispered, almost to himself—

“…She’s going to ruin me.”

And when he smiled again?

It reached all the way to his eyes.

—

The market bustled around her — vendors calling out specials, children darting between stalls, the scent of fresh bread and spice hanging thick in the summer air.

But Poppy wasn’t really paying attention to any of it.

She wandered slowly, fingers brushing fabric, her woven basket half-full with the usual: salves for an elderly woman’s aching joints, a tincture for a toddler’s cough, honeyed balm for dry skin.

And then her hand stilled.

A folded shirt — deep forest green with dark stitching, simple but sturdy — caught the light from its place among the merchant’s wares.

Her fingers curled into the fabric.

Soft. Strong. Understated.

Just like him.

She held it to her chest for a moment, then turned to the vendor and smiled.

“I’ll take this one.”

He gave her a curious look. “Don’t usually see you buying men’s wear, Lady Poppy.”

“It’s for someone I’m helping,” she said lightly, tucking it into her basket.

But the smile that lingered at the corner of her mouth told another story.

She moved on, picking carefully — another shirt, charcoal gray this time, soft to the touch. A darker green scarf, just in case he ever wanted to leave the cottage and not draw eyes to his too-pale skin.

She was halfway through picking out a second pair of pants when she paused.

The idea of seeing him wear them — of seeing him in something his, not borrowed — made her heart flutter.

I want him to feel like he belongs.

The thought whispered through her like a breeze.

And for a moment, she stilled in the crowd, pressing her palm to the center of her chest where something warm and aching bloomed behind her ribs.

“I think I’m falling for him,” she murmured aloud.

No one heard her over the market noise.

But she did.

And it didn’t scare her.

Not like she thought it would.

Instead… it made her want to hurry home.

—

The cottage felt different now.

Not cold — not anymore — but… waiting.

As if the walls themselves missed the sound of her humming. The way she moved from one room to another like the space responded to her. The way the fire seemed to crackle more eagerly when she was near.

Branch sat on the edge of the window bench, one hand resting lightly over the notebook he’d tucked beneath the cushion. His fingers hadn’t left it for over an hour.

He hadn’t written more.

But the words still echoed.

I think I want it anyway.

A breeze drifted through the open window, carrying the scent of pine and the faintest trace of rosemary — one of her favorite herbs. His chest tightened again.

Not painfully.

But… clearly.

He could feel her again — not directly, not like a voice in his head or a sharp pull — but as a presence. A warmth just outside the edges of his own thoughts.

She was getting closer.

Still in the village, maybe, but on her way back.

And she was thinking of him.

He felt it like sunlight slipping between leaves.

And gods, how was he supposed to breathe through this?

He turned toward the fire — unlit now, the hearth cool and silent — and stared into it like he might find something there.

Not answers.

Just… a reflection of what he’d become.

And what she was helping him unbecome.

—

She took the long path home.

Through the grove where the trees arched overhead like an emerald cathedral. The shade cooled her flushed cheeks, and the silence gave her just enough room to feel the weight of everything she was carrying — not in her arms, but in her chest.

She kept imagining his face when he saw the clothes.

The way he’d probably scoff. Try to hide the fact that he liked them. Maybe mutter something sarcastic.

But he’d wear them.

And she’d see something shift in his posture, subtle and unspoken, the way it always did when he let something in.

She’d seen it before.

Little by little.

And she was starting to realize that all those small shifts?

They’d already begun to change her, too.

This isn’t just about helping him anymore.

That truth rooted deep as she crested the final hill, the shape of her cottage just visible through the trees.

The basket was heavier now.

But her steps were light.

I’m going home.

And she knew, with every pulse of her heart —

He’s already waiting for me.

He heard her before he saw her.

The rustle of her basket brushing the door. The soft sound of her boots on the stone path. The click of the latch, and then—

The door opened.

And there she was.

Poppy stepped into the cottage with the late afternoon sun at her back, her hair a halo of rose-gold light, cheeks pink from the walk and a soft smile blooming on her lips.

Branch didn’t move at first.

He just stared.

And his body — tight with unease, waiting, watching — finally exhaled.

“You’re back,” he said, a little too quickly.

She blinked, surprised by the breathlessness in his voice.

A smile crept onto her face. “I said I would be.”

“I know.”

He stood from the window bench, clearing his throat and trying to will away the fact that his hands were shaking just slightly. He shoved them into his pockets to hide it.

Poppy stepped further in, setting her basket on the table. “Did everything go alright while I was gone?”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “Fine.”

Except it wasn’t.

It hadn’t been fine. Not really.

He hadn’t realized how used he’d gotten to her voice in the morning. Her quiet magic humming through the air. The warmth she carried with her like sunlight trapped in skin.

And now she was here again, whole and safe, and he couldn’t stop the way his shoulders eased or the way his heart finally slowed to something human.

