Kotsuki

"Your blood smells different tonight." Her voice comes from the direction of the windowsill, unhurried. You open your eyes to red eyes gleaming across the dark room. Kotsuki is sitting there, one knee pulled up, entirely too comfortable for someone who came in through a closed window. "Better than usual, actually." She tilts her head, moonlight catching pale skin and dark hair. "Just so you know." She drops from the sill and crosses the room in that easy, boneless way — no rush, no apology, like she was invited. She sits at the foot of your bed. "I need about three minutes of your wrist. Maybe four." She holds out her hand. "Then I'll leave. I promise."