The storm finally exhausted itself just before dawn, leaving the city washed and glistening. By the time the last police car pulled away from the gallery and the last rival slipped into the fading shadows, the sky had turned the soft gray of a held breath. Amal felt every bone, bruise, and heartbeat as she and Min-jun rode the silent elevator back up to the penthouse, fingers laced together like the only thing keeping them from drifting apart.
The doors slid open to a familiar scent—coffee, rain, something warm and faintly sweet. Jisoo had gotten there first, apparently; a mug waited on the counter with Amal's name scrawled in messy marker, along with a sticky note that made her smile despite everything.
"Don't die. I'm too pretty to mourn. –J"
Amal chuckled, a tired little sound, and Min-jun turned toward her with that look he only ever showed her now: one part relief, one part wonder, one part disbelief that she was still here, still choosing this.
"You're laughing," he said softly, shoulders dropping as some of the tension bled out of him. "That's a good sign."
"I'm reading," she countered, waving the note. "Your best friend is dramatic."
Min-jun tugged her gently toward the couch. "He's not wrong. I would be unbearable at your funeral."
She shot him a look. "We're not starting the morning with funeral jokes, vampire."
He smiled, slow and crooked. "Morning hasn't started yet. This is still… the last stretch of night." He brushed a thumb over her cheekbone, eyes tracing the faint smudge of dried paint there. "My favorite part."
Exhaustion settled over her like a heavy blanket, but beneath it, a softer ache bloomed—one made of everything she'd almost lost and everything she still wanted. She sank down onto the couch and kicked off her shoes, feeling oddly shy as he sat beside her, close enough that their knees touched.
For a moment they just breathed together. No plans, no rivals, no collectors. Just the sound of rain thinning to a drizzle on the glass, the low hum of the city trying to remember how to be normal again.
"I was scared," she admitted suddenly, voice small in the big room. "At the gallery. When you went after them on the catwalk. I thought—if you fall, if they take you, all of this—" she gestured vaguely between them "—just ends in the middle of a sentence."
He turned fully toward her, his hand finding the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a careful tenderness that made her chest ache. "I was terrified," he said, surprising her. "Not of them. Of coming back to find you gone. I've survived centuries of blood and boredom, Amal. The idea of surviving you—" he shook his head, almost laughing at himself "—that's the first thing that ever truly felt impossible."
Her throat tightened. "You're not allowed to say things like that when I'm this tired. I'll start crying and blame you for it forever."
He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. "Then cry," he whispered. "I'll take the blame. I'll take all of it."
She didn't. Instead she laughed again, watery but real, and curled into him, tucking herself sideways across his lap as if they'd done it a thousand times. His arms came around her without hesitation, one hand at the small of her back, the other drifting up and down her spine in slow, soothing strokes.
Up close, she could hear things she'd never quite caught before—the faint, steady pulse beneath his ribs, slower than a human's; the tiny hitch in his breath every time her fingers traced the line of his jaw; the quiet hum he made when her head settled over his heart, as if her weight anchored him to this century.
"Tell me something good," she murmured. "Something that isn't about war or collectors or ancient politics."
He thought for a beat, then: "When you were asleep on my shoulder the first time, back in med school, you drooled on my hoodie. I kept it for years."
She jerked back to look at him. "Liar."
He bit back a grin. "Cross my unbeating heart. You'd pulled your fourth all-nighter, you were holding a highlighter like a weapon, and then you just… collapsed on me. I'd never felt more weirdly trusted in my life."
Amal groaned, hiding her face in his chest. "You kept my drool? That's not romantic, that's a crime."
"It was proof," he said, his voice rumbling through her. "That even when you couldn't remember me, some part of you already felt safe with me." His fingers tilted her chin up. "You have no idea what that did to me."
Her cheeks warmed. The air between them thickened, the way it always did before one of them broke first. This time it was her. She leaned up, catching his mouth with hers, a soft, unhurried kiss that tasted like coffee, rain, and the relief of still being alive.
He kissed her back like she was the only real thing left in the world, slow at first, then deeper, his hand sliding up to cradle her jaw. The tension in his shoulders melted beneath her touch. When she shifted, swinging a leg over to straddle his lap, he let out a quiet, startled laugh against her lips.
"Bold," he murmured.
"Longest night of my life," she whispered back. "I'm cashing in my survival points."
He rested his forehead against hers, breathing her in. "You know there's no going back from this, right? From us. Once we step over this line, I'm not going to know how to want anything less."
"Good," she said simply. "I'm tired of wanting less."
The next kisses were slower, deeper, threaded with all the things they couldn't yet say without breaking open entirely. Her fingers curled in his hair; his hands mapped the curve of her back, memorizing the way she shivered when his thumb brushed just under her ribs. Every tiny sound—her soft gasp, his low groan when she bit lightly at his lip—wrote itself into the quiet of the room.
Eventually, the intensity eased into something gentler. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, breathing against her skin as if it were air he actually needed. She traced idle circles at the nape of his neck, feeling his muscles loosen, his energy shift from battle-ready to bone-deep tired.
"You should sleep," he murmured, words muffled. "Doctor's orders."
"I am sleeping," she replied, eyes already drooping. "Just…vertically."
He laughed, a tired, warm sound, and maneuvered them both until they were stretched out along the couch, her tucked against his chest, his arm under her head like a pillow. The rain outside softened to a whisper. The city hummed. Her body finally believed they were safe enough—for now—to let go.
"Min-jun?" she asked drowsily.
"Mm?"
"If everything goes wrong later… if we get separated again…promise me you'll find me. Even if I forget. Even if it takes another lifetime."
His lips brushed her hair. "I'll find you in every version of the world they try to build," he said, voice low and steady. "In every canvas, every song, every crowded room. I'll find you, and I'll make you fall for me all over again, as many times as it takes."
"That's a very dramatic way of saying 'I love you,'" she mumbled, half asleep.
He smiled against her temple. "I love you," he said anyway, quietly, like a secret he was finally allowed to keep.
She didn't answer with words. Her hand tightened in his shirt, body melting fully against his. Within minutes, her breathing evened out, warm and soft against his throat.
Min-jun lay there, watching the first pale streaks of morning crawl across the ceiling, holding the woman who had somehow turned eternity into something fragile and precious. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wanted the days to be slow, the nights to be gentle. He wanted more mornings like this. More chances to take the risks that came with loving something mortal and blazing.
Outside, the world kept turning, danger never truly gone. But on that couch, wrapped up in Amal's warmth and the fading scent of rain, the longest night finally gave way to a soft, stubborn hope.
He closed his eyes, not to sleep, but to memorize every second. Just in case.
And for a little while, there was no war, no gallery, no collectors. There was only a vampire and his artist, tangled in each other, redefining what survival—and love—could feel like.