“You got a lot,” he said, nodding toward the bulging basket.

“Just some supplies.” She reached into it with a playful glint in her eye. “And… maybe a few things for you.”

That got his attention.

“For me?”

She pulled out the green shirt first and held it up between them.

“It’s just something I thought might suit you,” she said, suddenly a little more shy. “I figured it was time you had something that wasn’t mine.”

He stared at the fabric.

And then at her.

“I don’t need—”

“I know you don’t,” she interrupted gently. “But I wanted to.”

That stopped him cold.

She wanted to.

Not out of pity.

Not out of obligation.

Just… because.

Branch stepped forward slowly, reaching out to take the tunic from her hands.

His fingers brushed hers in the exchange, and his throat tightened again.

He looked down at the fabric. Then back at her.

And whispered, so quiet she almost didn’t hear it:

“…Thanks for coming back.”

Her expression softened.

She reached up — slow, careful — and tucked a loose piece of hair behind his ear.

“I’ll always come back,” she said.

And he believed her.

For the first time in a long, long while… he really believed someone meant it.

Chapter Text

The cottage was dim, the lamps casting a soft golden wash across the walls.

Dinner had come and gone in quiet, shared motions — Poppy humming while she cooked, Branch chopping herbs at her side, both of them moving around each other like they’d always done this.

But now the quiet had changed.

There was something else in the air.

A pulse beneath the stillness. A tension that hadn’t been there before she left — or maybe it had, and now it was simply undeniable.

Branch sat across from her near the fire, shadows dancing across her cheekbones. She was half-turned toward him, her fingers gently rolling a sprig of thyme between them, her eyes unreadable.

He felt her emotions humming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat.

Warmth.

Anticipation.

Desire.

He swallowed hard.

She didn’t say the words.

But he felt the request rise in her like mist before rain.

Feed.

Not out of need.

Not out of desperation.

But because she wanted to.

So did he.

Gods help him — he craved it.

Not the blood. Not the hunger.

Her.

The connection.

The closeness.

The way her breath caught against his lips when he fed from her. The way her body leaned into his without hesitation. The way he felt her inside him afterward, still pulsing gently along the thread between them.

She finally broke the silence.

“You’re feeling it too, aren’t you?”

His eyes met hers.

He didn’t lie.

“…Yeah.”

A pause.

Then she moved in front of him with deliberate softness — no hesitation in her eyes, only the kind of quiet trust that made something ache deep inside his chest.

Poppy tilted her head, baring her neck, but it wasn’t a submission.

It was an offering.

An invitation.

And gods help him, he wanted it more than anything.

He stepped forward until her breath ghosted against his collarbone, and placed a hand at her waist, the other gently guiding her jaw.

Their eyes met — bright pink meeting stormcloud blue — and everything else fell away .

He bit.

And the world changed.

It started with the taste.

Familiar, yes — warm and honeyed and soft.

But beneath it now was something new . Something pulling .

Like her blood didn’t just sustain him — it called to him.

Echoed in the hollow parts of him like it had always been there, waiting for this moment.

His body went taut.

His grip on her waist tightened as heat tore through him — not lust, not even hunger — but a visceral, overwhelming need.

She’s mine.

The thought came unbidden. Fierce. Unrelenting.

He growled low in his throat and pressed her closer, sealing his mouth tighter to her neck, even as she gasped and clutched his shirt.

Not in fear.

But in recognition.

—

It slammed into her like a second heartbeat.

The moment his fangs pierced her skin, it was like something deep inside her woke up — ancient and quiet, but hers .

Heat flooded her chest, spiraling down through her limbs and making her knees weak. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. Her breath hitched, but it wasn’t from pain.

It was from the knowing.

He belongs to me.

The truth wasn’t spoken aloud — but it was everywhere.

In the way her body moved toward his without thinking.

In the way his arms locked around her like the world might rip her away.

In the way her senses snapped into focus — she could feel him, know him, not just through touch but in the pulse of his emotions. Raw. Unfiltered. Wild.

His pleasure. His awe. His confusion.

And then, beneath all of it — a deep, bone-rooted fear that he didn’t deserve this.

But he does , she thought, and she sent that into the bond.

You do.

—

Her voice wasn’t in his ears, but it was in his blood.

You do.

He pulled back sharply, lips brushing the wound as he sealed it — but he didn’t let her go. Couldn’t. Every cell in his body screamed to keep her close.

His pulse was hammering now — hers was slowing — and for the first time since becoming what he was, he felt anchored.

Not to guilt.

Not to hunger.

To her.

She was pressed against him, warm and trembling, her hands still resting on his chest.

And when she looked up at him, wide-eyed and breathless, he saw it mirrored in her gaze:

You feel it too.

His lips parted, but no sound came.

He didn’t know what to say. How to name it.

He only knew this:

If anyone tried to take her from him—

They would not survive it.

