They talk on the phone nowadays. She knows he was dating a werewolf for a while. He knows she's gone through a parade of men, none lasting more than a few months. They talk about new weapons and fighting techniques, demons encountered, battles won. Superficial shoptalk.
One day he shows up at her doorstep. "Passing through," he says. He's barely over the threshold before they're kissing ferociously, years of hurt and miscommunication falling away.
A flashpoint of desire is racing through their bodies, electricity making every muscle ache, the thunder of want and need overtaking rational thought. They stumble into the bedroom, most of their clothes already shed by the time they fall on the bed.
Maybe it's his cool skin, a shock to her after so much time spent with the living. Maybe it's seeing only her in the mirror, a sudden reminder that even if she makes him feel human, he isn't. Either way, they suddenly break apart as if repulsed by each other. Amidst mumbled apologies, he's out the door in seconds flat.
Less than two weeks pass before they're talking on the phone again, two demon hunters sharing current war stories.
They both pretend that they're content with the direction they're heading in, that they aren't waiting for the day when they both can stop passing through the peripheries of each other's lives.