Morning found them wrapped in the unmistakable comfort of togetherness. Amal stirred first, awakened by the smell of coffee and the faint, dreamy notes of an old jazz record spinning low through the penthouse. She blinked, half expecting to find herself alone—to discover last night's laughter and confessions had been dreams smuggled in by exhaustion. But there was Min-jun, by the kitchen window, pouring two mugs of coffee with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent more nights alone than he'd dare confess.
She padded over, stealing a slice of ripe mango from the counter and popping it in her mouth before he caught her. "Good morning, Dr. Rahman," he teased, eyes bright with teasing heat. "Stealing breakfast from a vampire is risky. You know we bite."
She snorted, tossing him a playful glare. "You're lucky I don't faint at the sight of old fruit. Besides, I'm the brave one—one of us needs to risk something before noon."
"Is that a challenge?" He set down the mugs, crossing the few steps between them in a blink. His hands bracketed her waist, slow and reverent, but his eyes—half-shadow, half-sunrise—were messier than usual. A hank of her hair slipped between his fingers and he tugged just enough for her to arch in his direction. "What kind of risk?"
Amal's lips twitched, unable to hide her smile. She cupped his face, thumbs rough with traces of paint and sleep. "The kind that tastes new every time. The kind that might ruin us, but might also be the best story we'll ever tell."
He lowered his head, everything careful about him replaced by hunger—yes, for her, but more than that, for the trust, the belonging, the easy sweetness mortals took for granted. Their kiss was messy and honest, laughter breaking the spell before it got too serious. She bit his lower lip—just enough for him to flare his fangs, for both of them to remember the line they danced daily.
"Like I said," she whispered, giddy, "I'm braver than I look."
Min-jun rolled his eyes, mocking his own immortality. "You're trouble. It's sweet on the tongue, but I'll pay for it later."
She nipped his jaw, then pulled away, eyes sparkling with challenge. "You keep saying that. I haven't seen you run yet."
Before another round of kisses could tempt them right back to bed, her phone buzzed—a reminder of her dual life. She had surgeries to check in on, a lecture in less than two hours, canvases to prep for their trap-exhibit, and a vampire to keep out of trouble (or at the very least, out of her pastries).
Over toast, she mapped out their day on a napkin, loading it with doodles and stick-figure vampires escaping moody gallerists. Min-jun watched her, chest filled with a longing so gentle it nearly undid him. The hardest thing about loving Amal was realizing how easily she made disaster feel like art.
He packed her lunch—cold brew, sandwiches, a chocolate croissant snuck in like a secret; she pretended not to notice the childish note tucked beneath the croissant: "Don't let hungry monsters eat you. That's my job."
On her way out, she paused at the door, softening. "You know, I don't need you to be hero or monster. I just need you to be here."
He brushed back her hair, thumb at her cheekbone. "I'll always be hungry for more of you."
"Save it for tonight," she teased, already plotting their next reckless rendezvous. "Promise?"
"Promise," he said, voice low—an oath, not just a reply.
As she vanished into the busy day, Min-jun leaned on the door, heart so full it ached. Loving Amal was sweet on the tongue—dangerous, dizzying, and worth every risk.