Enthralled - 4. Chapter 4

"No, Lucas. Listen to me. Pay attention to the diagram." Andy pinched the bridge of his pale nose, exhaling a breath he didn't technically need to take. "You are a Homo sapien. It is the basic taxonomic classification of your species."

"No," Lucas countered smoothly, leaning back in the creaky wooden kitchen chair and stretching his legs out under the table. "I'm Homo erectus. See?"

Andy’s dark, centuries-old eyes flicked downward. It was entirely involuntary.

Lucas was wearing a backwards baseball cap that made him look aggressively like a teenager, a graphic tee with a mustard stain near the hem, and a pair of heather-grey sweatpants. The sweatpants were a weapon of mass destruction. Lucas knew exactly why he was wearing them, he knew exactly what the soft, clinging fabric did to his anatomy when he sprawled in a chair, he knew exactly where Andy was looking, and he absolutely loved it. The boy’s cocky, toothy grin was a testament to his utter lack of shame.

"Behave, Lucas," Andy snapped, his voice dropping into a dangerous, aristocratic baritone that completely failed to mask the flush creeping up his pale neck. He tapped the heavily chewed biology textbook—which looked like it had only been cracked open at gunpoint—with a rigid finger. "No sex until after you learn the stages of cellular mitosis."

"You're no fun," Lucas whined, though his eyes were dancing with unadulterated mischief. He tilted his head, the backward cap scraping against the high back of the chair. "So, what does that make you? Are you Homo mybitchus?"

Andy blinked, his ancient brain automatically processing the Latin root structure before the actual insult registered. "No, vampirism is a pathogen. It is a biological mutation of the... wait a second."

Lucas’s grin widened into a bright, blinding flash of teeth. "Took you a moment there, didn't it, Dorkus Biggus-Dickus?"

Andy stared at the boy. The sheer, unmitigated audacity of the teenager sitting across from him was staggering. Andy had survived the the potatoe blight. He had danced with Queen Victoria. He had personally inspired at least three gothic horror novels. And now, he was sitting in a brightly lit suburban kitchen that smelled faintly of pine cleaner, being called Dorkus Biggus-Dickus by a boy who still had a curfew.

"Listen here, Hom-erectus," Andy said, his fangs pressing dangerously against his lower lip. "I am an immortal creature of the night. I am an apex predator. I am not a chew toy."

"You are, though," Lucas replied, entirely unfazed, casually flipping his pen into the air and catching it. "The guys on the football team said so. It’s been peer-reviewed. Therefore, it's science. So chew on deez nuts!"

Andy’s eyes went wide. His cold hands slapped flat against the table. "Hands off me at once, mortal! You will do your homework, you will outline the mitochondrial matrix, and then I will chew on them!"

Lucas burst into a loud, ringing laugh, the sound bouncing off the floral wallpaper. "So you admit it! You are my bitch."

Andy squeezed his eyes shut, praying for the sweet release of true death. "Yes," he hissed, his aristocratic dignity thoroughly and permanently shattered. "Now can you please focus on the textbook!"

Before Lucas could deploy another devastatingly stupid pun, the swinging door to the kitchen pushed open, and Ruth Cooper backed into the room, carrying a massive plastic laundry basket overflowing with clothes. She paused, resting the basket on her hip, and looked at the two of them sitting at the kitchen table.

Ruth Cooper had long ago given up on the concept of subtlety when it came to her youngest child. She was a woman of fierce pragmatism. She didn't care that the boy sitting at her kitchen table was wearing a vintage leather jacket indoors, possessed skin the color of skim milk, and looked like he was constantly resisting the urge to murder someone.

"Andy," Ruth said loudly, pointing a stern finger at the vampire. "I don't know what kind of dark magic you used to make Lucas use body wash instead of that aerosol chemical weapon he usually sprays in his armpits, but you are never allowed to break up with him. Ever."

"Hey!" Lucas protested, though he looked entirely unbothered.

"I'm serious," Ruth continued, marching over to the refrigerator and aggressively opening the door. "The water bill has gone up because he actually showers daily now. I caught him using a loofah yesterday. A loofah. I had to check his birth certificate to make sure he was actually my son. Whatever you are doing... do not stop."

"I merely suggested that proper hygiene is the cornerstone of civilized society, Mrs. Cooper," Andy said smoothly, instantly recovering his polite, composed facade.

