Between

Shadows moved in Celinda’s chamber, restless as living things. Abby stood at the threshold, her hand trembling on the doorframe.

The Bloodmother looked up from her book, ancient amber eyes reflecting lamplight. “You came.”

“I…” Abby’s voice caught. “I wanted to.”

That was the truth, wasn’t it? Not duty. Not gratitude. Want. The word felt foreign in her mouth, a language she’d forgotten how to speak.

Celinda set the book aside with deliberate care. “Come here, treasure.”

Abby crossed the room. She’d been turned at twenty-three—frozen in her early twenties, all the softness of youth still present, the promise of who she might have become crystallized forever. She’d just begun to understand herself when immortality stopped the clock. A century and two years of existence, and she still felt unfinished.

“You’re afraid,” Celinda observed. Not a question.

“Always.” The admission slipped out before Abby could stop it. “I don’t know how not to be.”

Celinda’s hand lifted, and Abby saw it: the minute tremor in her fingers. Then contact—cool fingertips against Abby’s jaw, feather-light. Behind Celinda, her other hand found the bedpost. Wood groaned, then splintered with a soft crack.

Abby’s eyes darted to the damaged wood, then back to Celinda’s face.

“It’s all right,” Celinda murmured, though her voice had gone tight. “Come. Sit with me.”

They settled on the bed, Celinda’s back against the headboard, Abby curled against her side. The Bloodmother’s arm came around her shoulders—measured, careful. Her free hand pressed flat against her own thigh, nails digging crescents into the silk of her gown.

“Tell me what you’re feeling,” Celinda said.

“Nothing.” Abby closed her eyes. “That’s the problem. I feel nothing, and I don’t know why. When you touch me, when anyone touches me, it’s like… like I’m watching it happen to someone else. Going through the motions. Performing.”

I wanted to feel something real. Even if it’s fear. Even if it hurts. I’m so tired of being empty.

“And tonight?”

“Tonight I wanted to feel something real.” Abby’s breath hitched. “Even if it’s fear. Even if it hurts. I’m so tired of being empty.”

Celinda went utterly still—not human stillness but the preternatural freeze of their kind, carved from stone. Then, slowly, she exhaled. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me try something.” Celinda shifted, guiding Abby to lie back against the pillows. “And if at any point you disappear inside yourself, tell me. Or show me. A word, a gesture. Anything.”

Abby nodded. Her heart—unnecessary, habitual—hammered against her ribs.

Celinda’s fingers traced her collarbone through the thin fabric of her nightgown. Abby felt the touch, catalogued it: cool skin, gentle pressure, the path of sensation from shoulder to throat. Her body knew what to do—she arched slightly, let her lips part, arranged her expression into something that might pass for desire.

“Stop.” Celinda’s hand stilled. “You’re performing already.”

Shame flooded through Abby, hot and immediate. “I don’t know how else to—”

“Shh.” Celinda’s thumb brushed her lower lip. “Start smaller. Close your eyes. Don’t move unless you want to. Don’t make a sound unless it’s pulled from you. Just… feel. And if you feel nothing, that’s all right too. No expectations. No script.”

Abby closed her eyes.

Celinda’s mouth found the curve of her neck. Cold lips, marble-smooth, deliberate. The scrape of fangs kept carefully retracted, a threat held in check. Not the feeding kiss Abby had braced for, but something softer—tasting, learning. What did she taste like to someone who usually drank deep? Salt and silk, perhaps. The faint dust of a century spent going through motions.

Celinda’s hand slid beneath the nightgown, palm flat against Abby’s stomach. Behind her closed lids, Abby tracked sensations like a theater critic reviewing a performance she wasn’t giving: the chill of ancient skin (noted), the intentional slowness (catalogued), the way Celinda’s mouth moved lower (observed, filed away).

Breast, she thought distantly. She’s kissing my breast now. I should respond. What’s the appropriate response? Breathing change—shallow to deep? A small sound? Should I touch her hair?

