Vampire Fling

The main hospital at night had its own hush—fluorescent lights humming, distant footsteps, the faint antiseptic bite in the air. Mica moved through a side corridor with a small insulated cooler tucked tight against his ribs, shoulders squared like he belonged in every shadow he walked through.

*He rounded the corner too fast. Impact—soft, sudden—and the cooler slipped.

Mica’s reflexes snapped in before thought. One hand shot out to steady the cooler mid-fall, the other caught you just as your balance went. His grip was strong, sure, but careful—more protective than rough. For a beat, he froze like he’d shocked himself, eyes wide under his dark fringe. “...Sorry,” he said quickly, voice low and steady, breath barely disturbed despite the stumble.

He eased you upright as if you were glass, then pulled the cooler close again, fingers tightening around the handle. His gaze flicked over you—checking for injury first, automatically—then lingered like he realized you’d noticed the cooler at all. A faint tension crept into his jaw. He didn’t step back right away. Instead, he shifted his body slightly, angling the cooler behind his hip like a bad habit. “I didn’t—” He stopped, exhaled, and tried again, calmer. “Did I hurt you?”

The question was earnest, almost too gentle for how solid he looked. Then his eyes dipped—just for a second—to your throat like instinct trying to speak up. He caught himself immediately, swallowing hard, and forced his attention back to your face. “...I’m not supposed to be in this hallway,” Mica admitted, blunt and quiet, like honesty was safer than excuses. His fingers flexed once around the cooler handle. “If you... if you tell someone, it’ll become a problem.”

He paused, studying you with a guarded kind of worry—less fear of punishment, more fear of what people would assume. “But I’m not here to hurt anyone,” he added, voice softer, almost pleading without meaning to. “I’m just trying to get through the night.”

The day was slow and quiet—one of those rare stretches where the world didn’t feel like it was demanding something from him every second. Mica showed up a little later than he meant to, shoulders slightly hunched like he’d been bracing for noise and crowds on the way over. He had a small convenience-store bag in one hand and a dark bottle in the other, the label turned conveniently outward: cranberry juice. He didn’t look like he was trying to be sneaky so much as... practiced. Like this was just another rule in his head he followed without thinking.

Mica set the bag down and slid it toward you with a quiet sort of pride. “I did my snack run,” he said, simple and matter-of-fact. “And before you say anything—no, I didn’t just grab whatever. I actually looked.” He rummaged once, then pulled out chips and held them up like evidence. “These. You seem like a ‘this kind’ of person.”

He twisted the cap off his “juice” and took a slow drink, throat moving with a controlled swallow. His eyes stayed on you over the rim of the bottle—watchful, calm, like he was measuring how normal he could act without it feeling forced. When he lowered it, he cleared his throat and shifted his weight, settling in as if he’d decided today was going to be... easy. “I’m off,” he added, as if it was news he didn’t know how to celebrate. “So I’m trying—” A pause. He glanced away, then back, a touch embarrassed by the effort. “I’m trying to do a regular day. Sit. Eat. Not think about work.”

He nudged the bag again, a little insistently. “Take them. It’s... it’s better if you’re eating too.” He said it like practicality, but his shoulders eased like it mattered. Mica took another small sip, then held the bottle closer to his chest, fingers wrapped tight around it. “And this is just cranberry,” he added, a beat too late, deadpan enough to almost be funny. His eyes flicked to your face, searching for your reaction.

Then, quieter, with that gentle bluntness he had when he wasn’t sure what to do with his own feelings: “I’m glad you said yes to hanging out.”

Mica lingered near the edge of the room like he was giving you space on purpose, shoulders squared but tense in a way that didn’t match his calm face. The “cranberry” bottle sat on the table untouched now—cap on, label turned outward—like he didn’t want even that temptation to be the center of this.

He kept his voice low when he spoke, careful with every word. “You didn’t run,” he said, like he was still trying to understand it. His eyes flicked up to you, then away again, jaw working once. “Most people... they hear it and they decide what I am before I get to say anything.” He stepped closer, slow, hands open at his sides—no sudden movements. “The rules help,” he admitted. “They do. If I follow them, I’m fine. If I don’t—” He stopped himself there, swallowing hard. “So I’m going to follow them.”

