Steven’s POV
The walk back felt longer than it should’ve.
Not because the clearing was far.
Because the heat in my blood wouldn’t settle.
My hands still remembered flame—even though they were normal now. Damp from Aqua’s water. Smelling faintly like smoke that didn’t exist.
And every time I pictured it—
me on the ground, face in dirt, throwing a tantrum like a kid—
fire answering like it had been waiting to embarrass me—
my stomach twisted.
Monster.
That word kept blinking behind my eyes like a warning sign.
Because that’s what the Four Families thought Salvatores were, right?
Unrestrained. Dramatic. Dangerous.
And I’d just proven it in front of Aqua.
The thought should’ve made me quiet.
Instead, something else kept stirring—sharp and restless—like my pride didn’t know when to shut up.
Fang was looped loosely around my neck under my hoodie, hidden and warm against my skin.
Through the bond I felt his state: alert. Watchful. Not relaxed.
Aqua walked beside me, quiet, cardigan sleeves tugged over her hands like she was trying to keep her own nerves tucked away.
She hadn’t scolded me. She hadn’t lectured.
She’d just… stopped the fire. Stopped me.
Which somehow made the guilt worse.
By the time we reached the apartment building, my throat felt too tight to speak.
Three flights of stairs.
Each step made the same scene replay in my head.
Face-first. Dirt. Rage. Flame.
My grip tightened on the railing.
Aqua glanced at me once, then looked forward again like she was giving me space to put myself back together.
And that’s when the thought came.
Not gentle. Not mine, exactly.
Apologize like you mean it.
I blinked.
The thought sharpened, warmer now—almost amused.
She’ll forgive you faster if you act like a man, not a boy. Confidence. Touch. Don’t hover like you’re afraid of her.
My pulse kicked.
I swallowed hard.
That wasn’t how I usually thought.
I usually apologized like I was trying to be small enough not to scare anyone.
And the worst part was, some part of me wanted that too.
But this urge… it wanted me bigger.
Bolder.
It wanted me to step into her space like I belonged there.
I told myself it was just adrenaline.
Just embarrassment trying to turn into something else.
I told myself it was normal.
The moment we reached her door, Aqua unlocked it and stepped inside first.
I followed.
The apartment felt too quiet. Too still.
Like Katie’s absence had left a hollow behind.
Aqua set her keys down and turned to me, her face soft but serious.
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“Steven,” she began.
I didn’t let her finish.
I stepped close.
Too close.
I caught her hands in mine—warm fingers, surprised stillness—and pulled her gently toward me.
Aqua blinked up at me, eyes wide.
My chest thumped hard.
Fang’s presence tightened around my awareness like a warning coil.
But the other impulse—the new one—leaned in anyway.
I slid my arms around Aqua from behind, careful but firm, and lowered my mouth near her ear.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
The words were soft, but the way I said them wasn’t.
It wasn’t my usual “please don’t be mad.”
It was… confident.
Like I expected forgiveness.
Like I expected her to accept me anyway.
Aqua’s breath caught.
For a second, she didn’t move.
Then her shoulders eased slightly, like the tension had been living there and finally loosened.
“It’s okay,” she said softly.
But her tone wasn’t casual.
It was… curious.
Like she was listening to something beneath my apology.
I didn’t release her right away.
I let myself hold her longer than necessary, my hands resting at her waist, my cheek hovering near her hair.
The closeness felt good.
Too good.
Not hunger-good.
Not feeding.
Something else.
Something that felt like possession dressed up as affection.
Aqua turned in my arms slowly, facing me.
Her gaze searched my face—gentle, but sharp enough to notice changes I didn’t want anyone noticing.
“You’re… different right now,” she said quietly.
My throat tightened.
“What?” I tried to laugh it off. “Different how?”
Aqua’s lips twitched faintly.
“Bolder,” she said, like the word didn’t offend her—but it didn’t fully reassure her either. “You’re usually more… gentle.”
That landed in my chest like a bruise.
Because she was right.
And because part of me didn’t want to be gentle right now.
Part of me wanted to prove I could be more.
I swallowed, forcing my voice into something lighter.
“I just…” I shrugged, trying to sound normal. “We’re dating. But we’ve barely acted like it.”
Aqua blinked.
“Dating,” she repeated, like hearing the word out loud made her cheeks warm.
And it did.
Her face flushed a little.
She looked away, embarrassed, but I saw the smile tugging at her mouth anyway.
