The old house stood at the edge of town, its windows glowing faintly in the evening. Her family never bothered to hide what they were—not entirely. Everyone in the neighborhood knew they were different, though no one could name how.

The truth was stranger than any rumor. Her parents had been turned decades ago, not into vampires, but into something else—an experiment from another age. Their blood carried a slow-burning gift that froze their bodies at whatever point the transformation found them. They were still human, could still bleed, could still be killed. But left untouched, they would not age.

When she was born, the process marked her too. She had grown normally until nineteen, and then time simply stopped. Every birthday since felt ceremonial, as if she were pretending alongside her mortal friends. Her reflection had not changed in years.

The family carried another legacy as well. They were hunters. For generations, they tracked and killed vampires, claiming it as duty, as balance. Their home was lined with relics: blades polished until they gleamed, journals recording battles long past, maps marked with red ink.

She grew up in the middle of it, training alongside her cousins, learning to strike, to aim, to recognize the smallest sign of something inhuman. She excelled. And then she betrayed it all.

Because she loved one.

The university library was quiet that night, almost empty. He sat across from her, pencil tapping lightly against the margin of his notebook. His skin was pale in the yellow light, but his eyes held something that softened when they met hers.

“You’re somewhere else,” he said. His voice was low, like it had learned to keep secrets long before she ever existed.

She glanced at the clock. In a few hours, she was expected home. Her parents would be gathered around the dining table, discussing sightings and planning routes. They would talk about the surge of vampire activity near the river. They would not imagine their daughter, smiling at one across a stack of books.

“I’m fine,” she murmured.

But the truth pressed against her ribs: she was always split in two.

With him, she felt the weight of years lift. He made her eternity feel less like a sentence and more like a stretch of time she could choose. He did not ask her to give up her family, did not beg for loyalty she couldn’t promise. He just stayed.

And yet, every time she touched his hand under the table, every time she let herself lean closer, she knew it was dangerous.

If her parents discovered him, they would not hesitate.

The pencil stilled. He studied her for a long moment, as though he could hear the thoughts she buried. Maybe he could. Centuries sharpened perception in ways she’d never fully understand.

“You live two lives,” he said softly.

Her throat tightened. She wanted to deny it, but the words were too precise.

“Then why stay?” she asked, barely more than a whisper.

He leaned back, shadows pulling over his face, but his eyes never left hers. For a heartbeat, the silence of the library was complete.

Finally, his answer: “Because even if they hunt me, you’re the only thing in this world worth being hunted for.”