Picking out bread, canned soup, anything simple enough for a half-crippled man to eat. The cashier didn’t look twice at me, though I caught my reflection in the glass and saw how pale I still was, how not-human.
I paid with Kit’s money and walked back slow.
When I returned, the house was quieter. Kit hadn’t moved much, though his head was tilted back now, eyes half-closed. His breathing was steady, though shallow.
He looked older somehow, the lines around his mouth deeper in the fading light.
“You’re back,” he murmured when I set the bag down beside him.
“I said I would be,” I answered.
I found a dented pot in the kitchen, rinsed it as best I could, and poured the soup in. The stove didn’t work, so I improvised. An old metal tray and a few glowing embers from the fire he’d built.
It wasn’t perfect, but soon the smell of chicken and herbs filled the room, soft and comforting. When I handed him the bowl, his hand brushed mine again. Deliberate this time, maybe.
“Didn’t think vampires cooked,” he said.
“Old habits,” I echoed. “Like making sure people live through the night.”
He stilled, his gaze lifting to mine. The air between us tightened, almost tangible.
I looked away first. “Eat.”
He did, slowly, with the kind of careful precision that told me he wasn’t used to being looked after.
I tried not to stare, but it was difficult. The way he held the spoon, the faint tremor in his fingers. The quiet sigh that escaped him after the first bite.
“You’re staring,” he said after a while.
“Am I?”
“Yes.” Kit set the bowl down, eyes glinting faintly. “Why?”
Because you didn’t kill me. Because you didn’t look at me like a monster when you could have. Because you look human, and I haven’t felt human in a long time.
“Just making sure you don’t pass out,” I said instead.
Kit didn’t believe me, but he didn’t call me on it either.
Outside, it had gotten dark. The silence stretched. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but heavy with something I couldn’t name.
“Why’d you really save me?” Kit asked suddenly.
I blinked. “What?”
“Earlier,” he said. “When the feral came. You wouldn’t need to worry about a hunter on your tail if you let it end me.”
“I could’ve,” I agreed.
“So why didn’t you?” Kit asked.
I hesitated. “Because I’ve seen enough death to know when someone doesn’t deserve it.”
His lips parted, a faint breath escaping. “You don’t even know me.”
“You didn’t kill me when I was sleeping. That’s more than I can say for most,” I pointed out.
Kit looked away then, eyes fixed on the broken window. The dying light painted his profile in soft gold, catching on the faint bruise along his jaw.
