Dominic's POV:
Definitely, he's a disaster. I won't argue with him on that.
But tonight? I'm too damn tired to even care. Cooking? Absolutely not.
So I turn to him with a frown.
"Hey, what do you want for dinner?"
He beams like the moon just proposed to him.
"I can even drink poison if it's from you, puppers!"
And then—a Disney Princess wink.
This dork. Can't be serious for a single moment.
I groan, "How about I make some vampire crisps instead?"
He gasps, clutching his imaginary pearls. "Monstrous! Wanna start another pandemic, huh? What's next, seasoned bat soup?"
I pause.
Okay… that was actually good.
I can't even argue. I burst out laughing before I can stop myself.
"You are really something else, you know that, Lean?"
He looks at me like I just ran over his imaginary pet.
"What?" I ask, narrowing my eyes.
"No Lean! Only Vampy!" he huffs, crossing his arms like a toddler who didn't get candy.
Oh no.
He's obsessed with that nickname now.
"Fine. I'm going to call you that then," I mutter.
Before I can even blink, the wild thing lunges at me in pure joy, like a squirrel on espresso. I sidestep—because werewolf reflexes, thank you—and toss some cushions in time for his pretty face to land somewhere soft, thanks to my ninja reflexes.
He crashes into them with a squeak.
He looks up like a kitty who just failed basic gravity.
"Stop pouncing on me, you wild chipmunk!" I bark. "Just say what you wanna devour, I'm ordering dinner. Not in the mood to cook tonight!"
"I'm allergic to beef… fish… pineapples, maybe? Garlic! Oh, and I hate mushrooms—unless they're magical, and I don't mean the hallucinogenic ones, but like, fairy-type mushrooms..."
He talked absolute shit and I lose count somewhere between allergy #7 and dramatic food trauma #19.
Thirty different dietary preferences.
In sixty seconds.
How the hell is he even a monster? Allergic to beef? To fish?? Practical meats that actual monsters hunt for?!
Dude, are you a vampire… or a wanna-be monster?
Anyway, I end up ordering:
– Mac and cheese
– Chicken drumsticks
– A margherita pizza
– Some chicken-four-cheese thing I can't pronounce
– And three cups of Boba tea—yes, three different flavors, colors, sugar levels, and 110% chaos—that he listed out faster than a hacker defusing a bomb
The food shop guy was silent. I was silent.
We both questioned reality.
Who drinks Boba tea at dinner?
Only our sassy, mindless vampire.
Lean's POV
Listen, I might be a little dramatic.
Okay—maybe very dramatic. But it's called flair, darling.
And what's life without a little theatrical disaster?
So when Dom turns to me, all broody and grumpy (which, let's be honest, is his natural resting face) and says, "What do you want for dinner?"
I had to respond with something memorable.
"I can even drink poison if it's from you, Puppers!"
And yes, I threw in a Disney Princess wink for full effect. You're welcome.
The growl he let out? Chef's kiss.
But then—he said vampire crisps.
Like excuse me, sir? We're not starting another pandemic on my watch. And I have standards! Like if you threatening to cook me, I demand to end up as a Michelin-starred dish, not some drive through snacks! I will pout! Deal with it!!
"Oh! Monstrous! Wanna start another pandemic huh? With a seasoned bat soup?"
I live for the way he looked at me.
That brief second where he was caught between "why am I even here" and "okay, that was kind of funny."
And then—he laughed. That rare, golden, grumpy snort-laugh that makes all my stupid one-liners worth it.
I felt like I just won an Oscar. A World War! To make the Grumplestiltskin giggle!
Then he said that thing—
"You're really something else, you know that, Lean?"
And I looked at him.
Dead in the eyes.
And I died inside a little.
"No Lean! Only Vampy!!" I declared like it was a sacred law.
Because why shouldn't I have a sparkly nickname which he only gave me? He gets Puppers and I get Lean? That sounds like an overcooked gym bro nickname. No thanks.
When he actually agreed to call me Vampy?
I launched. Full-on happy pounce mode activated.
But apparently, his main character reflexes came with a sarcasm upgrade because he dodged and threw cushions at me mid-air.
Honestly?
Rude.
But I landed like a fabulous cat—just a little puffed-up and tangled in throw pillows.
He called me a wild chipmunk.
I swear if I wasn't already dramatic by nature, that would've pushed me there.
Then he asked again what I wanted for dinner. I started my usual allergy list (I'm delicate, okay?)
And I may have gone slightly off-track. Just a little. Maybe.
Apparently, "no beef, no fish, no garlic, no mushrooms, unless fairy-picked in the moonlight" is too much for one Puppy to handle.
But he didn't complain. Not once. He just sighed and took mental notes like he's used to this by now.
And he ordered everything.