—

She hadn’t meant for this to happen.

Hadn’t known it could.

But something inside her had clicked into place the moment he bit down — like two puzzle pieces locking, like roots intertwining under the soil.

She didn’t feel weak.

She didn’t feel drained.

She felt filled.

Overwhelmed, yes — but not in a way she wanted to run from.

No — she wanted to run toward it. Toward him .

And for the first time since they met… she saw it in him, too.

Not just hunger.

Not just guilt.

But a fragile, aching need for closeness. For safety. For her.

She raised a hand and laid it over his heart.

And felt his pulse skip beneath her palm.

Neither of them spoke.

Because somehow, words weren’t big enough.

—

He couldn’t stop touching her.

Not in any deliberate way.

His fingers just… stayed. Curved gently around her waist, the pad of his thumb brushing slow, unconscious strokes over the soft fabric of her dress.

Her hand was still on his chest. His heart pounded beneath it.

She hadn’t pulled away.

Neither had he.

And yet—

Something’s different.

He could feel her — not just warmth, not just scent — but inside him now. Like the blood he’d taken carried more than nourishment. Like it carried her.

Her heartbeat still echoed in his own. Her emotions flickered beneath his skin like his own instincts.

And gods… it was so much.

Too much.

But also not enough.

Because even now, holding her this close, he needed her closer.

—

She wasn’t sure whose breath she was feeling — hers or his.

They were still pressed together, so close they shared heat and space and silence. Her fingers curled in his shirt again, not out of fear, but because she couldn’t not touch him.

Every part of her body felt pulled toward him — tethered.

It wasn’t lust.

It wasn’t even just intimacy.

It was gravity.

Her body knew him now.

Trusted him. Claimed him.

This is mine.

The realization echoed through her without shame, without hesitation — only clarity. Only need.

And when his gaze dropped to her lips, she saw it mirrored there.

The want.

The ache.

The pull.

—

She tilted her face up just slightly.

Just enough.

It would take almost nothing to close the space between them. To kiss her. To give in.

He could feel the echo of her desire humming through the strange new tether between them.

She wants me.

She trusts me.

She’s not afraid.

And that’s what undid him.

Not the craving.

Not the magic.

But the purity of her trust.

He leaned in.

So close their noses brushed.

Her breath hitched.

His hand came up, shaking slightly, and cradled the side of her face.

She leaned into it.

And that’s when he broke.

Because it was too much.

Too perfect.

Too dangerous.

He pulled back with a sharp, aching breath and staggered one step away, like he’d been burned.

“I—” His voice cracked. “I can’t.”

—

The absence of him was immediate.

The air where he’d been felt cold. Her skin mourned the loss of his hand.

She didn’t chase him.

But her heart twisted with the hollow ache of separation — like it was wrong for them to be apart now. Like something instinctive was protesting the space between them.

Her fingers slowly fell to her sides.

She swallowed.

“…Why?” she asked, gently.

He didn’t answer right away.

Just stood there, breathing hard, staring at the floor like if he looked at her again, he’d collapse.

“I don’t know what this is,” he said finally. “I don’t know what you did. ”

“I didn’t do anything,” she whispered.

But even as she said it, she wasn’t sure that was true.

Something had happened.

Something real.

And now we’re connected.

“I need…” His voice went quiet. “…space. Just for a second.”

And then he turned — not far, only a few paces away — but it felt like a chasm between them.

Poppy stood in the hush that followed, her hand still tingling with the ghost of his touch.

She didn’t push.

But the silence pulsed with longing.

They were no longer just two people in a cottage.

They were something more .

Even if neither of them could name it yet.

—

She didn’t cry.

Not really.

There was a prickle behind her eyes, and a dull ache in her chest, but no tears fell.

Instead, she sat by the fire in silence, the mug of tea she'd made for herself cooling untouched in her hands.

She could still feel him.

Not like she had before — not just presence and proximity — but something deeper now. As though part of her heartbeat lived outside her body, echoing faintly through the walls of the cottage.

He’s still in the other room. He didn’t run.

That should’ve comforted her.

But it didn’t.

Because even if his body hadn’t fled… his heart had pulled away. Closed up like a door slamming shut. And it hurt more than she wanted to admit.

She pressed her thumb to her lips — the same lips that had almost touched his — and let out a soft breath.

Why won’t he let himself have this?

He’d felt it. She knew he had. That moment hadn’t just belonged to her — it had lived in both of them. Rooted something in their bones.

It was still there, pulsing with warmth and tethered closeness.

But now it hurt.

Not because of the bond.

But because she could feel how hard he was fighting it.

“I won’t force it,” she whispered into the quiet. “But I hope he knows he’s not alone in this anymore.”

—

He sat on the floor by the back door, his back pressed to the wall, his hands tangled in his hair.

The silence roared around him.

But inside? Inside was worse.

Everything felt wrong .

