Page 5 of Fangs & Fur

I rub between his ears, “Hey, dude. Where’s Noah?”

Ignoring me, Pumpkin begins to purr and lifts his tail, showing me a clear view of his butthole. I chuckle, “Cats.”

Closing the garage door behind me and hurrying down the entryway, I pull the bag of supplies from my shoulder and climb the stairs until a sickly-sweet scent fills my nose. I freeze. The wooden banister groans under my grip, and my fangs descend with a snap, cutting my own tongue in the process.

Blood.

The house is silent, except for Pumpkin's purr and Noah’s scent, but the overwhelming fragrance of fresh blood has me speeding up the stairs at a supernatural pace and slamming my knuckles against Noah’s door. With my heart in my throat, I barely hold myself back from ripping the door from the hinges, before Noah is pulling it open with a worried look filling his adorable heart-shaped face.

“Xander? Is everything alright?” Noah asks, clutching the door and looking all too apologetic for someone who has every right to be angered by my rudeness of barging in.

“Are you hurt?” I cover my mouth with the back of my hand, hiding my teeth.

Noah gives me an adorable head tilt, his eyes moving up and down my face. “Uh… I scraped my knee when I tripped up the stairs.” Uncertainty fills his voice before his eyes widen and he claps a hand over his mouth. “Oh, no! Did I damage something? I’m so sorry, I'll pay for it to get fixed!” He tries to slide past me, but I strike a hand out, blocking his exit.

God, I need more practice at this whole ‘interacting with humans’ thing.

“No,” I struggle to form a sentence, my lips brushing the back of my hand. I force my fangs to return to their resting spot, feeling the way my blunt teeth slide into place with a silent crunch that only I can hear. I drop my hand, giving him a tentative smile. “I thought you’d want these.”

I hold out the bag, and Noah takes it slowly, his finger knocking mine, and a shiver crosses my skin. He peers inside, and his entire face lights up. I take in the way his dimples bloom in his cheeks, the way his green eyes seem to flare with life, and the toothy smile I want to see every day.

“These are great! Thank you!” Noah pulls out the bedsheets and towels, already making his way to the bathroom to deposit them while dropping the box of bedding onto the mattress.

His giggle is so sweet when he finds the last few items. Vanilla-scented toiletries and a block of dark chocolate.

“You didn’t have to do this, Xander.” Noah smiles warmly at me, but I catch the hint of sadness in his eyes.

“It’s nothing, really.” I bite the inside of my cheek. It’s a damn lie. It’s everything. I could buy Noah a gift every day and never grow tired of doing it. I’d make him breakfast, lunch, and dinner if it meant he’d stay here.

Noah’s eyes fill with clear tears, and he wipes them with the back of his hand. “Thank you.”

I take a step forward only to realize how strange it would be for me to walk right over to him and wipe his tears for him. I'm sure if I did, he’d be packing his bags, snagging his cat, and throwing the block of chocolate at my head.

Instead, I busy my hands and clear my throat. “Did you have plans tonight? I was thinking of making chicken alfredo.”

The laugh that fills the air is like music to my ears. “That sounds great, Xander. Again, thank you for all of this and for letting me live here.”

I nod and quickly turn before I make a complete fool of myself. Heading down the stairs, I smile to myself as I catch Noah’s whisper.

“Please don't be a dream.”

His cheerful giggle follows me all the way into the kitchen, where I pull out all the ingredients needed for dinner. My mind whirls as I pull the faint memory of the recipe to the front of my thoughts and begin preparing the chicken.

As I make my way through the steps, keeping the sauce thick and the pasta from sticking to the bottom of the pot, I focus on the light footsteps from Noah’s room. If he isn’t humming, he’s talking to himself, and I find his mind fascinating.

The sun sets quickly, casting the house into a deeper stretch of darkness, and the shadow from before moves across my peripheral.

“That smells so good,” Noah calls out as he descends into the kitchen and takes a seat at one of the barstools. “Is there anything I can do?”

I fold the pasta into the creamy sauce and add the seasoned chicken chunks. “Not at all; it’s ready.”

I dish our dinner into bowls and hand him a fork. Noah thanks me again and digs in, groaning, and my body heats up.

“Oh, yeah. This is so good.” He speaks around a mouthful of pasta. I chuckle and take a bite of my own. Normal food doesn’t do much for me, besides taste and texture; only blood nourishes me. But it is nice to have an excuse to eat food for once.

The house is quiet as we eat, and I find I can't take my eyes away from the man who sits across from me at the kitchen island.

He looks so young, yet his eyes tell me he’s lived through enough. They look tired despite their warm shine.