"Well, it worked," Ruth declared, pulling a Tupperware container out of the fridge. "He smells like expensive sandalwood and cedar now instead of locker room despair. You're a miracle worker."

The kitchen door swung open again, and Amanda strolled in, her cheerleading uniform pristine, her phone held out in front of her face as she aggressively texted. She paused at the island, pouring herself a glass of water without looking up from her screen.

"He doesn't just smell better," Amanda noted dryly, taking a sip of water. "His room doesn't look like a biohazard containment zone anymore. I used to have to hold my breath when I walked past his door. Andy, seriously, just command him to stop being annoying. Tell him to take out the trash. He literally does whatever you want."

"I do not!" Lucas objected, crossing his arms over his chest.

Amanda finally looked up from her phone, leveling a deadpan stare at her brother. "Lucas, he told you to rewrite a poem yesterday because the meter was off, and you spent two hours looking up synonyms for 'darkness' in a thesaurus. You are pathetically whipped."

Art Cooper shuffled into the kitchen behind his daughter, wearing a faded polo shirt and holding a pair of gardening shears. He didn't say a word. He just looked at Andy, raised a can of domestic beer in a solemn, silent toast of absolute solidarity, and walked out the back door to trim the hedges. He had officially outsourced the management of his son's chaos to the undead, and he was thrilled about it.

None of this phased Lucas in the slightest. His family was openly plotting to use his goth boyfriend to control him, treating him like an untrained golden retriever, and Lucas just grinned that bright, toothy grin. He was made of rubber. The insults just bounced right off his impenetrable, teflon-coated self-security. He leaned back in his chair, linking his hands behind his head, radiating the cocky swagger of a proto-frat boy who knew he held the winning hand.

"Jokes on you guys," Lucas declared proudly to his mother and sister. "I'm into it. I like being bossed around by him."

Amanda made a gagging sound, grabbed her water glass, and fled the kitchen. Ruth just shook her head, muttering something about kids these days, and carried her laundry basket down the hall.

Andy stared at the teenager across the table. He was hopelessly, completely bewitched. He had spent centuries curating an existence of untouchable superiority, only to be completely undone by a boy in grey sweatpants who possessed an OnlyFans level of unearned confidence.

"You have no shame," Andy murmured, his dark eyes tracing the line of Lucas's throat.

"Zero," Lucas agreed cheerfully. "Now, what were you saying about chewing on things?"

"The cellular membrane, Lucas," Andy groaned, tapping the book. "Read the paragraph on the cellular membrane."

---

The transition from tutoring session to Sunday dinner was a seamless slide into domestic absurdity. The dining room was an aggressive time capsule of the early 2000s, complete with floral curtains and a china cabinet that had never seen actual use. The air was thick with the smell of roasted meat and potpourri.

Art Cooper sat at the head of the table, carving a massive roast with mechanical precision. Across from him sat Ruth, her eyes darting between her children and the immortal predator they all thought was a goth who took things a little too seriously, sitting politely in her dining chairs. Amanda was scrolling on her phone under the table, projecting an aura of extreme apathy.

Andy sat rigidly next to Lucas, his hands folded in his lap. Placed directly in front of him was a plate of roast beef. It was incredibly, violently rare. Blood pooled around the edges of the porcelain, a dark, rich crimson that made Andy's fangs ache with a deep, primal throb. He stared at it, trying to remember the last time he had been forced to simulate human consumption.

"So, Andy," Ruth said, her voice syrupy sweet as she passed a bowl of mashed potatoes. "What are your plans after high school? College? Trade school? You strike me as a boy with ambition."

Andy’s gaze snapped up from the bleeding meat. He had prepared for questions about his past, but the mundane reality of planning for a mortal future caught him off guard.

"I am... considering my options," Andy said carefully, navigating the minefield. "I have a profound interest in history. Perhaps something in that field."

"History?" Ruth's eyebrows rose approvingly. "That's very specific. Do you have a particular era in mind?"

Andy thought about the centuries he had lived through. The smell of gunpowder in revolutionary France. The cobblestones of Victorian London. "The eighteenth century," he said smoothly. "A fascinating period. The Enlightenment. The American Revolution. Immense geopolitical upheaval."

"The eighteenth century," Lucas repeated, a wicked, knowing grin spreading across his face as he bumped his shoulder against Andy's. "You really do like older things, don't you?"

Andy shot him a look that promised a slow, agonizing demise, but before he could retaliate, he felt something brush against his ankle under the table.

It was a foot. A sock-clad foot, tracing a slow, deliberate circle against his calf.