She was floating somewhere above her own body, watching a woman on a bed being touched by another woman. That woman’s back arched at the right moments. That woman’s breath hitched on cue. That woman was very good at this performance, had perfected it over decades of practice.

But Abby wasn’t in that body. She was nowhere at all.

Celinda’s breath had gone careful again, measured. Counting, Abby thought from her distant vantage point. She’s counting to stay controlled. The observation was clinical, emotionless. Fingers slipped between her thighs—still gentle, still patient—and Abby’s body responded with trained precision. The right tension. The right small gasp. All the beats hit perfectly.

Empty. So perfectly, skillfully empty.

Celinda’s shoulders had gone rigid. Her free hand gripped the sheets beside Abby’s hip, knuckles white against the dark fabric.

And then—

A flicker. Not much. Just a spark of something that wasn’t performance or habit or the ghost of expected response. A thread of genuine sensation, thin as spider silk, connecting her to the body she’d been observing. The difference between watching herself perform and actually inhabiting her skin.

“There,” Celinda breathed against her throat. “There you are.”

Her fingers moved with more certainty now, chasing that spark, coaxing it into something more. Pressure and rhythm, the patient insistence of someone who had all the time in the world and was willing to use it. Celinda’s forehead pressed against Abby’s ribs, breath held, fighting something vast and hungry.

The spark caught. Spread. Became warmth, then heat, then—

Celinda’s measured breath hitched. Her grip on the sheets tightened, fabric tearing under her fingers. And then she surged forward—instinct overriding intention. Her mouth claimed Abby’s with fierce hunger, fingers pressing deeper, more–wanting to push through, to shatter the careful patience, to drown Abby in sensation until there was no choice but to feel everything all at once—

And Abby went blank.

Not gradual. Instant. The spark snuffed out like a candle in a gale. Her body went still beneath Celinda’s, not tense but simply absent. A mannequin. A shell.

Celinda froze. Pulled back as if burned.

“Abby?”

Nothing. Abby stared at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused, her breath even and mechanical. Gone.

“Abby.” Celinda’s hands left her body immediately, pressing flat against the mattress instead. “Come back. Come back, I’m sorry—”

Slowly, like surfacing from deep water, Abby’s eyes focused. Found Celinda’s face.

“I’m sorry,” Celinda said again, her voice ragged. “I lost control. I pushed too hard, I—”

“You scared me.” Abby’s voice was small. “For a moment you were… too much.”

Something shifted in Celinda’s expression—understanding, maybe. Or recognition. She sat back on her heels, putting careful distance between them.

Celinda stayed very still. “I understand now.”

Abby propped herself up on her elbows, studying Celinda’s face. “What do you mean?”

“Your blankness…” Celinda’s hands flexed against her thighs, then stilled. “It stopped me. Better than fear would have. Better than anything else could have.”

She reached out slowly, giving Abby time to refuse. When Abby didn’t move away, Celinda’s hand settled on her ankle—barely touching, a question mark made of skin and bone.

“Can we try again?” Celinda asked. “Slowly this time. I promise to stay gentle.”

Abby considered. The blankness was already receding, leaving space for something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or trust. “Yes.”

This time, Celinda moved like she was approaching something precious and breakable. Mouth soft against Abby’s throat. Hands careful on her skin. And when her fingers found their way between Abby’s thighs again, the touch was feather-light, asking permission with every movement.

The spark returned. Steadier now. Abby breathed into it, let it grow at its own pace. No rushing. No forcing. Just the slow bloom of genuine feeling.

Pleasure built gradually—not the sharp spike of Celinda’s earlier intensity, but something deeper, more rooted. When it crested, Abby’s body arched without permission, a sound escaping her throat that she didn’t recognize as her own. Real. Undeniably real.

Celinda made a noise against her skin—relief and hunger and something that sounded like gratitude—but kept herself leashed, gentle even as Abby shook apart beneath her hands.

After thirty heartbeats—Abby was counting—Celinda’s grip on the sheets loosened.

