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Luka’s cabin was made of wood that creaked with every gust of wind. Its roof was so patched up it looked like a quilt of stories, each new board telling tales of rain, wind, and survival. The walls were stained by the years, by dirt, by the rough hands that had touched them. Luka had hands like those, coarse, strong, weathered by farm work, by fights with life, by scars the world couldn’t see.
The days were long, and the nights, lonely. Except for some… the ones where the wind carried a whisper through the trees, a murmur only he could hear. Those were the nights when Rhys came.
Rhys, with his fine linen clothes barely touched by the forest soil. With that hair that, inexplicably, was always clean, as if dirt was afraid of him. With those eyes that shone brighter than the moon, not because of magic, or maybe yes, but because of how they looked at everything with a tenderness that hurt.
“Son of nobility,” he’d say, with a crooked, teasing smile.
“Son of golden cages,” Luka would reply, a pang of jealousy poorly disguised.
The vampire didn’t always come at night. Sometimes he showed up in broad daylight, when the family was away and left Luka “in charge” of the land. A barely veiled excuse to keep him away from the world and stop him from doing something stupid. They knew him too well.
In those moments, it was just the two of them. Luka didn’t ask too many questions; he preferred not to break the illusion that Rhys came only for him, and not because he had time to spare or was just curious.
They had met on a ridiculous afternoon, when Luka, voice still cracking and hands still learning not to pull up roots with the plant, was talking to a stubborn corn stalk that refused to grow.
—If you’re not going to grow, at least don’t make me look like an idiot in front of my mom.—
The young wolf whispered, frustrated.
—Do you really talk to your plants?—
Asked an unfamiliar voice from the trees.
Luka turned abruptly. A stranger, with eyes that glowed like fireflies, watched him from the shadows. Rhys’s smile was as wide as his lack of respect for anyone’s privacy.
At first, Luka was annoyed. Then offended. And eventually, he simply decided to ignore the fact that a vampire was spying on him from the fields. Because, deep down, there was something about Rhys’s presence that brought peace, a calm even the full moon couldn’t tear away.
Rhys seemed like he’d fallen from the sky. Literally. Luka couldn’t remember the last time he’d had real company, someone who listened, who wanted to understand, who didn’t get angry at his crappy attitude, as his mother called it. Luka knew he wasn’t a saint. His humor was dry, his voice rough, and his patience nonexistent.
Being a wolf, and an Alpha on top of that, wasn’t an easy mix.
But there was something comforting in knowing that, no matter how bad his day had been, Rhys would be there. With open arms, soft hands, and infinite tenderness.
And yes. He knew Rhys was a vampire, that he had fangs, that he needed blood to live and came from a story of faraway castles. But that didn’t matter to him.
It never had.
Just like Rhys didn’t care that Luka was a werewolf. He didn’t look at him like a beast, or an enemy.
Over time, it became a habit. Rhys came whenever he could. He brought books, stories of impossible places, sometimes just his silence. Luka never asked questions; he simply left the door slightly ajar, as if saying, “Yes, you can come back.”
And Rhys, hungry, not for blood, but for staying a little longer, returned again and again. As if his feet remembered the path even when his mind didn’t.
But not everything was simple. Luka had to deal with one of the greatest problems of his daily life.
His mother had a voice harsher than any winter. “Wolves learn through the stomach,” she used to say. And when Luka failed, when he forgot to close the fence, when the wheat didn’t grow, or when the moon simply put him in a bad mood, she left him without dinner.
“Discipline,” she called it.
“Punishment,” is how it felt to him.
Luka endured. Pretended. He couldn’t do much else. Even if he wanted to, he and cooking didn’t get along, and he couldn’t just take something from the garden, like a carrot. They’d kill him. His mother would forget he was her son.
But one night, Rhys found out: Luka held a cup of water like it was a feast, trying to fool his stomach with liquid.
—You haven’t eaten?—
Asked Rhys, arms crossed at the doorway.
—I wasn’t hungry.—
Luka lied, eyes fixed on the wooden floor.
Rhys didn’t insist. He just stood there, watching, because he always knew when Luka was lying.
The next day, the vampire showed up with something in his arms.
Bread… black. Literally.
And a soup that smelled like mint… and ashes.
—I tried to cook.—
Said Rhys, nervous.
—Please don’t laugh. I swear I gave it my best shot. I don’t have taste buds for this, so tell me if it’s… acceptable.—
Luka looked at it like he was being offered poison, but those eyes… those damn eyes, shining like that while looking at him. How the hell could he say no to that?
He tasted it. Nearly choked, coughed, smiled through it.