Andy froze. He kept his expression perfectly neutral, a mask of aristocratic politeness, while internally his mind raced. Lucas was playing footsie. At the family dinner table. With his parents sitting less than three feet away.

"Teaching is always a noble profession," Ruth continued, completely oblivious to the illicit activity happening beneath her floral tablecloth. "You could be a professor."

"Teaching is a possibility," Andy allowed, his voice slightly strained as the foot slid higher, trailing up the back of his knee. "I have some... experience with instruction."

"He already tutors me in math," Lucas added brightly, his grin absolutely feral. "And other subjects."

"He's also going to teach me poetry," Lucas continued, taking a bite of his potatoes. "He's very passionate about poetry."

Andy’s eye twitched. The foot was moving with rhythmic, persistent intent. He reached his own hand under the tablecloth, his cold fingers searching blindly for Lucas's ankle to squeeze it in warning, to command the boy to stop before he caused a scene.

Lucas withdrew his leg and shifted, no doubt plotting a second assault on his boyfriend’s ankle.

"That's lovely," Ruth said, her smile warming. "A boy who values education."

Art Cooper, who had been silently chewing his roast beef for the past twenty minutes, suddenly cleared his throat. He set his fork down on his plate with a quiet clink. He looked around the table with the slightly bemused, exhausted expression of a man who had long ago given up trying to understand his family.

"Whoever keeps rubbing my ankles," Art said, his voice calm, flat, and perfectly even, "can you not?"

The entire table went completely, utterly silent.

Lucas froze mid-chew.

Andy, whose hand was currently hovering under the table, went as stiff as a corpse. He hadn't touched Lucas. He had been sitting perfectly, vampirically still. Which meant...

Amanda slowly lowered her phone.

Ruth stared at her husband, her face a mask of dawning horror.

Art picked up his fork again, entirely unbothered. "It's very distracting," he added, as if commenting on a mild draft in the room.

Lucas slowly, agonizingly, withdrew his leg. His face flushed a catastrophic, violent shade of crimson. He looked like he wanted the floorboards to open up and swallow him whole.

Amanda let out a sound that was somewhere between a violent snort and a scream. She clamped both hands over her mouth, her shoulders shaking uncontrollably.

"Art," Ruth said, her voice dangerously quiet. "What are you talking about?"

"Someone's been rubbing my ankles for the past few minutes," Art replied, helping himself to more potatoes. "I thought it was you. Though you usually aren't that persistent."

"Why would I rub your ankles during dinner?" Ruth shrieked, her composure shattering. She whipped her head toward her son, her eyes narrowing into murderous slits. "Lucas Cooper. Were you playing footsie with your father?"

"I thought it was Andy!" Lucas protested, his voice cracking into a high-pitched squeak of absolute despair. "I swear to God, I thought it was Andy's leg!"

"You thought your boyfriend's legs were dad’s legs?" Amanda wheezed, tears streaming down her face as she completely lost the battle against her laughter. "You thought dad was your boyfriend?"

"I didn't think he was my boyfriend! I just thought—" Lucas buried his face in his hands, groaning in agony. "Oh my god. Kill me. Andy, kill me right now."

"This is a new low, even for you," Amanda cackled, pounding her fist on the table. "You played footsie with Dad!"

"I didn't play footsie! I just—"

"You rubbed my ankles," Art corrected, nodding sagely. "Very persistent. Very rhythmic. You've got good technique, son, I'll give you that."

"Please stop talking," Lucas moaned into his hands.

Andy, for his part, was engaged in the hardest battle of his three-hundred-year existence. A genuine, spontaneous, uncontrollable laugh was fighting its way up his throat. He bit the inside of his cheek, his chest vibrating with the effort of holding it in. He had faced down the worst horrors of humanity, and nothing had prepared him for the sheer, unadulterated comedy of suburban family trauma.

"Lucas," Andy said, his voice trembling with barely contained mirth, "I believe you owe your father an apology."

"I'm not apologizing for—" Lucas stopped, peeking through his fingers at his father, who was still calmly eating. "Dad, I'm so sorry. I genuinely thought you were Andy."

"I know," Art said. "I figured. Your mother usually rubs my ankles."

"I would never," Ruth snapped, her face flushed. "That's not a thing we do!"

"Exactly," Art said. "Which is why I knew it was not you."

Lucas made a sound of pure, unadulterated despair. Amanda was openly weeping with laughter now, gasping for air.