I leaned in before I could overthink it.
And kissed her cheek.
Just once.
Soft.
Simple.
But the contact sent a strange warmth through my core—like my Beast Core noticed affection and wanted to translate it into fuel.
I pulled back fast, startled by my own reaction.
Aqua touched her cheek lightly, eyes wide again.
Then she smiled—small, shy, real.
“Oh,” she whispered, like she wasn’t sure what to do with sweetness when it showed up in chaos.
My chest tightened.
For a second, the “new confidence” felt like a good thing.
Like maybe I was just growing.
Like maybe the fire had scared me into acting braver.
So I forced a grin.
“There,” I said softly. “Now I’m officially sorry.”
Aqua let out a quiet laugh.
And the sound soothed something in me.
Almost.
But not completely.
Because the moment the laughter faded, the image returned:
Me slamming my fists into dirt.
Flames answering like loyal dogs.
Aqua putting them out like I was a child playing with matches.
Monster.
I swallowed hard.
“I’m gonna… lie down for a second,” I said quickly, voice suddenly rough. “Just to reset.”
Aqua nodded, still watching me.
“Okay,” she said gently. “I’ll make tea.”
I didn’t answer.
---
I turned and walked to the spare room, shut the door most of the way—ajar, but not open—and fell back onto the bed like my body had finally remembered it was tired.
The ceiling stared back at me.
My chest stayed too awake.
My mind replayed the moment at the door.
My hands on Aqua’s waist.
My mouth near her ear.
The way she’d softened.
The way I’d liked it.
The way something in me had guided it.
What did I just try to do?
Not to her.
To myself.
To my own personality.
It felt like I’d worn a version of myself that didn’t quite fit—but looked good enough that part of me wanted to keep it on.
A soft scrape came from the doorway.
Fang slithered in quietly, then coiled near the bed like he’d claimed the role of “lecture” as part of his familiar contract.
He didn’t speak right away.
But through the bond I felt his emotional state: tight restraint. Concern. And something like disappointment.
My jaw clenched.
“What,” I muttered, staring at the ceiling. “Don’t say ‘I warned you.’”
Fang’s voice slid into my mind, calm and sharp.
You’re pretending hunger is a thought.
My stomach tightened.
I didn’t move.
Fang continued.
It’s not.
It’s instinct. It is chemistry in your blood. It is your core responding to opportunity.
I swallowed hard.
“I wasn’t feeding,” I muttered.
Fang’s presence pressed like weight.
I didn’t say you fed.
I said you’re treating it like something you can out-think.
My throat went dry.
I turned my head slightly, staring at him.
“You think I’m… changing.”
Fang’s response was immediate.
You are becoming more Salvatore the more you cultivate.
My chest pulsed low.
“And that means what?” I asked, voice tight.
Fang’s tongue flicked once.
Confidence. Charm. Flirtation.
Your body will try to pull love the easiest way it knows how, he added.
And if you don’t train it… it will train you.
My skin prickled.
I stared at the ceiling again, throat burning.
“I didn’t mean to be…” I searched for the word. “Intense.”
Fang’s answer was quiet.
Intent does not erase instinct.
The sentence cut deeper than it should’ve.
Because it was true.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
“I don’t want to be a monster,” I whispered.
Fang’s emotion softened slightly through the bond—less sharp now, more grounded.
Then choose control, he said. Again. And again. And again.
My throat tightened.
I opened my eyes.
The door was still ajar.
From the hallway, I heard Aqua moving quietly—kettle, mug, the soft clink of a spoon.
Normal things.
Safe things.
And still, my attention kept drifting toward her like a compass needle.
Not toward her body.
Toward the glow I couldn’t stop noticing now.
The way her aura sat around her like warmth.
Like a lantern.
My core hummed low under my ribs—curious, hungry in that patient way that scared me more than desperation ever could.
I swallowed hard.
Told myself to breathe.
Told myself to think about anything else.
But my mind betrayed me anyway, soft and sick and honest:
What would it feel like… to take just a little?
The thought made my stomach turn.
And my core answered with a low, eager pulse—like it liked the idea.
I clenched my fists.
Not hard enough to summon fire.
Just hard enough to remind myself I still had hands.
Still had choices.
Still had a line I hadn’t crossed.
Yet.
I stared at the ceiling until my eyes burned.
And in the next room, Aqua’s quiet presence glowed like a temptation I didn’t know how to turn off.