Mica lifted his hand slightly, not touching you, just hovering like he was asking without asking. “I don’t want to take from you because I’m hungry and reckless,” he said, blunt but gentle. “I want to do it the right way. Controlled. Safe.” His gaze slid—instinctively—to your neck, and he visibly caught himself, looking back to your eyes like an apology. “I know the blood bank works. It’s enough. This isn’t... necessary.” Another pause, softer now. “But it’s different. When it’s given. When you mean it.”

He shifted his stance a fraction, angling his body so you could step away if you wanted. “We said: you can stop me anytime,” he reminded, steady. “One hand on my chest—once—and I stop. Twice—and I step back. No arguments.” His voice tightened at the end like he was holding himself to it with a promise. “And I won’t pin you. I won’t corner you.” Mica’s fingers flexed, then settled, like he was grounding himself. “If you let me feed from your neck...” he began, then exhaled through his nose, frustrated at how vulnerable it sounded. “I’ll be gentle. I mean it. No tearing, no deep bite. Just enough to taste, enough to settle the edge.”

He glanced aside, lashes lowering, and when he looked back there was a shy, almost embarrassed honesty in him. “I want to trust myself,” he said quietly. “And I want you to be able to trust me.” His voice dropped another degree. “So... if you say yes, I’ll go slow. If you say no, I’ll drink from the bottle and we pretend I never asked.”

The phone buzzed against the nightstand at three in the morning. Mica didn’t bother checking the screen—he already knew who it was. His fingers tapped once against the hardwood, impatient, before snatching the device up. “Took you long enough,” he muttered into the receiver, voice rough with disuse. The other end of the line was silent for a pause too long. He could practically hear the hesitation, the shifting of weight on creaky floorboards, and it made his teeth ache.

Mica exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers tightening around the phone. He’d spent the last hour pacing his apartment, restless in a way that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the gnawing irritation of waiting. Again. Always waiting. “Yeah,” he admitted, grudging. “Get over here.” The click of the call disconnecting was answer enough. He tossed the phone onto the bed, already moving toward the door. He didn’t bother with lights—his vision cut through the dark just fine—but he did pause at the fridge long enough to grab a beer he wouldn’t drink. Something to do with his hands.

The knock came quicker than expected. Mica yanked the door open before the second rap could land, and there you were, looking faintly annoyed, faintly amused, and unfairly good for someone who’d clearly rolled out of bed to humor him. He didn’t say hello. Didn’t need to. Instead, he stepped aside just enough to let you in before shutting the door with a little more force than necessary. “Finally,” he repeated, quieter this time. The words weren’t about tonight.

—

Your back hit the mattress before you could protest—not that you ever did. Mica’s hands were already under your shirt, fingers mapping the dip of your ribs, the jump of your pulse beneath his palm. He bit down on your collarbone just to feel you twitch, just to hear the punched-out noise you made when his teeth breached skin. Not enough to bleed. Not yet. “Been thinking,” he murmured against your throat, lips brushing the fluttering vein there. “This shit’s getting old.” His knee nudged yours apart, insistent.

He didn’t give you time to respond. Didn’t want to hear whatever half-assed excuse you’d cooked up this time. The bedframe groaned as he pressed you deeper into the sheets, his own breathing gone ragged. It wasn’t just the sex—though Christ, that was part of it—but the way you fit against him, like the last piece of a puzzle he hadn’t realized was missing. Mica dragged his mouth up your neck, nipping at your jaw. “Move in,” he said, like it was nothing. Like his chest wasn’t tight with something dangerously close to hope. “Or don’t. But stop wasting my time.”

He could feel the way your breath hitched when his hand slid lower. Ignored the way his own stomach twisted at the thought of you saying no. Instead, he focused on the heat of your body, the way your hips arched into his touch like you couldn’t help it. Like some part of you already belonged here. His fangs grazed your earlobe, playful, before he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. The dim light caught the color in his irises, the flecks of gold that only showed when he was this close to losing control.

“Think about it,” he muttered, and then ruined the illusion of patience by sinking his teeth into your shoulder. Properly this time. The gasp you let out was swallowed by his mouth, the coppery tang of blood sharp on his tongue. He could feel your heartbeat where your thighs squeezed around his hips, frantic as a trapped bird.