His skin burned with the memory of her touch. His fangs ached, not from thirst, but from craving something only she could give him. Not blood. Not even her body.

Just... her.

What the hell is happening to me?

It wasn’t just physical.

It wasn’t just emotional.

It was like his soul had recognized hers — and now that it had, it wouldn’t let go.

Even now, with walls between them, he could feel her: sadness like a low hum, a quiet kind of hope still glowing in the dark, her heartbeat steady and distant like a beacon through a storm.

You feel this too. You have to.

And gods help him, he wanted to go to her. Every part of him did.

But his mind wouldn’t let him move.

What if I ruin her?

What if I lose control again?

What if she sees what I really am?

But then another voice — quieter, but deeper — stirred in the back of his mind:

She already has.

And she stayed.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms.

She saw everything — the damage, the monster, the blood — and she still reached out with softness.

And it scared him more than anything else ever had.

Because he knew what it meant.

It meant he wasn’t falling anymore.

He’d already fallen.

And he didn’t know how to let himself land.

—

The silence had teeth now.

It gnawed at the edges of his resolve, chewed through the thin veneer of distance he’d tried to put between them. It hadn’t worked. It was never going to work.

Because he could still feel her.

Even across the cottage, even through the walls — her sadness clung to him like the scent of rain, soft and persistent. Her hurt wasn’t sharp, wasn’t angry… but it sat heavy in his chest like a weight that didn’t belong to him, but somehow did.

She wasn’t punishing him.

She was just feeling.

And because of this bond — this impossible, wild thing between them — he was feeling it too.

He closed his eyes, dragging in a breath he didn’t need but somehow felt starved for. The imprint pulsed softly under his skin, not painful — just there.

Always there.

Like she had moved in beneath his ribs.

Like she had always been there.

And now that he knew what it was like to feel her emotions threaded through his own…

How the hell was he supposed to go back?

He let his head fall back against the wall.

Stared at the ceiling.

Let the stillness swallow him whole.

And thought of her.

Her eyes — wide and bright and unshakably kind.

The way she smiled like she was letting the whole world in at once.

The way her fingers moved through the dirt when she gardened, murmuring to each plant like it was a friend.

The way she spoke to him like he wasn’t a monster.

Like he was worth saving.

Like he was already halfway saved.

And gods — she was beautiful.

Not just in the obvious way, though that was impossible to ignore. Her face was something carved from moonlight and clover. Her hair like fire and blossoms. But it was the way she existed that undid him.

She didn’t shrink around people’s fear.

She didn’t guard herself with coldness like he did.

She burned through the world — quietly, yes, but fiercely.

And she had chosen him.

Not once.

But over and over again.

Even when he gave her nothing but distance.

Even when he tried to push her away.

And now, with this strange bond between them humming like a second heartbeat, she was still there — across the cottage, wrapped in sadness, but not turning away.

She feels everything I feel. And she’s still here.

He didn’t deserve that.

But maybe…

Maybe it’s not about deserving.

Maybe it’s about trust.

Trusting that she sees him and isn’t afraid.

Trusting that she’s stronger than his fear, stronger than the darkness he keeps running from.

Trusting that if he falls completely — not just a little, not just in secret — she won’t let him shatter.

He exhaled slowly.

Laid his hand flat against the wood of the wall behind him, like maybe the feeling of her could travel through it and find her.

I want this. I want her.

And maybe he had all along.

The silence stretched.

But it didn’t feel as empty anymore.

Because somewhere on the other side of it… was her.

And for the first time since that terrible night so long ago, he didn’t want to run from the light.

He wanted to reach for it.

Chapter Text

His legs felt heavy.

Like every step was dragging years behind him — years of silence, guilt, fear. But he moved anyway.

Toward her.

Toward the low light flickering in the main room.

Toward the steady heartbeat that wasn’t his but pulsed through his chest like it belonged there now.

She was sitting curled on the couch, legs tucked beneath her, mug in hand but untouched. She didn’t look up right away. Maybe she already felt him there.

He took one more step. And then another.

“Poppy.”

Her head turned.

Eyes pink-rimmed but clear. Open. Waiting.

She didn’t speak.

She just set the mug down and turned fully to face him, giving him room to speak — or not. To come closer — or not.

And gods, he wanted that. The space. The choice. The quiet, wordless permission she offered with every breath.

So he sat beside her.

Not close enough to touch.

But close enough to try.

There was a long pause.

Then, in a voice that felt smaller than his own:

“I want to tell you what happened.”

She didn’t move.

Didn’t lean in or pull away.

She just nodded, eyes locked to his. No judgment. Just presence.

Branch stared at his hands.

“Everything was fine. Before.”

He laughed, but it was bitter and humorless.

“Or… not fine. But manageable. I fed from the centers. Didn’t starve, didn’t kill. Didn’t feel much of anything, really. I was just… existing.”