—You’re missing… kind of everything. But... the bread is crunchy.—
He tried to sound as polite as possible; at least he wasn’t dead, and that was already a win.
Rhys laughed. Didn’t take offense.
—Sorry. I’ll get better.—
And he did. Moon after moon, he returned with new attempts: soggy cakes, flavorless meat, stews that tasted like mud. Luka ate, always. Even when his wolf didn’t want to, it pushed him to eat, though very aggressively, because it didn’t want to make Rhys cry.
While chewing and grimacing, he’d hear his wolf yelling inside:
("No one’s ever going to care for you like this again! Eat it!")
(“Stop whining, I’m suffering too.")
("Don’t you dare throw it up! DON’T!")
And he appreciated that push. Even if it was torture, it was worth it just to see the vampire happy. Because in every dish was that silent gesture: I care. He had seen the burns on the vampire’s arms; they reflected his effort, his genuine affection, his dedication.
Eventually, the food improved. Thank the stars, the bread no longer turned to coal, the soups tasted like home, the vegetables stopped being boiled rubber. Luka looked forward to those moments, not for the taste, but for the scent of care.
Because Rhys was that: care wrapped in pale skin and a soft smile.
One autumn night, they went farther from the fields. They found an old cabin, nearly devoured by the forest. It was a special night. Rhys had prepared a full dinner: juicy meat, glazed vegetables, warm bread with garlic butter.
Luka ate in silence, eyes closed, savoring every bite.
—This… is perfect.—
He said at last.
Rhys didn’t answer. Just smiled at him.
Silence fell between them, thick, heavy.
Luka swallowed hard, then muttered:
—Why do you do all this? You can’t eat mortal food… why do you try so hard?—
The werewolf knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from the vampire’s lips.
Rhys lowered his gaze, playing with his fingers.
—Because when they leave you without food, it feels like something inside me gets left empty too. It hurts to see you like that. I don’t like seeing you like that.—
The firewood crackled. Luka’s heart did too, his inner wolf paced wildly, euphoric, confused, desperate to jump forward and claim him, or cry, or both.
Rhys kept talking, eyes still down:
—I know I can’t give you what you really need. But... let me give you what I can, even if it’s just this. Food I can’t taste, but that makes me feel close. I’m sorry if it’s not enough…—
Luka set his plate down with a soft thud. The heat of the dinner still tingled on his tongue, but nothing burned more than that gesture. That stupid, generous, sincere gesture.
He stepped close to Rhys and rested his forehead against his, saying nothing at first. He just closed his eyes and breathed in deep.
—You’re like an angel... has anyone ever told you that?—
Rhys didn’t answer. His face turned the color of a ripe tomato, if that was even possible for someone so pale, and his smile shrank into something tiny, almost shy. A crack of light in the middle of the night.
Luka wanted to tell him he loved him.
He wanted to shout it. He wanted to drag him to his bed and keep him there for days, weeks, until he understood he wasn’t allowed to leave just like that, not with that sad goodbye look in his eyes. He wanted to tell him the forest was dangerous, yes, but that wasn’t the reason he wanted to chain him to the cabin. That he wanted him close, that he needed him.
That he hated him, for making him want to be better.
But he didn’t say it.
Instead, he held his hand tightly. As if he could anchor him to this place, as if saying “stay” through touch was less embarrassing than using words.
And in that shared silence, stronger than any war between species, he knew he wasn’t alone.
Rhys wasn’t either.
That night, when Rhys left, Luka stayed in the doorway, his forehead resting on the frame and his eyes locked on the darkness. He followed the vampire’s scent until it faded into nothing but a memory floating between the trees.
His inner wolf let out a soft howl inside him, a dry sound, full of helplessness.
(“Why didn’t you tell him?”)
—Because... if I tell him, and he doesn’t stay... I couldn’t handle that.—
(“But he’s already staying.”)
—Yeah. But not forever.—
(“Yet.”)
Luka sat on the threshold and waited for the cold to reach him. But it didn’t.
Because even though Rhys had left, he had left behind a folded blanket next to the table. And on top of it, a small jar with a honeycomb inside.
“For your bitter mornings,” read the note, written in clumsy handwriting, like someone who didn’t use their hands much to write. Or maybe it was just Rhys's way of writing. It didn’t matter.
The wolf smiled, not because of the honey, but because of the intention.
Because Rhys didn’t need to taste sweetness to know how it hurt to live without it.
And Luka... Luka was beginning to understand that, sometimes, love tasted like burnt bread, like unsalted soup, like effort, like trying, like company.
And that was enough, in a world of teeth and loneliness, to keep fighting again.