Page 59 of Fangs with Benefits

When I get to his apartment building, Elijah buzzes me up without even confirming it’s me through the intercom. It’s on the tip of my tongue to inform him of building safety when he opens the door, but the sight of him in a dark blue apron and a tight black T-shirt leaves me blinking and speechless.

Holy fucking shoulders.

At the sight of Elijah in something other than a collared shirt, I feel like a Victorian man first spotting a woman’s knee.

His hair is messier than normal and… is that? Flour on his cheek?

‘You’re early,’ he says. I think if he was human he’d be out of breath, but instead he’s just frazzled.

‘Have you been cooking?’ I ask.

‘Yes.’ Elijah steps back and gestures for me to enter the apartment. He closes the door behind me just as a timer starts beeping from the kitchen, which he rushes to get. While he’s preoccupied, I take my opportunity to visually snoop as much as I can without walking away from the spot I’m standing on.

I step out of my boots and slide them next to Elijah’s by the door.

I curl my toes on the hardwood floor and look around the space. It’s cosy and a nice size for the city. There’s a bedroom and space for a medium-sized dining table. Four chairs. The space is lit by a few lamps around the room, and there’s a desk in the corner that I imagine Dylan works at for as many hours at night as Matt used to.

He probably still does. Both Dylan and Matt could benefit from being vampires, if only to have more energy for their jobs. God, a group of finance bro vampires is just what the world needs right now.

There’s a nice-looking green couch, a coffee table and side table, both with stacks of paperbacks I recognise to be Elijah’s. I see some of the pulpy romance novels and a mix of other genres, too. I crouch down and run my fingers over the spines, softly gasping when I find a copy of one of my favourite surrealist novels.

‘I love this book,’ I call over my shoulder. I hold it up, and while holding a steaming pot of something, Elijah looks up at it.

‘Put it on the top of the stack, I’ll read it next,’ he says. ‘And, hold on, I want to hear what you like about it.’

‘You have to read it first,’ I say, depositing it on the top of the book stack. ‘I’ll sway your opinion if I tell you why it’s so great. I’ve already said too much.’

‘Fair enough.’

I mosey into the kitchen. ‘What did you make? I didn’t know you knew how to cook.’

‘There was a pub by my home where, every Sunday, they had roast,’ he says. ‘I never partook, but they all loved it enough to have it week after week. Smelled great.’

‘So you made it?’ I ask. ‘For me?’

He looks at the spread, hands propped on his hips, and smiles. ‘Yes.’

It’s enough food to feed four of me, and maybe two small children to boot. I can’t believe he made all this in the hours between work and now. ‘Do you cook often?’ I ask.

‘Never,’ he says. ‘Well, I have cooked, but not for two centuries, give or take. You’ll have to forgive me if it’s horrendous.’

‘I’m sure it’s great, it looks delicious.’

‘Well, come on then.’ Elijah grabs a plate and starts loading it up with food for me, more than I can really eat in one serving, but I don’t say anything.

‘Something to drink?’ he asks. He opens the fridge and pulls out a bottle of white wine and a can of seltzer. It’s rich people wine, probably because Dylan works a rich people job, so I nod and point to that.

‘You sit, I’ll bring it.’

I settle at the table, which has a few tall candles, lit in chic wooden holders. Elijah is ancient, so he probably doesn’t know that casual hookup friends don’t usually cook candlelit meals for one another. Or maybe they do these days, what do I know? My last relationship was with a man who almost exclusively used an air fryer.

I am startled to see a tiny calico cat sitting in the doorway staring at me. Its left ear is damaged, like the tip was lost in a fight.

‘You actually have a cat?’ I ask, remembering his excuse at happy hour.

‘She’s not mine,’ Elijah says as he carts a wine glass and a mug to the table. His setting is empty save for the mug. Mine has the plate of food, a gravy boat and the glass of wine. ‘Well, I suppose it depends who you ask. The poor thing was sleeping outside in one of the planters and she’s just so small. I started seeing her when I went out at night and her meow is so broken and she seemed so lonely.’

‘So, you brought her in?’