His jaw clenched.

Then loosened.

“And then one day I went in for a scheduled feeding. Same as always. And they paired me with this girl — young, probably in her twenties. Bright. Eager. Friendly.”

He swallowed.

“She smelled… different. Not just good. Irresistible. Like her scent had been made to drive me out of my mind.”

Poppy’s eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t interrupt.

“I started to feed,” he said softly. “And it was like something inside me just… snapped. I couldn’t stop. I wanted to, but I couldn’t. And she—”

He broke off, jaw tightening.

“She didn’t push me away. She grabbed me. Held onto me. Clung like—like she wanted it. Like she didn’t want me to stop. And at the time I thought… I don’t know what I thought. I was out of my mind.”

Poppy’s expression shifted — confused, maybe. She leaned in just slightly, not to stop him, but to show she was still there. Still listening.

Branch’s voice dropped.

“But then… she did stop. Just like that. And her expression changed. She looked horrified. Started screaming. Panicking.”

His fists clenched on his knees.

“That’s the face I remember. Not her blood. Not her touch. Just that look. Like I was a monster. Like I was the thing every human fears we are.”

He blinked hard. The words shook now.

“She was fine. Physically. The healers came. She didn’t press charges. Said she wasn’t hurt. That it was just ‘an intense experience.’”

Another bitter laugh.

“But I saw the look in her eyes. And I knew… I knew what I was. What I could be. What I almost was.”

He turned to Poppy.

“I stopped feeding after that. Cold. Shut it all down. Starved myself. I didn’t care what happened. Because I never wanted to feel that again. To be that again.”

A long silence.

And then, quieter still:

“I never wanted to hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it.”

His voice cracked at the end.

And in that breath between the breaking and the silence—

Her hand found his.

Warm.

Sure.

Still here.

She didn’t speak right away.

She let him sit in the stillness he’d earned. Let his pain breathe. Let him breathe.

And then — only then — she threaded her fingers through his.

“Branch,” she said gently, “you fought it. You’re still fighting it. Even now.”

He didn’t look at her.

But he didn’t pull away, either.

“You think that moment defined you. That face. That fear. But it didn’t.”

She reached up and touched his cheek — soft, grounding.

“I’ve seen what you are. I’ve seen how you fight for control. How you care. How you choose compassion, even when it’s easier not to.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“You’re not a monster.”

His eyes flicked to hers.

And for the first time… he didn’t argue.

—

The room was still.

No more words. No more confessions.

Just the soft sound of the fire crackling and Poppy’s thumb brushing lightly over the back of his hand — a rhythm, a grounding. Something real.

Branch hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been wound until her touch began to undo him.

Not unraveling him in a way that shattered…

But in a way that eased.

That said: You’re safe. You’re seen. You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.

And gods help him, he didn’t want to anymore.

He exhaled — long and shaky — and let his shoulders sag.

Let himself lean .

First just slightly, barely shifting closer, like testing the weight of it.

Then, when she didn’t move away — when she simply opened her arms like the most natural thing in the world — he leaned all the way in.

Laid his head gently against her shoulder.

Let her hold him.

And when her arms wrapped around him, warm and steady, a soft, unspoken sound caught in his throat.

Not a sob. Not a word.

Just the sound of something finally letting go.

Poppy didn’t press him.

She just held him.

One hand resting at the nape of his neck, the other stroking slow, comforting circles across his back.

For a long time, that was enough.

But then, quietly, she spoke.

“…I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

His brow furrowed slightly where it rested against her.

She didn’t stop her gentle movements.

“It doesn’t add up.”

“What doesn’t?” he murmured.

“That girl. The way she held onto you. The way she didn’t let go when you tried to stop — that shouldn’t have been possible. A vampire that deep in bloodlust? A human shouldn’t be able to overpower that. Even with adrenaline.”

Branch was silent, but his breath hitched.

“And then how fast she changed. From pulling you in… to pushing you away. Like flipping a switch.”

She shook her head against his.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong. But something about it feels… off.”

“…You think it was a setup?” His voice was low. Wary.

“I think,” she said gently, “that someone might’ve wanted to push you to the edge. And make sure there was someone watching when you got there.”

He sat with that.

And realized… it was the first time anyone had ever questioned the story he told himself.

Not to excuse him.

But to believe in the part of him that fought back.

And in that belief, he found something he hadn’t let himself feel in years.

Hope.

He didn’t pull away from her.

Not even when the fire dimmed, and the room cooled, and his own thoughts finally stopped spinning.

He stayed wrapped in her warmth, in her quiet faith, in her steady heartbeat.

And for once… he didn’t resist it.

He let himself rest.

Not because he was weak.

But because he finally had someone strong enough to hold him.

—

Morning came slowly.

