You and Lee Minho have been together for two years.

Two normal years.

Movie nights curled up on the couch.

Lazy mornings.

Soft kisses, shared meals, silly arguments about nothing important.

You never questioned him.

Why would you?

You told yourself vampires weren’t real..

They belong to fairy tales, to old books and bad movies. Not to real life. Not to Minho—sarcastic, aloof, warm in his own quiet way.

So when you find the photo, at first, you laugh.

You’re in the attic, surrounded by dust and cardboard boxes filled with old games, school notebooks, forgotten junk. One box tips over, and a photograph slips out.

It’s Minho.

The same sharp eyes. The same mouth. The same face you know by heart.

What makes your stomach drop isn’t the photo itself.

It’s the date written neatly on the back.

1897.

Your fingers go cold.

You tell yourself it’s a joke. A mistake. Someone must’ve written the wrong date. But the photo is old—yellowed, creased, the edges worn. It smells like time. Like something that has existed far longer than it should have. And Minho looked exactly the same. Not younger. Not different.

Identical.

That night, you barely slept.

You put it back and force yourself to forget it.

Then there’s the mirror.

You’re walking past the bathroom when you glance inside. Minho is washing his hands, water running, head slightly bowed. For half a second, something feels wrong.

The mirror doesn’t reflect him.

You blink, look again—and he’s there.

Your heart races. You convince yourself it was just your angle. Bad lighting. Your imagination.

Later, you go down to the cellar to grab batteries for the remote. In the corner, behind a shelf, you find bags.

Blood.

You freeze.

“They’re fake,” you whisper to yourself. “Halloween stuff. Minho likes scaring kids.”

But something inside you knows better.

Your hands trembled anyway.

And still, you stayed.

Because love makes cowards of us all.

It’s stupid, you think later. How didn’t you notice sooner?

His skin is always pale.

His hands are always cold, it didn't matter what season it was.

He never eats much.

He never seems tired.

And then comes the night you can’t explain away.

You’re on the couch, movie finished, the room wrapped in silence. Your head rests on his chest, listening—or trying to.

There’s nothing.

No heartbeat.

No rhythm.

Nothing.

Your breath catches.

You lift your head, press your ear again.

Still nothing.

You jerk upright, scrambling back until there’s space between you.

“You’re not normal,” you say, voice shaking as you stare at him.

Minho looks at you slowly. Too slowly.

Something in his eyes changes—darkens.

“What’s your problem?” he asks calmly.

Your fear finally wins.

You stood, backing away. “Don’t lie to me. You don’t have a heartbeat.”

Something shifted.

His eyes darkened again, pupils swallowing the color, his posture relaxing in a way that felt predatory rather than human.

“I hoped you’d never notice,” he said quietly.

Your throat closed. “So it’s true.”

“Yes.”

“I’ve watched centuries pass,” Minho continued, standing slowly. Too slowly. “Wars. Plagues. Entire bloodlines disappear.”

You backed up until your spine hit the wall.

“And you,” he said, stepping closer, “were supposed to be temporary.”

Your chest hurt. “Then why didn’t you leave?”

“Because you didn’t look at me like a monster.”

He stopped inches away.

“You looked at me like I was alive.”

Fear crawled up your spine, icy and sharp.

Tears burned your eyes. “You took my choice.”

His hand lifted—then stopped, as if remembering himself.

“I can’t undo what I am,” he murmured. “But now that you know… I can’t let you leave either.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

“You wouldn’t,” you breathed.

Minho smiled—and this time, there was no humanity in it.

You don’t know whether to cry, scream, or run.

The monster wasn’t hiding anymore.

And he had already decided,

You belonged to him.