Chapter 6 Simon
SIMON
When I woke, the light slanting through the cracked boards wasn’t the pale gray of dawn anymore. It was orange-gold, the dying light of dusk.
For a moment, I didn’t move. I listened. The faint pop of cooling wood, the whisper of wind slipping through the holes in the roof. Somewhere outside, a bird called once, then fell silent.
I was still alive.
That realization hit slow and strange. My first instinct after waking was always to check for pain, for hunger, for the burn of sunlight if I’d been careless. But there was none of that.
Just the faint ache in my arm and the scent of blood. Old now, fading under the sharp tang of antiseptic and smoke. There, sitting against the far wall, was Kit.
He wasn’t asleep. He was watching the door. His jaw was still set tight, but he didn’t look quite as ready to kill me anymore. That, more than anything, unsettled me.
He must’ve noticed me staring, because his gaze flicked my way.
“You’re up,” he said. His voice was rough, scraped raw by exhaustion.
I blinked, pushing myself upright.
“You didn’t—” I stopped before I could finish the thought.
Kill me, I almost said. You didn’t kill me. He must’ve heard it anyway. One corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close enough to hurt.
“I figured you’d be dead if I tried,” Kit said dryly. “Didn’t want to clean up a body today.”
I huffed out a laugh, weak but real. “Charming.”
Kit looked away, the line of his throat shifting as he swallowed. “Don’t get used to it.”
I didn’t. Couldn’t. Every instinct I had screamed that this was temporary. That sooner or later, when his wounds healed and the reality of what I was sank in, I’d be the next thing his knife found.
Still, something in my chest eased. Maybe it was the way the light caught in his hair, making it look less harsh, or the fact that he hadn’t tied me up while I slept. That counted as trust, didn’t it? However fragile.
“How’s your shoulder?” I asked quietly.
He glanced down at the bandages, prodded the edge with two fingers, and winced.
“Still attached. So that’s something,” Kit muttered.
I nodded, relief settling low in my stomach. “You need to eat.”
He raised a brow at that. “You offering?”
“I was thinking of picking something up for you,” I said, rising to my feet.
My body protested, I hadn’t fed properly in days, but I ignored it.
“You won’t heal if you don’t eat,” I added.
Kit gave me a long, assessing look, as if trying to decide whether I was mocking him. “And what about you?”
“I’ll manage.” I didn’t want to admit how close I was to losing control earlier, when his blood had filled the air like a storm.
I could still taste it in the back of my throat if I let myself think about it. So I didn’t. Instead, I moved toward the broken doorway, brushing the dust off my sleeves.
“Wait.”
The word was soft, but it stopped me cold. Kit shifted, grimacing as he reached for his back pocket. He pulled out a battered wallet and flipped it open.
“Here.”
Kit fished out a few crumpled bills from his pocket and held them out to me. His hand shook slightly. Whether from pain or exhaustion, I couldn’t tell.
I stared at the money, then at him.
“You’re serious,” I said.
“You think I’m the kind of guy who lets someone pay for his dinner?” Kit asked, trying for nonchalance.
The attempt didn’t quite land. His voice was too hoarse, his skin still pale beneath the dim light.
“You’re letting a vampire buy it,” I pointed out.
His jaw worked, but his hand didn’t drop. He kept holding the bills out stubbornly, as if daring me to make something of it.
For a moment, neither of us moved. His fingers brushed mine when I finally reached for the money. It was a brief, accidental touch that sent a strange current skimming up my arm.
I’d forgotten what warmth felt like when it came from something living. His skin was fever-hot, the pulse beneath it quick and uneven.
He didn’t seem to notice. If I still had a beating heart, I knew it would’ve been thudding in my chest.
“Fine,” I said quietly, tucking the bills into my pocket.
Kit leaned back against the wall again, the effort dragging a faint hiss of pain through his teeth. He tried to hide it, of course. Typical hunter pride.
“Just don’t run off with it,” Kit muttered, settling against the boards.
I hesitated. “You think I would?”
His gaze flicked up to mine, steady and unreadable.
“You could,” he said. “But you won’t.”
The way he said it wasn’t a challenge. It was quiet certainty, the kind that left no room for argument. He wasn’t testing me, just stating a fact. Like he’d already decided what kind of creature I was.
It startled me more than it should have.
A few hours ago, he’d held a blade to my throat, eyes hard and sure. Hunters didn’t trust vampires. That was a fact carved into both our worlds.
Yet here he was, offering me money like I was some stranger sent out on an errand. Did he think I was harmless now? Or had he simply decided I wasn’t worth fearing?
Maybe I should’ve been insulted. Instead, I found myself strangely relieved. I slipped the bills into my pocket, turning toward the door before I could say something foolish, like thank you.
“I’ll be back soon,” I told him.
The air between us felt charged, heavier than it should’ve been. The kind of weight that came from words left unsaid. I could feel his gaze linger on my back as I reached for the doorknob.
The streets were empty when I stepped outside, the air thick with humidity and the metallic scent of rain waiting to fall.
The nearest open store was a corner bodega half a block down, its flickering neon sign humming faintly. I went through the motions.
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.
I wanted absurdly to reach out, to trace the curve of it, to make sure he was real. Instead, I reached for the empty bowl. “You should rest,” I told him.
Kit caught my wrist before I could pull away. The touch was gentle, but it stopped me cold. His fingers were warm, rough from years of handling weapons.
“Simon,” he said quietly.
My name sounded different on his tongue. Less like suspicion, more like something he didn’t quite know how to feel.
I met his gaze, and for one dizzying second, the rest of the world narrowed down to that point of contact. His pulse against my skin, the soft drag of his thumb as if he hadn’t realized he was still touching me.
“You should eat too,” he murmured.
“I will,” I promised. “Later.”
Kit didn’t look like he believed me, but he didn’t say anything more. I sat beside him, close enough that our shoulders almost brushed.
The scent of him filled the air. Blood and sweat and something faintly metallic, but underneath that, warmth. Human warmth.
I could hear the hum of crickets outside. I found myself relaxing despite everything. Despite who he was. Despite who I was.
After a while, I felt his hand shift, just slightly, as if testing the distance between us. I didn’t move away. Neither did he. When his fingers brushed mine again, his touch light and tentative, I didn’t pull back.