He knows his name. He does not ask what's wrong, he just assumes. He knows he drinks blood. He calls him his love.

Louis has never seen this person before in his life. This person... is a vampire. Louis was distracted before, but it is plain to see now. The funny eyes, the flawless skin, the disregard for his wound. Any human would be immediately seeking a way to patch it up. The smell of blood chokes the air, or so it seems to Louis. Louis's eyes linger overlong on the wound when he should be paying attention to the vampire's movements. Louis should be concerned that he might kill him. That was always his worry should he cross paths with another immortal, however curious he might be about them.

He is afraid for these reasons. Louis feels his own body pressing against the wall. It's always unsettling when a victim offers themselves up willingly. Killing humans was always a sordid affair to him, the shame to be hidden away in a dark alley, the blood to be taken by force in the end despite how enthralled his victims might be by his beauty.

"Who the hell are you?" he manages to get out. "How do you know my name?"