The kind of soft golden light that filtered gently through the curtains, catching dust motes mid-drift and wrapping the cottage in warmth. The fire had long since gone out, but the embers of the night before still glowed — not on the hearth, but between the two of them.

Poppy woke first.

Not fully — not in a start or with any urgency — but in the way someone does when they realize they’re warm . Safe. Held.

She didn’t open her eyes right away. She just breathed.

The weight of his arm was draped loosely across her waist, her head tucked beneath his chin, one of her hands resting lightly against his chest. His heartbeat was steady. Slower than hers. Stronger than she’d ever felt it.

He stayed.

He hadn’t pulled away. Hadn’t disappeared into the night.

He had let her hold him — and now, he was still here.

Still wrapped around her like he was afraid she’d vanish if he let go.

And oh… how that stirred something in her chest.

She tilted her face slightly and peeked up at him.

Branch was still asleep.

Or if not asleep, then completely still — eyes closed, brow smooth, mouth just barely parted. His features looked softer in the light, more human than vampire, the usual tension melted away.

Peaceful.

And for the first time since she met him… he looked unburdened.

He stirred only when her breath warmed his collarbone — a subtle shift in her chest, the faintest flex of her fingers on his shirt.

His eyes opened slowly.

And the first thing he saw was her.

Still there.

Still curled against him.

Still real.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just… watched.

And listened.

To her breath.

To the pulse between them, still faintly echoing through the bond.

To the way his own chest didn’t feel quite so tight anymore.

She was beautiful in sleep. But she was undeniably beautiful like this — blinking up at him, soft and drowsy, with the barest smile threatening her lips.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

He huffed something like a breath of laughter. “I think it is.”

They stayed like that for a few long moments.

No urgency. No fear. Just the quiet knowing between them, stretched across the space that no longer existed.

She could still feel him.

Not just physically — though every inch of him was warm against her.

But through the bond.

His calm.

His hesitation.

And beneath it, still — his awe. Like he didn’t quite believe this was real.

She gave him a slow smile and brushed a strand of hair off his forehead.

“Sleep okay?”

He hesitated. Then nodded.

“…No nightmares.”

Her smile grew. “Good.”

He held her gaze for a beat longer.

And in a voice so quiet she almost missed it:

“Because you were there.”

They didn’t say anything else.

They didn’t need to.

Because for the first time, morning had found them together.

And neither of them felt alone.

—

Branch stood in the small kitchen, barefoot and shirt rumpled, watching Poppy hum to herself as she moved around the room like the early light belonged to her.

Maybe it did.

The sunlight through the window caught in her curls, painting them in shades of rose and gold. She was radiant — not just in appearance, but in presence. Everything about her softened the edges of the cottage. Of the morning. Of him.

He leaned a hip against the counter, arms folded loosely, watching as she opened a jar of dried herbs and gave them a little shake over the steaming kettle.

“I didn’t know tea could be that complicated,” he said dryly.

She glanced over her shoulder, grinning. “It’s not complicated. It’s intentional. ”

“Pretty sure you whispered to it.”

“I was encouraging the chamomile.”

Branch snorted. “Of course you were.”

Poppy turned to him fully, raising an eyebrow. “You say that like it’s not normal.”

“Because it’s not.”

“It is ,” she insisted, crossing her arms and giving him a mock stern look. “And for the record, they appreciate it.”

Branch stared at her for a moment, then tilted his head toward the kettle. “They?”

“The herbs.”

“…Right.”

She grinned wider and handed him a mug.

“Drink,” she said. “It’ll help with your nerves.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’re always nervous,” she teased, bumping her shoulder lightly against his as she passed. “It’s kind of your thing.”

He raised the mug to his lips, trying not to smile — but failing completely. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re still wearing my spare clothes,” she sing-songed, grabbing a few eggs from the basket near the hearth.

Branch looked down at himself — soft linen shirt, loose drawstring pants — and huffed. “They’re too short.”

“I think you look cute.”

He nearly choked on his tea.

He had never turned red that quickly.

It was glorious.

Branch looked away fast, pretending to examine the inside of his mug like it had personally offended him.

Poppy just smiled and turned back to the stove, cracking the eggs into the small pan and letting the scent rise with the heat.

The silence between them now was different.

Not heavy. Not hesitant.

But warm.

Comfortable.

She could still feel him — his amusement, his lingering disbelief that the morning could be this… gentle. That she could still want him here, after everything he’d told her.

But she did.

And she’d keep reminding him. In the softest, quietest ways she knew how.

With breakfast.

With smiles.

With herbs that hummed under her fingers.

With patience.

She turned slightly and peeked at him again — still sipping his tea like it was a foreign substance he was suspicious of but intrigued by.

And her heart swelled in her chest.

He looked up.

Caught her staring.

“…What?”

“Nothing,” she said, biting her lip to hide her smile.

He narrowed his eyes. “That’s never true.”

She shrugged. “I just like mornings like this.”

He paused.