"I hate this family," Lucas mumbled.

"This is a very traditional family," Andy noted, finally letting a wide, genuine smile break across his face. "This is exactly what I expected from a Sunday dinner."

"You're enjoying this," Lucas accused, glaring at him.

"I am enjoying this immensely," Andy admitted.

Ruth, who had been glaring at her son with the fury of a thousand suns, suddenly stopped. She looked at Andy. She looked at his calm demeanor, his amused smile, and the way he hadn't run screaming from her deeply embarrassing family. Her expression softened entirely.

"I like him," Ruth declared, pointing her fork at Andy. "Lucas, I like him."

Lucas stared at her. "What? You just spent the last hour interrogating him about his future like an FBI profiler!"

"I was testing him," Ruth said dismissively. "He passed. He endured your father's footsie joke, your sister's hostility, and my interrogation. He has patience. He's polite. And he got you to use a loofah. Welcome to the family, Andy."

Andy looked down at the table. A strange, warm sensation bloomed in his cold chest. He had been an outcast for centuries. And now, a suburban mother had just adopted him because he survived a footsie mix-up.

"Thank you, Mrs. Cooper," Andy said softly. "I am... honored."

"You'll come every Sunday," Ruth commanded. "I'll make sure to have rare beef. Lucas tells me you love it rare."

Andy shot Lucas a look of pure, undiluted murder. Lucas just grinned, his confidence instantly returning. "I'm a good boyfriend. I pay attention."

---

The evening air was warm as they walked down the driveway, the streetlights flickering to life against the twilight sky. Ruth had pressed a Tupperware container of leftover bleeding roast beef into Andy's hands before they left, demanding he take it for "sustenance." Andy had accepted it gracefully and immediately shoved it into Lucas's hands the moment the front door closed.

"I cannot eat this," Andy stated flatly. “I can only drink the juices…”

"I know," Lucas laughed, swinging the Tupperware. "But it made her happy. And now I have an elite sandwich for lunch tomorrow."

They walked in comfortable silence toward the side street where Andy had parked. Lucas was still buzzing with adrenaline. The dinner had been a chaotic disaster, but his mother had accepted Andy. His dad was chill. His sister was amused. It was a massive victory.

"So," Lucas said, bumping his shoulder against Andy's arm, "where is your car? I didn't see it out front."

Andy went very still. The relaxed, amused demeanor he had carried out of the house vanished, replaced instantly by a tense, guarded stiffness.

"It's... parked around the corner," Andy said, his voice clipped. "I prefer to be discreet."

"Andy, you're dating the school mascot. Discretion sailed a long time ago. What are you driving? A hearse?"

Andy said nothing. He just increased his pace, his long legs eating up the pavement. Lucas jogged slightly to keep up, his curiosity skyrocketing. They rounded the corner onto the side street, and Lucas stopped dead in his tracks.

Parked under the amber glow of a streetlamp was a boat.

It was a 1972 Chevrolet Impala land yacht, painted a faded, slightly rusted shade of beige and brown. The hood stretched for miles, the chrome bumpers were pitted with age, and it looked like it weighed more than a military tank. It was a relic, a massive, gas-guzzling beast of a vehicle.

Lucas stared at it. He looked at Andy. He looked back at the car.

"Tell me that's not your car," Lucas said, his voice completely flat.

Andy’s jaw tightened defensively. "It is... a highly reliable vehicle. It is a classic."

"It's a boat," Lucas said in awe, walking slowly around the front of the massive grille. "It's a boat with wheels that has been on land for so long it forgot what water looks like." He stopped at the front bumper, his eyes dropping to the license plate.

He froze.

V4M-P1R3

Lucas stared at the stamped metal. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, and looked again. It still said the same thing. He slowly turned his head to look at the 300-year-old immortal apex predator standing nervously on the sidewalk.

"You have a vanity plate," Lucas said, his voice trembling with suppressed emotion. "You have a vanity plate that says 'Vampire'."

"It is a joke," Andy said, his voice strained, crossing his arms over his chest. "I thought it was deeply ironic."

"You thought it was ironic," Lucas repeated, stepping closer to the car. "You thought it was ironic to drive around in a 1970s mafia staff car with a license plate that literally announces your supernatural classification to the DMV and local law enforcement."

"No one believes in vampires, Lucas! It is excellent camouflage! It’s camp!"

