Three Sentence Ficathon

The rumors are only ever half true; he’s a little more monster than any man should be, and he doesn’t die as others do, but that’s all. No taste for blood, despite jokes like the one she’d made, leaning in his doorway, filling his room with the scent of earth and wildflowers.

Still, he can appreciate the universe’s little ironies – and if he has no right to find solace in her weight atop him, or the lightness of her hands unwinding his scarf, he cannot make himself be cruel enough to deny her what she needs.