Mateo Lynn And Aster Yang

Mateo Lynn stood in the back of his own apartment, shoes still on, staring at the damp streaks Arlo Sage had left behind in the hallway when he slammed out days ago. The air smelled like wet concrete and cheap cologne-Arlo’s attempt at apology, maybe, or just a stubborn insistence that he could still control the narrative even after Mateo had asked him to leave. Mateo’s throat tightened every time the radiator clicked, as if the house itself were keeping time for an argument that wouldn’t end.

He told himself he was fine. He told himself he wasn’t going to need anyone. But his phone kept lighting up with messages he didn’t open-friends checking in, the lease office reminding him rent was due, and one number he still recognized without trying. He turned it facedown on the table and flexed his fingers until the tendons ached, like pain could pin his longing in place. He wanted distance. He wanted silence. He wanted, with a kind of exhaustion that felt older than his age, to stop wanting.

The knock came anyway-sharp, impatient, too close to the door for comfort. Mateo didn’t move at first. The radiator hissed. His pulse sounded loud in his ears, a betrayal. When he finally opened the door, cold slipped inside with a clean, expensive scent that didn’t match the stairwell’s mildew and dust.

Aster Yang stood there like he belonged to a different kind of night. He was tall, dark-haired, dressed neatly enough to look like he’d stepped out of a photograph, and his eyes caught the dim light with a steady, unreadable focus. He didn’t smile right away. Instead, he looked at Mateo like he was measuring something delicate-breath, heat, the exact shape of a person who was trying not to break.

“You’ve been avoiding your building entrance,” Aster said, voice low, precise. His gaze flicked to the table behind Mateo through the doorway, where the phone lay face-down like a secret. “I heard you didn’t answer.”

Mateo’s stomach tightened. “Who are you supposed to be?”

Aster’s expression barely shifted, but the air changed. The cold in the hallway deepened, or maybe Mateo’s skin just reacted to it. “Aster Yang.”

Mateo repeated the name in his head like a lock he could turn. He should have asked why a stranger knew he was avoiding anything. He should have closed the door and gone back to pretending he didn’t need warmth. Instead, the words came out sharper than he intended. “Why are you here?”

Aster stepped closer-not enough to cross a line Mateo could point to, but enough that Mateo felt the closeness like pressure against his ribs. His sleeve brushed the edge of the doorframe. The contact was light, almost nothing, but Mateo’s body reacted like it recognized something it didn’t want to admit.

“I’m here because you smell like you’re still hurt,” Aster said, and there was something in his tone that made the sentence feel less like an observation and more like a decision. “And because I can’t stand the idea of you staying alone with it.”

Mateo flinched at the intimacy of it. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know you haven’t eaten properly,” Aster replied, and his eyes dropped to Mateo’s hands, still clenched. “I know you flinch when someone knocks like they’re about to take something.”

Mateo’s mouth went dry. He hated how accurate it was, hated how fast his body believed the stranger’s attention. He tried to pull back-just a step, just enough to create space-but Aster’s presence held the air steady, like a tide refusing to move.

“You’re not-” Mateo stopped himself. Not what? Not dangerous? Not like Arlo? Not like every person who’d promised and then left bruises behind in invisible places?

Aster’s gaze lifted, and the calm in his face cracked for a heartbeat into something more hungry than romantic. “I’m not Arlo Sage,” he said. The way he said the name made it sound like a bruise he’d watched someone pick at. “But you’re still living as if you’ll be punished for wanting anything.”

Mateo’s chest tightened at the directness. He didn’t like being seen. He didn’t like that his desire had been turning into a kind of self-harm since Arlo’s breakup-like wanting meant he deserved to lose. He forced a breath through his nose, tasting dust and something metallic at the back of his tongue.

“Why does it matter to you?” Mateo asked, and he hated how small it sounded. He wanted to sound in control. He wanted to make Aster back away.

Aster’s eyes softened-not enough to become kind, but enough to become honest. “Because I’m a vampire,” he said simply, like confession was just another truth. “And proximity is… an instinct.”

Mateo went still. The radiator clicked again. The apartment behind him felt suddenly too warm, too exposed. “Instinct,” he echoed, and the word made his skin prickle. He’d read enough-overheard enough-to understand what that meant. Not just attraction. Not just appetite.

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