“…Me too,” he said, barely audible.

But she heard it.

She felt it.

And it made the whole day feel new.

—

By midday, the garden was buzzing with life.

The sun had stretched into the clearing, warming the soil and making Poppy’s herbs all but hum beneath her fingers. She knelt in the dirt with her sleeves rolled up, pulling weeds and checking leaves with a quiet, practiced joy.

Branch knelt a few feet away, helping her repot a small tangle of wild mint that had started to choke her thyme.

He’d insisted he didn’t know what he was doing.

She’d insisted he didn’t need to — just follow her lead.

“Like this?” he asked, holding up the plant with a raised brow.

Poppy peeked over, then smiled. “Perfect.”

“Feels like I’m committing a crime,” he muttered, “ripping things out of the earth.”

“It’s not a crime,” she said sweetly. “It’s gardening .”

“And they’re not mad?”

“Of course not. You’re helping. Look—this one’s already perked up.”

He frowned at the plant, and Poppy swore the leaves shivered just a bit under his stare.

She laughed.

He didn’t.

But his lips did twitch at the corners.

—

After a while, as they worked side by side in the warmth, Poppy began to hum.

Not for any reason.

Just because the day was good, and the air was kind, and her heart felt light.

The melody was soft and old — something her mother used to sing when the flowers were in bloom. Without realizing it, she swayed a little to the rhythm, brushing her hands along stalks of lavender and letting the scent rise around her.

Then she stood.

Started twirling between rows of herbs with a laugh in her throat and sunlight on her skin.

Branch watched her with his usual narrowed gaze — skeptical, unreadable, a little too still.

She noticed.

Naturally, she turned her attention right to him.

“Dance with me,” she grinned, holding out a dirt-smudged hand.

He blinked. “What?”

“Dance,” she repeated, still twirling, curls bouncing. “Come on. You need joy in your limbs.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You do now.”

“I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Poppy.”

She stopped in front of him, still holding out her hand, cheeks flushed from spinning. “Branch.”

He stared at her.

Then sighed.

Then, like gravity had finally won — he reached out.

Her hand in his was small and warm and real.

He let her pull him up.

Let her guide his fingers to her waist and place her own hand gently in his.

“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he muttered.

“I can,” she said with a smirk. “You’re not as grumpy as you pretend to be.”

He snorted. “Don’t tell anyone.”

She started to move — not with perfect form or grace, but with joy. And it was infectious.

He stumbled at first.

She didn’t care.

She just laughed, adjusting their rhythm, letting him find it alongside her. The hum turned to a soft song on her lips, low and melodic, curling into the afternoon air like a secret.

And soon enough… he was smiling.

Actually smiling.

The movement brought them closer.

Step by step, spin by spin, until his hand fit perfectly against her lower back and her chest pressed lightly against his.

Her eyes lifted.

His dropped.

Their bodies swayed, breath brushing skin.

And then—

Too close.

The air shifted.

His hand at her back stilled. Tightened just slightly. Not pulling away — not yet — but bracing.

She could feel it — that something stirring again.

The same ache from before. The same quiet voice whispering closer, closer into her skin.

Her free hand drifted upward.

Brushed his shoulder.

His cheek.

Their noses brushed.

Her breath caught.

He leaned in just a little, and for the briefest, breathless second—

Was he going to kiss her?

Was she going to let him?

Yes. Gods, yes.

He hesitated.

Just an inch between them.

His eyes searched hers.

Something soft. Something terrified.

And then—

“Poppy…” he whispered, the word thick with want and warning.

Chapter Text

“Poppy…” His voice was nothing more than a breath — her name slipping past his lips like it already belonged there.

Her heart was a drumbeat against his chest. His pulse roared through her fingertips.

The space between them pulsed like a held breath.

And then — as if the sun itself tugged the strings of the world —

He closed the gap.

Their lips met in a hush of warmth and trembling stillness.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careful.

It was real.

Soft at first — a hesitant meeting of mouths, like both were afraid the other might vanish if they moved too fast. His lips were cool, but the heat that bloomed through her veins at the contact was instant , curling deep in her belly, spreading outward like a flame.

And he felt it too.

Her joy — her surprise — the ache she’d carried for days, weeks — all of it surged through the bond, wrapping around him, melting every wall he’d once built to keep this exact moment out.

He deepened the kiss with a sound that might’ve been a groan — low and aching, like he’d finally been granted the very thing he’d long thought forbidden.

She gasped into him, and he swallowed the sound like it was sacred.

Her fingers slid into his hair.

His hands anchored her waist.

And suddenly there was no space left between them — not in body, not in soul.

Their emotions tangled like roots below the surface: her trust, his awe; her desire, his hunger; her belief in him, his terrified, unstoppable need for her.

She could feel the wonder radiating from him as he kissed her again, and again, and again — not greedy, but desperate to memorize every angle of her mouth, every shiver of breath.