Like everything. My Boba tea trio, my dramatic cheese-dripping pizza, my comfort carbs, all of it.
And I swear, the way he remembered every little detail?
Yeah, my undead heart kinda thudded for a second.
Not that I'd ever tell him.
Dominic's POV
He wouldn't stop talking.
I swear, this man—no, creature—has an encyclopedic list of useless animal facts stored in his chaotic little brain, and he's determined to bless me with every one of them.
"Did you know vampire bats only feed for thirty minutes max?" he said, dramatically flipping his hair.
"No, Vampy. Because I never wanted to know," I grumbled.
He gasped like I just insulted his great-grandma. "Rude. My ancestors are literally in museums, how dare you."
I was about five seconds away from stuffing a pillow in his mouth when the doorbell rang.
"Saved by the damn bell," I muttered.
"Or by fate! Maybe the moon is finally on my side!" he chimed from behind like he was narrating a tragic opera.
I opened the door, collected the bags with what little patience I had left, and tried to ignore the way he stood on his toes peeking like a nosy raccoon.
Now, I am a civilized man. I work out, I use protein powder, I organize my closet by color.
So naturally, I started serving the food like a proper adult—while the vampire in my life kept muttering curses about the "delivery boy being slower than a snail with a limp."
"Alright, Vampy. Let's try to do this the human way."
He gasped again. "Blasphemy! I am anything but human!"
"Yeah, you're something else," I muttered. "Anyway. Mac and cheese—60% mine, 40% yours."
He made a face. Like he was being robbed.
I continued without mercy.
"Drumsticks—5 for me, 5 for you."
"Fine."
"Margherita pizza—mine. Don't even look at it."
He looked.
And then the tantrum began.
"Dommy! You can't just deny me a bite of THAT! It smells like warm summer hugs!"
I blinked. "It smells like cheese and tomatoes. Calm your Shakespeare."
But he went full toddler mode. Arms crossed. Pout on. Eyes wide and glassy.
I tried to resist. I really did.
But two slices of my margherita died a noble death that night.
Next: his monster cheese bomb pizza.
That thing was oozing four different types of dairy violence.
"I'm not touching that. I do gym for a reason," I said firmly.
Cue the Bambi eyes.
The big, heart-wrenching, sparkly ones.
"I hate you," I growled as I took a slice.
"Love you too!" he sang, victorious.
And finally—his Boba tea army.
Three colorful cups. With toppings I couldn't even name.
He looked at them like a mother hen inspecting her eggs.
And I just… watched in horror.
This was my life now.
Gym, peace, and protein shakes?
Dead.
Gone.
Replaced with a sparkly vampire who eats like a royal gremlin and talks like he's on Broadway.
Lean's POV:
Listen. Delivery drama is real.
I was nearly wasting away, skin to bones, when that doorbell finally rang.
And Dom, my lovely gym-rat Puppy alpha man, took his sweet time receiving the food like he was performing an ancient ritual.
"Just bring it to me, you hairy Greek statue!" I yelled dramatically from the couch.
He didn't flinch. Just glared.
He always does that when he's pretending not to love me.
Then the food came out.
And he started portioning like he was laying out war plans.
"Mac and cheese—60/40 split."
Okay.
Rude.
I'm tiny and sparkly, but I need carbs to function!
I gave him the classic silent judgment. He ignored it.
The drumsticks? Fine. Equal rights. We love that.
But when he claimed the margherita pizza as his alone?
Absolutely not.
No way in the underworld was I letting him hoard the one thing on that table that smelled like heaven wrapped in melted mozzarella.
"I demand equal slices!" I declared, raising my hands like I was summoning a spirit.
He tried to argue.
But I knew my weapons:
The pout.
The arms-crossed stance.
And most importantly—the eyes.
Those soft, wide, watery eyes that say: if you deny me this, you're basically a war criminal.
Two slices secured.
Victory tasted cheesy.
Next: my masterpiece.
The chicken cheese pizza from hell. Four cheeses, golden-baked crust, seasoned bites of glory.
"Too much fat," he muttered, as if he wasn't genetically blessed with abs you could grate said cheese on.
Then I brought out the big guns.
Bambi 2.0.
And with a suffering sigh, he took a bite.
I beamed.
"See? Sinful and divine. Like me."
He grunted.
That's his love language.
And finally—my Boba army.
Three stunning cups. Pink, green, galaxy purple. With tapioca, jelly bits, popping balls, little stars, glitter—okay, maybe not glitter, but it felt magical.
He watched like I'd brought home a baby dragon.
"You really gonna drink all of that?" he asked, eyes wide.
"Darling, I'm cultured. Let me live."
He just shook his head and said something under his breath about "sparkly chaos and cavities."
But as I took the first sip of my strawberry matcha boba and made that satisfied little moan, I caught him watching me.