"It's a neon sign that says 'I am a creature of the night, please pull me over and stake me!'" Lucas threw his head back and laughed, a loud, joyous sound that echoed down the quiet street. He pressed his hands against the hood of the Impala; the metal was still warm from the day's sun.

He looked through the windshield. The interior was massive, featuring wide, battered leather bench seats. There was an 8-track player mounted under the dash. A neatly folded blanket rested in the back, alongside a small, insulated cooler.

The laughter died in Lucas's throat as the reality of the vehicle set in.

"You live in this car," Lucas said softly.

Andy looked away, his jaw clenching. "I have lived in many places across the centuries. Estates. Castles. Penthouses. This is... convenient. It allows me to move freely. To avoid detection. To remain untethered."

"To remain alone," Lucas finished quietly.

Andy didn't answer. The silence stretched between them, heavy and vulnerable. Lucas walked around to the driver's side and pulled the heavy metal door handle. It opened with a loud, metallic groan. The smell of the interior wafted out—old leather, gasoline, and the sharp, clean, ancient scent of Andy. It smelled like safety. It smelled like him.

Lucas climbed into the car, stepping entirely over the front bench seat with the agility of a teenager, and landed softly in the cavernous backseat. He patted the cracked, worn leather beside him, looking up at Andy through the open door.

"This is awesome," Lucas said, his voice entirely sincere. "This is the most 'Andy' thing I have ever seen. You live in a 1970s boat with a vanity plate. You listen to 8-tracks. You have a blood cooler. You are the most dramatic, extra person I have ever met, and I love you."

Andy blinked, the defensive posture melting off him instantly. "You... love me?"

"I mean, yeah," Lucas said, shrugging his shoulders, completely unbothered by the weight of the confession. "We're boyfriends. I wore a cow head for you. It's implied."

Andy stared at the boy sitting in the back of his car. Mortals had loved him before. They had wept for him, died for him, obsessed over him. But no one had ever just stated it as a casual, undeniable fact of the universe.

"I love you too," Andy breathed, the words tumbling out of his mouth before his ancient brain could stop them.

Lucas’s grin was blinding. The proto-frat swagger returned in full force. He spread his knees apart, leaning back against the leather upholstery, and patted the seat again.

"Good," Lucas said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with intent. "Now get in the backseat and let me show you how much."

Andy’s eyes widened. "Lucas, no."

"Lucas, yes."

"This is my sanctuary," Andy protested, taking a step back on the pavement. "This is where I rest. This is where I retreat from the overwhelming chaos of the mortal world. I cannot—I will not—defile it with—"

"With what?" Lucas challenged, his dark eyes flashing with unholy confidence. "With me? With your boyfriend?"

Andy opened his mouth, prepared to deliver a scathing lecture on boundaries, hygiene, and the historical significance of asceticism. But Lucas reached down, grabbed the hem of his graphic tee, and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion.

The streetlamp illuminated the smooth, tanned expanse of Lucas’s chest and the sharp line of his stomach. The grey sweatpants sat dangerously low on his hips. He tossed the shirt into the front seat and looked at Andy with a gaze so hot it could have melted lead.

"You can't defile something that's already been defiled, Andy," Lucas said, his voice a low, raspy purr. "This car has been on the road for fifty years. It’s seen more action than I have. Now get in here."

Andy’s brain short-circuited entirely. He was a 300-year-old apex predator. He could tear the doors off this vehicle with his bare hands. He could outrun a bullet. And yet, he was completely paralyzed by a high schooler in sweatpants.

Instinct took over. Andy reached into the trunk and blindly grabbed the clean microfiber towel he used to polish the chrome. It was a desperate reflex to maintain some semblance of order.

"I will need to—" Andy stammered, climbing awkwardly into the backseat.

"Put a towel down," Lucas finished, laughing softly as he reached out and yanked Andy into the car, pulling the heavy door shut behind him with a resonant CLUNK. "Yeah, I know. You're a neat freak. It's adorable. Drop it."

Andy dropped the towel. He dropped his defenses. He dropped three centuries of untouchable pride as Lucas pushed him backward onto the wide leather bench.

The Impala groaned loudly in protest, the old suspension squeaking in the quiet night, but Lucas didn't care. He straddled Andy’s hips, his blazing hot skin pressing against the cold leather of Andy's jacket. The temperature contrast was staggering. Lucas was a furnace, radiating life and youth and overwhelming desire, and Andy was freezing, desperate to soak up every degree of it.