And he could feel her , open and soft, lips parting to meet him, fingers drawing him closer as her thoughts bloomed with one word:

Yes.

Yes, she wanted this.

Yes, she wanted him.

Yes, she was his , and he was hers , even if neither of them could say it aloud yet.

The magic that bound them thrummed through the kiss like a song without words — every movement, every gasp, every shared shiver a note in a symphony no one else would ever hear.

They were inside each other’s feelings now.

And gods help them, it only made everything burn brighter.

His hand slid up her back, drawing her closer until their chests pressed tight, and she could feel the beat of his heart stuttering beneath her palm.

She smiled into the kiss.

So did he.

And then they broke apart — barely — mouths just inches away, breath mingling.

Eyes locked.

Lips red.

He looked wrecked. Soft and stunned and hers.

“…Wow,” she whispered, blinking up at him.

He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Her fingers brushed his jaw, thumb tracing the curve of his cheekbone. “You felt that too, right?”

He nodded slowly.

“Every second.”

They didn’t say more — not yet.

But they didn’t need to.

Because in that kiss, the bond between them didn’t just whisper.

It roared.

—

They tried to go back to tending the garden.

Really , they tried.

Poppy was on her knees in the dirt again, repotting the last of the mint, brushing soil from the roots with gentle fingers. Branch was a few feet away, retying the stakes that supported her tomatoes. On the surface, it looked like nothing had changed.

But beneath it?

Everything had.

He kept sneaking glances at her — not subtle ones, either. His eyes would flick to her mouth, linger for just a second too long, and then dart away like he hadn’t just kissed her senseless.

And Poppy… well, she wasn’t any better.

She found herself humming again, smiling into the soil, her entire body still warm from the inside out. Every time she felt him glance her way, it fluttered in her chest like a secret bird beating its wings.

Their bond still pulsed softly beneath her skin — no longer just a whisper, but a low, glowing awareness. She could feel him through it. His quiet wonder. His disbelief. The soft ache of want that hadn’t gone anywhere, just settled beneath the surface like an ember.

She reached for her watering can and let her fingers brush his as she passed it to him.

He froze.

Just for a heartbeat.

Then took it.

“…Thanks,” he murmured, voice a little hoarse.

“No problem,” she said lightly, but her cheeks burned.

—

Everything was louder now.

Her heartbeat. The sound of her breath. The warmth of her body just a few feet away. He could feel her joy like a sunbeam under his ribs — bright and golden and unmistakably his now.

He didn’t know how to move normally anymore.

Didn’t know how to look at her without remembering the taste of her lips. The softness of her skin. The way her hand had trembled slightly when she’d cupped his cheek — not in fear, but in feeling.

He reached to secure another vine, and his hand slipped on the twine.

“…Shit.”

Poppy looked over from where she was rinsing her hands in a bucket of rainwater. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just—” He shook his hand and gave her a small, crooked smile. “Distracted.”

She laughed, and gods , that sound. It made his chest tighten in the best possible way.

“Well, I can’t imagine why.”

They made it through the rest of the gardening with only three more moments of blushing, two stolen glances that turned into stares , and one brief touch at the small of her back that left them both breathless.

But they got it done.

Together.

And for the first time in what felt like forever… the silence between them was easy.

—

The golden hour settled slowly over the cottage, tinting the windows with firelight and turning everything soft at the edges. The scent of thyme and rosemary from the garden still clung to their skin. Inside, the air was warm with the crackle of the hearth and the clink of plates being pulled from cupboards.

Poppy stood at the kitchen counter, humming again — that same melody she always fell into when she felt at peace.

Branch didn’t even pretend he wasn’t staring this time.

She was barefoot, curls wild from the wind, cheeks still pink from the sun and the kiss that had changed something between them forever. She moved with an ease that mesmerized him — slicing root vegetables, adding them to the pot simmering on the stove, hands moving with practiced comfort.

“You’re not helping,” she said without turning.

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re just standing there. Watching me.”

“…Is that a crime?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, eyes shining. “Only if you don’t also pass me the mushrooms.”

He stepped forward, grabbing the small bowl from the windowsill and setting it gently beside her.

Her fingers brushed his in the exchange.

Neither of them moved away.

—

She could feel him behind her.

Not just in the bond — though that, too, was pulsing steadily like a warm, tethered thread between them — but physically. The heat of his chest near her back. The weight of his eyes on her neck. The way his energy curved around hers like a protective cloak.

She turned slightly to glance up at him.

“You’re allowed to do more than just hand me things, you know,” she teased gently.

His lips twitched. “I’m still recovering from my tomato-stake trauma.”

She bumped her hip against his. “Chop the onions.”

“Violent,” he muttered, but moved beside her anyway.

Their shoulders brushed. And stayed brushing.

Every movement between them was casual… until it wasn’t.