Not with judgment.
But with this soft, impossible smile.
And I thought—
Maybe I am a lot.
But maybe he kind of loves that.
Dominic's POV:
And we finally settled. I turned on the TV to watch some sports—because that's what grown-up men do. But yeah... that plan died real quick.
Instead, I ended up watching some annoyingly pink animated pig go on ridiculous adventures, all because someone wouldn't eat unless it was on. Seriously, what kind of grown man needs Peppa Pig to stimulate his appetite?
And then there's the way he eats. Pizza dipped in Boba tea. Pizza. Dipped. In. Boba.
He sits there babbling the theme songs like he's the fourth piglet in the damn cast while shoveling food into his mouth with the enthusiasm of a sugar-deprived toddler.
I swear, every known monster—werewolves like me, vampires like him, and every other freak in the monster directory I haven't even met—would be traumatized by the sheer chaos of this one.
And me? I'm just trying to survive the night.
My dear couch… my sweet, innocent couch… is now covered in crumbs, smears of cheese, sticky drops of tea, and vampire drool. VAMPIRE. DROOL.
And the treaty we made?
The sacred food division agreement?
Shattered.
He devoured six chicken drumsticks. Six.
I had plans for those, damn it. Plans!
Lean's POV:
Okay, first of all—Pippa—I mean, Peppa—is a cultural icon, and her adventures are important, okay? That one where she builds a rocket out of jam jars? Inspirational.
Second, if you serve food and then flip the channel to some guy kicking a ball for three hours straight, how am I supposed to enjoy my pizza in peace? I need drama. I need chaos. I need pig snorts and a villainous goose.
Also, don't judge my pizza-Boba combo, Mister I-Count-Calories-With-A-Snarl. It's called innovation. It's gourmet. It's a culinary revolution.
Anyway, I may or may not have eaten more drumsticks than I was supposed to... but in my defense, you blinked. And when you blink, you forfeit chicken rights. That's the rule. I didn't make it, nature did.
Besides, he's lucky I didn't go for the mac and cheese too. That was a close one. Only reason I didn't was because he looked genuinely distressed when I tried to reach for it. Like I was about to eat his childhood or something. So I let it go. Mercy, your honor.
Also... he keeps glaring at the couch like it personally betrayed him. I might have spilled some tea. And cheese. And maybe melted Boba pearls are now part of the fabric. Whoopsie?
But hey. I'm cute. I get away with things. 💅
Dominic's POV:
Anyway! I can't keep doing this. He's loud, annoying, eats like a raccoon in a candy store, and turns every moment into a Broadway musical—but deep down, I know he might have the answers I've been dying for.
He's a born monster. Unlike me. He must know things.
Answers about what I've become. About this world I accidentally stumbled into when that damn wolf bit me.
So, yeah. Time to be mature. Time to be serious.
"Hey, Vampy! I have a few questions."
And just like that, his eyes light up like I proposed marriage in the middle of a Taylor Swift concert.
"WHAT? Do I love you?! Will I marry you?! Are you asking me out on a date?! Oh my DEVIL—YES. A gazillion times YESSSSS!"
He's on the couch, flailing, like someone just handed him a crown and declared him Queen of the Underworld.
I facepalm. "No, you oversized mosquito."
His glow dims. Just a bit. But only just.
"Oh. Yeah. Go on," he mutters, mouth full of pizza and pasta, looking vaguely like a vampire-themed food processor.
I take a deep breath.
"So… tell me something about vampires. Like, how are you guys? What can you do? Abilities, history—all of it."
And suddenly, he freezes. Completely. Like I asked him to recite the entire Vampire Constitution while solving a Rubik's Cube.
The sparkle in his eyes flickers to something else—something I can't place. Worry? Fear? A secret too big for his usual nonsense to hide?
---
Lean's POV:
Okay. So here's the thing.
He asked. He really asked.
Me. About vampires.
Now, normally I'd be thrilled. I mean, this is my moment! My expertise! My moment to sparkle—literally and figuratively. But instead of jumping into a dramatic TED Talk with violin music and mood lighting, I'm just... frozen.
Because being a vampire isn't all dark eyeliner, velvet cloaks, and sparkling in the moonlight.
There's stuff. Heavy stuff. Painful stuff.
And secrets I've never said out loud.
Not to anyone.
Not even to myself sometimes.
And Dominic—big scary broody Dominic—looks at me with this rare softness, like he really wants to understand. Like he doesn't just see me as a glittery disaster on legs (which, fair), but as someone who might actually help him.
Ugh.
Why's he gotta be emotionally vulnerable now?
But fine. Fine. I'll tell him. Wait some time as my heart stops doing the tango inside my chest and I figure out how to make trauma sound cute.