"You're impossible," Andy gasped as Lucas leaned down, his warm breath ghosting over the vampire's pale neck.

"I'm inevitable," Lucas corrected cockily, pressing open-mouthed kisses along Andy's jawline, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right below the ouroboros tattoo.

Lucas’s hands were everywhere, confident and demanding. He shoved Andy's leather jacket off his shoulders, pinning Andy’s wrists against the cracked leather seat. Andy could have broken the hold effortlessly. He could have flipped their positions in a microsecond. But the sheer thrill of yielding—of letting this fearless, arrogant boy completely dominate him in the back of his own car—was more intoxicating than any blood he had ever tasted.

"Look at you," Lucas whispered harshly, his dark eyes blown wide with lust as he looked down at the immortal creature pinned beneath him. "The big, bad Lord of the Night. Completely at my mercy in the back of a Chevy."

"Shut up and touch me, you insufferable brat," Andy choked out, his fangs fully descended, his eyes sliding shut as he arched his back off the seat.

Lucas laughed, a dark, victorious sound, and released Andy’s wrists to make quick work of the vampire's belt. The metallic clink of the buckle was loud in the enclosed space. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of old vinyl, cheap cologne, and the sharp, unmistakable tang of raw arousal.

When Lucas finally sank down, taking Andy into him, the ancient vampire let out a sound that was entirely unholy. It was a ragged, guttural cry that echoed in the cavernous interior of the car. The friction, the blinding heat of Lucas's tight, wet core enveloping him, was absolute sensory overload.

"Fuck," Lucas swore, his head dropping back, his hands gripping Andy's pale shoulders for leverage. "You're so cold... but it feels so fucking good."

"Lucas," Andy pleaded, his hands flying to the boy's waist, his cold fingers digging possessively into the warm flesh.

Lucas set the pace, and he was relentless. He moved with the same unearned, terrifying confidence he applied to the rest of his life. He rode the vampire with aggressive, unapologetic enthusiasm, his hips snapping down, driving Andy deep inside him. Every downward thrust forced a harsh, breathless moan from Andy's lips. The car’s suspension wailed in rhythmic protest, a loud, squeaking cadence that broadcast their activities to the entire street.

The werewolves, Andy's panicked brain supplied dimly through the haze of ecstasy. The pack can hear this.

"Lucas, the car," Andy gasped, his hips bucking up instinctively to meet the boy's punishing rhythm. "The noise. They can hear."

"Let them," Lucas growled, leaning forward until his chest was flush against Andy's, his mouth finding Andy's ear. "Let the whole damn pack hear. I want them to know exactly who you belong to."

The sheer dominance of the statement sent a shockwave of electricity straight to Andy's groin. He completely lost his mind. He didn't care about the noise. He didn't care about the pack. He didn't care that he was defiling his sanctuary. He wrapped his arms around Lucas's waist and drove his hips upward with supernatural force, taking control of the rhythm for five blinding, desperate seconds.

Lucas cried out, a loud, unrestrained shout of pleasure, his fingernails digging into Andy's back.

"That's it," Lucas panted, his cocky facade finally shattering into pure, messy need. "Give it to me, Andy. Come for me. Come on!"

The climax hit Andy like a freight train. It ripped through his undead body, a scalding, explosive release that shattered his vision into white-hot stars. He cried out, his fangs burying themselves harmlessly into the cracked leather of the seat as he poured himself into the boy above him. A second later, Lucas gave a final, stuttering thrust and collapsed heavily against Andy's chest, his breathing ragged and harsh.

They lay there in the cramped backseat, a tangle of hot sweat and cold limbs. The car rocked gently on its worn shocks as it settled, the metallic groaning finally fading into the quiet hum of the suburban night.

Andy lay on his back, staring up at the fabric ceiling of the Impala. He felt entirely drained, utterly defeated, and happier than he had been in three centuries.

Lucas shifted, his sweaty cheek resting against Andy's chest, right over his still heart. The boy traced a lazy, possessive circle on Andy's pale skin with one finger.

"So," Lucas said, his voice entirely devoid of exhaustion, sounding impossibly smug. "That was amazing, not my preferred way of doing it. But next time, we're definitely trying the front seat, with you back on bottom."

Andy closed his eyes, a soft, rusty laugh escaping his lips.

"You are going to be the absolute death of me, Dorkus," Andy murmured, wrapping his arms securely around the boy.

"Yeah," Lucas agreed, pressing a kiss to Andy's collarbone. "But what a way to go."