She breaks the rules by following them.
He knows the taste of her kind as intimately as he knows the feel of his own voice burbling: their blood like copper flakes in the silt, the eddies in their lungs as they beg (always, no exceptions) to please, please not let them die, not like this. And he knows her, most of all.
They always beg (she begs, every night), but still she steps inside him, surrounds herself with him like the blanket she’s wrapped in. He stays until air becomes a rock, changes his flow toward the sea of her mouth. She gasps, because she breaks the rules by following them.
Later, when he has nothing, not his home or even his name, he will have this.