After, they lay tangled together, both trembling for different reasons. Celinda’s hand pressed flat against her own thigh again, nails digging crescents into the skin. But her breathing was steadier now. Counted, yes, but not desperate.

“You’re all right?” Celinda asked finally.

Abby took inventory: her body heavy and sated, her mind quiet for once, satisfaction humming through her. “Yes. I’m all right. Better than all right.”

“Good.” Celinda’s hand relaxed slightly. “That’s good.”

Abby studied her profile in the lamplight. “You’re still holding back.”

“Always.” A bitter edge crept into Celinda’s voice. “But now I understand why it’s worth it.”

“Why?”

Silence stretched between them. Then: “Because wanting too much breaks what I love.”

Because wanting too much breaks what I love.

The words fell like stones into still water. Celinda’s hand trembled against Abby’s hair—the first uncontrolled movement since she’d pulled back—before steadying. Abby felt them settle in her chest, heavy with truth.

She reached for Celinda’s hand—the one that had torn the sheets, that had splintered wood just from the effort of being gentle. Their fingers interlaced.

“What if,” Abby said slowly, “I’m not as breakable as you think?”

“You are.” Celinda’s grip tightened fractionally, then deliberately loosened. “Everyone is. I’ve learned that the hard way.”

“Then what was this?”

“This was…” Celinda turned to look at her finally. “This was me learning that restraint doesn’t have to feel like holding myself hostage. You’re teaching me that.”

“And you’re teaching me to feel.” Abby shifted closer, closing the careful distance between them. “Slowly.”

“You know what the problem with immortality is?” Celinda’s thumb traced circles on the back of Abby’s hand. “Most of us just survive it. The trick is learning to live.”

“Is that what we’re doing? Learning to live?”

“I hope so.” Celinda’s free hand lifted—steady now, or steadier—and brushed hair back from Abby’s face. “I’ve been waiting a century for you to come to me. Not as a supplicant. Not out of duty. But wanting.”

“I was waiting to know what wanting felt like.” Abby curled into Celinda’s side, resting her head against her shoulder. “I think I’m starting to remember.”

Abby’s fingers traced idle patterns on Celinda’s arm, marveling at the simple fact of choosing to touch rather than being touched. Of wanting contact for its own sake, not for what it performed or proved.

“Celinda?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you.” The words felt inadequate, too small for what had shifted between them. “For waiting. For being patient. For pulling back when I disappeared.”

“Thank you for teaching me that patience isn’t punishment.” Celinda pressed her lips to Abby’s hair. “And for showing me exactly what I needed to see.”

Abby tilted her face up. She touched her own lips, then looked at Celinda’s mouth. “Can I…?”

“Yes.”

The kiss was tentative at first, Abby learning the shape of something she’d done a thousand times but never felt. Celinda held still, letting Abby control the depth and pace, though Abby could feel the tremor running through her—want held in check by sheer force of will.

When they parted, Abby rested her forehead against Celinda’s. “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Dangerous.” Celinda’s arms tightened around her. “Love makes us mortal in all the ways that matter.”

“I know.”

“Good.” She kissed Abby’s hair. “Then you know what you’re choosing.”

“I do.” Abby’s hand found Celinda’s over her heart—the heart that didn’t beat but somehow still felt capable of breaking. “What about you? What are you choosing?”

Celinda’s answer came after a long pause, weighted with centuries of caution: “To let myself want you. Completely. Even knowing I might break us both.”

“Then we’ll learn not to break.” Abby laced their fingers together. “Together. Slowly.”

“Slowly,” Celinda agreed.

Outside, the night deepened toward dawn. But here, in the space between survival and living, between numbness and intensity, two women who’d lost themselves in immortality began the long work of becoming whole.

Celinda’s hand rested in Abby’s without measured control, without counting to ten, without digging nails into her own palm. And Abby felt the weight of it—really felt it—present where their skin touched, solid and real and chosen.

For the first time in a century, Abby wanted morning to come slowly.

And for the first time in four, Celinda let herself believe it might.