He smirks, lips pulling sideways to reveal a dimple in his cheek, bone-white fangs extended slightly. “Those are the only rules we have. Let us enjoy them.”
“Fair enough.” I laugh, filling my Moka pot with water and coffee and setting it on the stove. As Orfeo works, I busy myself emptying the dishwasher and trying my best to not just stand there and watch him work.
When I turn back around, he’s extracted the air filter. He turns the material over in his hands. “Tell your asshat landlord this needs to be replaced, but I can clean it for now. That should do the trick.”
The pot begins to percolate and my tiny apartment fills with the aroma of fresh coffee. I pour us each a shot into the bottom of my oversized mugs. “After.” I nod toward the balcony. “How about a coffee and cigarette?”
Orfeo uses the back of his hand to swipe the hair off his forehead. “Haven’t done that in a very long time.” It’s like every shred of light that meets his skin remains trapped. He glows with the same warmth as the library’s hearth; his eyes are crystallized fire, his skin like liquid gold.
“Might be nice,” I say, putting all my focus on stirring sugar into my espresso.
“I agree,” he says, skirting behind me through my narrow kitchen to open the balcony doors. Frigid air bursts forward, ruffling his curls out of place.
I pull on my coat, gather up our coffee cups, and join him outside. Orfeo presses a cigarette between his lips, and by the time he takes his coffee from me, smoke is already trickling from his nose. The moon hangs over us, bright and close, almost full. I sip from my mug, letting the coffee warm me from the inside.
An odd, contented little sigh spills out of me. Orfeo’s eyes catch mine, and he grins. Really grins, eyes crinkling at the corner.
I tuck my chin into my jacket and laugh. “Sorry, it’s just been a nice night.”
“Do you know what I like best about humans?” he asks, narrowing his eyes against the smoke from his smoldering cigarette. That smile dances in his eyes. “There is such an appreciation for little things. Moonlight. Warmth. A cigarette. A coffee.”
“Do vampires not…?”
He shakes his head. “No, we are pleasure-seekers. Hedonistic. Between moments of intense pleasure, it is easy to turn our minds off. To go numb to the world. Perhaps it is my age—I still remember the sun on my skin. The joy of a kiss with someone you find quite beautiful.”
A ripple of recognition travels up my spine, from my stomach to my heart. My mouth jumps into a little O shape, but thankfully I stop myself from making any noise.
“Very romantic of you,” I say instead. My nerves are concealed by the gentle chattering of my teeth as the wind picks up. Orfeo steps closer to me, his warmth snaking around my body, enveloping me.
“Better?” he asks, his voice low and deep. He’s still in only that undershirt. It strangles the width of his defined biceps, contouring his pecs and the gentle taper of his waist. It’s hard not to just reach out and drag my fingers down his chest.
But I’d never do that.
“Much.” I nod, letting my shoulders melt down and away from my ears. “Do you have a lot of human friends?”
He lets out a hard laugh. “I don’t have a lot of anything these days.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “That sounds quite dramatic, but it’s the truth.”
“You’re here under mysterious and problematic circumstances,” I say, almost mindlessly. A projection, if there ever was one.
“Well,” Orfeo says, brows knitting together. He watches me down the slope of his nose. “Yes.”
I tear my eyes away, staring at the tips of my boots. “Something we have in common then.”
We finish our coffees in silence. Bodies close, knees almost touching as we lean against the railing, our breath mingling in the white plumes between us. I start and stop a thousand different conversations in my mind. I want to ask him more questions. About his life. About the supernatural world.
More than anything, I just want him to keep focusing on me—to keep watching me. I never want his attention to shift.
Back inside, Orfeo quickly washes off the air filter and reassembles the unit. When he hits a button and it beeps to life, he lets out a satisfied grunt and dusts off his hands.
Within moments, my apartment has thawed entirely. After I finish rinsing our cups, I throw myself backward onto my bed, exhaling deeply as the warmth cocoons me. “Thank you, Jesus.Heat.”
“Jesus, eh?” Orfeo watches me with raised brows, washing his hands at my kitchen sink, a smirk playing at his lips. “I believe you meanthank you, Orfeo.” He grabs my kitchen towel and begins to dry his hands.
“Thank you, Orfeo,” I parrot, then squint at him. “Is there anything you can’t do? You cook, you fix things, you’re an artist.”
“Many, many things.” He takes his time, working the material over his hands then up and over his wrists. His tattoos have faded to a sort of green color—most likely because he got them when he was still human. It’s fascinating—his body has aged so slowly while the ink has continued on. The line work is beautiful and intricate, flourishes of palm and fig leaves beginning in the middle of his toned, vascular forearms then growing denser at his wrists. His hands remain unmarked by ink; except, I notice, for a small tattoo on the inside of his ring finger.
“I could never rescue you from a crowded swimming pool in the middle of August, for example. If you wanted me to make you American Thanksgiving food, I think I would do a pretty bad job. And I cannot sing.” He smirks. “My voice is horrible.”
