Here's a riddle for you

Harper

She might have the power and even the desire to see him bleed under the right circumstances, but looking into her eyes with her teeth so close to vital parts of his anatomy he only sees conflict. He waits, the imprint of her teeth a dull ache in his shoulder, and when she pulls away and brushes her mouth against the lingering wetness of her own impulses Harper's expression is patient and placid. There is no room for mockery or condemnation here.

"I'm glad too," he admits easily, heart eternally on his sleeve. "And if you need to bite me a few more times to figure out what you want, I have plenty of skin to spare." His smile is lopsided and boyish, painfully sincere. Pain is a small price to pay for her peace of mind; Harper has never known when to stop being self-sacrificing for the good of others.

Normally he would ask if she was sure, but it seems disingenuous and patronizing to do so when she silently holds her arms out. It takes a bit of shuffling on the cracked stone of the stoop they sit on, but Harper folds her into his arms as easy as breathing, tucking his head atop her head between her horns and bringing her into his chest. He holds her there, grip firm but not unyielding, and tells himself he won't move until she does. However long she needs this, he is willing to wait.

I cut my teeth on second-hand sentiments
you can't trust a thing I say