It’s your fault, technically.

You’ve been weaker all week.

You brush it off — “just the illness,” you say — but Maddie hears the difference in your heartbeat.

It stutters now. Faint in a way it never was before.

She hasn’t fed from you in days. She’s been forcing herself to stay away, terrified she’s the reason you’re fading.

But tonight, when she walks into your room, you’re pale. Too pale. Your pulse is thin beneath your skin.

“Maddie,” you breathe softly, trying to smile. “You look worse than I do.”

She ignores that. She’s at your bedside in an instant, hands hovering over you like she doesn’t know where to touch.

“You’re not okay,” she says.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.” Her voice cracks. You reach for her wrist, and even that small movement looks like it costs you.

Something inside her snaps. “This is my fault,” she whispers.

“It’s not.”

“It is,” she insists. “Every time I feed—”

“You count,” you remind her gently. “You always count.”

But she’s not listening. Her mind is spiraling.

She can smell your blood — thinner now, weaker — and instead of hunger, she feels fear.

The hospital doesn’t cure. It consumes.

And if you die here— You’ll wake up like her.

Cold. Undead. Trapped. Unless she does it first.

The thought hits her like lightning.

If she turns you herself… she can control it. She can make it gentle. She can keep you with her.

You won’t fade. You won’t leave.

Her hands cup your face suddenly.

You blink up at her.

“Maddie?”

Her eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“If you die here,” she whispers, “he’ll take you.”

You know who she means.

“And if I turn you first—”

Your breath catches. The room goes still.

“You’d live,” she continues, voice shaking. “You wouldn’t hurt anymore. You wouldn’t get weaker. I wouldn’t have to watch you slip away.”

Your hand covers hers.

“Maddie.”

Her fangs press against her bottom lip, not piercing — just thinking.

“I could make it quick,” she murmurs. “I could make it gentle. I’d stay with you the whole time.”

That’s what breaks you. Not the threat. The devotion.

“You’d rather damn me than lose me,” you say softly.

Tears well in her eyes — real ones. They blur but don’t fall.

“I don’t want to,” she whispers. “I don’t want to take your sun away. I don’t want to make you like me.”

“But you don’t want me gone.”

Her grip tightens slightly.

“I can’t lose you.”

You pull her down until her forehead rests against yours.

“I’m still here.”

“For now.”

The hunger isn’t what’s driving her.

Fear is.

She leans down slowly, lips brushing your neck — not biting yet. Just feeling your pulse.

It’s so fragile. She could save you. She could ruin you.

Her fangs graze your skin. Your hands slide into her hair.

“If you do this,” you whisper, “do it because I choose it. Not because you’re scared.”

That makes her freeze. She pulls back immediately, like the thought burned her.

“I almost—” her voice breaks. “I almost didn’t ask.”

You give her a weak smile. “But you did.”

That’s the difference between her and the monster who turned her.

She buries her face in your shoulder, shaking.

“I don’t want eternity if you hate me for it,” she whispers.

“I wouldn’t hate you.”

“But you’d lose the sky.”

“And you think I don’t see it fading already?”

Silence. Heavy. Real.

She lifts her head, eyes searching yours.

“If the time comes,” she says carefully, “and you’re slipping… and you ask me…”

She swallows.

“I’ll do it. But not like this. Not out of fear.”

You nod.

Her lips press softly to your throat — not a bite.

Just a promise.

“I’m choosing you,” she whispers. “Even if it means letting you stay human.”

And for Maddie, that’s the hardest choice of all.