Amal woke to warmth.
The couch was too small for two people, and yet somehow she and Min-jun had ended up stitched together in a tangle of limbs that felt embarrassingly natural. The curtains were half-drawn, letting spears of late-morning sun cut across the living room, dust motes turning in the light like lazy fireflies. She blinked slowly, cheek pressed against his chest, lulled by the steady rise and fall that almost made him seem human.
For a second, she just lay there and listened.
There it was: the faint thump of his heart, slow and deliberate, like a metronome turned down to half-speed. Underneath, something else—an almost inaudible hum, like a distant song he didn't know he was making. She smiled against his shirt.
"Are you smelling me again?" his voice rumbled above her, amused, sleep-rough.
She jerked a little. "You were awake?"
"Kind of hard to sleep when a very determined doctor decided my ribs were her pillow." His fingers brushed through her hair lazily. "Not that I'm complaining."
She swatted his chest once, soft. "You should've moved me."
He tightened his arm around her. "Absolutely not."
The memory of the night came back in pieces: the gallery, the storm, the fight, the blood on the floor spelling out threats, and then their mouths pressed together in this very room, promises whispered between breaths. Her stomach twisted with equal parts fear and giddy warmth. She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling.
"Do you regret it?" she asked quietly. "Any of it? Telling them off. Kissing me like the world was ending. Letting me stay."
Min-jun shifted onto his side, propping his head up on one hand. A shaft of light cut across his face, making his eyes glint almost gold. His fangs, half-bared from the way he was biting his lip, flashed briefly.
"I've regretted a lot of things," he said slowly. "Feeding when I shouldn't. Staying silent when I should've spoken. Leaving you the first time." His free hand found hers, their fingers interlocking. "Last night isn't on that list. Not even close."
Her chest eased. She studied him, tracing details like she'd sketch him later—the faint scar near his temple, the way his hair fell over his forehead, the soft crease at the corner of his mouth that only showed when he was trying not to smile.
"You do realize," she said, the corner of her lip twitching, "that we are extremely cliché right now."
"Couch cuddles with my favorite mortal? That's not cliché, that's high art," he replied. "Also, you drooled again."
Her eyes widened. "Liar."
He grinned. "Maybe. Maybe not. You'll never know."
She tried to shove him off the couch; he let himself be pushed, dramatically rolling onto the carpet with a groan. "My own muse," he complained, sprawled on the floor. "Assaulting me."
"The muse is hungry," she countered, sitting up. "And she has hospital rounds in three hours. If she faints in the middle of a consult, you're going to have to come glamour all my patients, and that's a lot of paperwork."
He propped himself up on his elbows. "You're going to work? After last night?"
"If I don't show up, Dr. Sharma will steal my favorite cases," she said. "Also, if I sit still too long, I might start thinking too much. Work's good. It keeps me from spiraling."
He studied her, expression softening. "You don't have to be brave every second, Amal."
"I know," she said, surprising herself with how honest she sounded. "But I like who I am when I choose to be."
She padded to the kitchen, bare feet silent on the cool floor. He watched her move—sleep-tousled hair, paint-stained t-shirt from the day before hanging off one shoulder, legs bare. Sunlight broke around her like she carried it. For a creature who lived most comfortably in the shadows, it was almost blinding.
He followed her, leaning against the doorframe as she clattered mugs and reached for instant coffee. "Let me take you," he said. "To the hospital. Driver, tinted car, full dramatic boyfriend package."
She froze mid-scoop, glancing back at him. "Boyfriend?"
He didn't flinch. "Is that not…what this is?" he asked, suddenly less sure of himself than she'd ever seen him. "Because I kissed you while promising to find you in every lifetime. That's…strong relationship language where I come from."
She turned, crossing the space between them in three quick steps. Standing on her toes, she pressed a light kiss to his jaw. "Yeah," she said softly. "That's what this is."
Relief loosened his shoulders. He slid his arms around her waist, pulling her flush against him. "Then let me do one normal boyfriend thing today," he murmured in her ear. "Let me drive you to work and make the nurses gossip."
She laughed, picturing it: the arriving black car, the too-handsome man in sunglasses opening her door like they were in some over-the-top drama. "They already gossip," she said. "But sure. Let's give them material."
As they moved through their small morning routine together, it felt almost domestic: sharing toothpaste at the sink, bumping hips in the narrow bathroom, arguing over whether she really needed to bring her pepper spray ("You live with a vampire." "I'm not always with you."). He packed her a small container of cut mango and almonds, carefully tucking it into her bag like he'd learned from watching humans who loved each other.
"You know this is overkill," she said, watching him.
"It makes me feel better," he answered simply. "Let me have this."
She tugged him down by the front of his shirt and kissed him, slow and deep, until his hands tightened on the counter behind her. When she pulled back, his eyes were darker, pupils blown out.
"If you keep doing that, we're going to be late," he warned, voice low.
She smirked. "You have super speed. We'll manage."
They did end up five minutes late.
The ride to the hospital was a study in opposites: outside, the city roared, honks and vendors and motorcycles weaving; inside the car, it was all leather, quiet music, and the faint brush of his fingers over her knee as if reassuring himself that she was still there. Every time they hit a red light, he stole another glance at her profile, memorizing the way the morning light kissed her skin.
Outside the entrance, he got out first, ignoring the curious looks, and opened her door. A few nurses already on shift slowed, staring unabashedly. One of them elbowed the other. Amal's ears burned, but she couldn't stop the smile spreading across her face.
"Text me when you get a break," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Or when you need an excuse to hide in the stairwell and make out."
She swatted him lightly. "Behave."
"Never," he whispered, then bent and kissed her—nothing indecent, just a soft press of lips that lasted a second longer than strictly necessary. Enough to make her knees a little weak. Enough to make one nurse drop her clipboard.
She pulled back, biting her lip to hold in a stupid grin. "Go home," she ordered. "Sleep. Or paint. Or brood attractively in front of your piano. I'll be back tonight."
"Yes, ma'am," he said with mock obedience. "Don't let any human steal my job."
"What job?"
He winked. "Being the one you come home to."
Her heart did a strange little somersault. She turned before he could see her face fully crumble into something sappy and walked toward the entrance, feeling his gaze on her the whole way. Right before the automatic doors opened, she glanced back.
He was still there by the car, hands in his pockets, smiling like she'd just given him the universe because she'd agreed to let him drive her to work.
And somehow, in a world of blood and collectors and centuries-old rivalries, that felt like the most dangerous, most precious magic of all.