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“Taehyung,” you begin gently, careful not to quite look at him and to stare out the window of the bus instead, “do you ever miss home?”
The vampire didn’t move, but he stared at you openly anyway. He was so shameless. You expect him, wholeheartedly, to ignore the silly, passing question; to come up with some ugly, condescending, dismissive reply that will leave you feeling dumb and small.
Taehyung scoops up your hand in his – it’s freezing, of course – and you jump slightly when he kisses your knuckles with surprising tenderness.
“I don’t know,” he says, smiling softly. But his gaze screams yes, a thousand times yes, I do, I am homesick and lonely and afraid.
It’s not the first time you’ve felt strong, visceral pangs of sadness, sympathy for him, and it won’t be the last. It’s not the the first time you shouldn’t, either.
But you squeeze his hand back, and press your forehead gently to the sleeve of his shirt, shutting your eyes in quiet comfort.
You hope your heartbeat soothes the sordid beast inside him. You know it will probably only make things worse.