Before I could intervene, Cristian’s eyes darkened. He moved faster than my brain could process—one second he was beside me, the next pressed close to the driver, hand at the man’s shoulder.
“Cristian!” I gasped.
He leaned in, lips at the man’s throat.
“Oh my god!” I clapped my hands over my mouth. “You can’t just?—”
The driver froze, confused more than afraid, like this might be some weird modern social experiment he hadn’t agreed to. Cristian exhaled, the sound almost reverent. He drew back and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking—God help me—satisfied.
The driver blinked, adjusted his hat, and mumbled, “I hate this fucking job,” before trudging back to his car. “I better get a huge tip for that shit.”
I stood there, paralyzed, hands in my hair. “What—what—what was that? You just bit an Instacart driver.”
Cristian looked genuinely puzzled. “He appeared sturdy. I took little. He will recover.”
“Recover? That was customer service trauma!”
Cristian straightened his shoulders, utterly unbothered as he brought the bags inside and took them to the kitchen. “I required sustenance. My hunger was unbearable. I feel much improved.”
“You can’t justsnack on strangers,” I hissed, slamming the door shut before stalking off after him. “There are laws. Sanitation codes.”
Although, part of me felt bad for allowing him to be so hungry.
He moved past me, back to the living room, and walked toward the couch like a man returning from war, the faintest smirk curling his mouth. “Noted.”
He sat, leaned back, and let out a low groan of contentment. Not obscene exactly—just…deeply inconvenient.
My stomach fluttered. “Oh, for the love of therapy.”
Cristian stretched, eyes half-lidded. “He seemed amenable.”
“He wasconfused!”
He gave a faint shrug. “Confusion is not resistance.”
I pointed at him with my pen. “That isnota lesson you’re going to keep.”
He just closed his eyes and sighed like a man at peace for the first time in centuries.
I stood there, vibrating with fury, confusion, and a shameful amount of curiosity about what kind ofgroanhad just come out of him. My therapist would have a field day.
Finally, I gave up, and went to pack away the groceries. “Fine. You sit there and marinate in your moral ambiguity.”
My therapist had once told me that people with ADHD struggle with something calledobject permanence of joy.Apparently, it meant I forgot fun existed until it accidentally smacked me in the face.
So, when I found mySummer Bucket Listtaped to the inside of my laptop—hidden behind a sticky note that said“Remember to eat breakfast like a functioning adult”—I decided to reclaim one small, harmless pleasure.
“Watch a rom-com,” I read aloud. “I can do that.”
Cristian looked up from where he was sitting. “A… what?”
“Romantic comedy. It’s basically joy with kissing. Consider it part of your cultural education.”
He didn’t look convinced, but followed me to the kitchen, where I planned to create a smorgasbord of snacks.
“Also, this is your punishment for biting the Instacart guy,” I added, grabbing the popcorn kernels.
“I already apologized,” he said, voice clipped.
