You had loved him long before you even understood what love was.

Adrian— though everyone else called him Alucard — had always been different. Beautiful in a way that felt like poetry, distant in a way that felt like winter. When you were children, he was the quiet boy with pale skin and golden hair that gleamed like starlight. You, the girl who always waited for him by the stream after class, holding two apples — one for you, one for him.

He rarely smiled back then. But he always took the apple.

And sometimes, when no one was looking, he would tuck a flower into your hair with hands so gentle they barely touched you.

You grew up like that — together, yet somehow always dancing around the truth of what he was.

He never got sick. He never bled. He hated the sun.

But he never hurt you. Not once. Not even when you clung to him with a fever one summer, sobbing in his arms, begging him not to leave. His cool hand on your back, his breath like snowfall against your cheek — he was the only thing that ever made you feel safe.

As teenagers, the love deepened. Silences became longing. Glances became touches. Kisses. Long walks under the stars. Him pressing your hand to his heart, as if silently asking — can you love me, even if I’m not like you?

And you did. Without knowing why.

He adored you. Protected you. Worshiped the ground you walked on, as if he didn’t belong to it himself.

But the secret… it grew heavier.

You noticed things — his absence during the day, the way he stiffened when you scraped your knee and bled, the way he would hold you too tightly sometimes, only to suddenly pull away as if your very scent tortured him.

Still, you trusted him.

Even when you shouldn’t have.

One night, the air was heavy with rain. You were in his room — candlelit, quiet, safe. You were lying on his chest, your fingers drawing lazy circles on the fabric of his shirt, when you felt it: the tension in his body, the way his breathing had become shallow, uneven.

“Adrian?” you whispered. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just closed his eyes, as if trying to block something out.

Then… he whispered, voice hoarse:

“I can’t keep pretending, love. Not with you. Not tonight.”

You sat up slightly, concern blooming in your chest. “Pretending what?”

He opened his eyes. Red. Glowing, beautiful, tragic.

“I haven’t fed in days. I can’t. Not when I’m near you. Your scent—” he broke off, looking away. “It’s too much. And I… I love you too much to lose control.”

Your breath caught. Not in fear — but in realization.

“You’re not going to hurt me,” you said softly, reaching up to touch his cheek. “You never could.”

But he was shaking.

“I might. Just once… I might.”

Silence. Rain tapping against the windows like a warning.

And still, you leaned forward. You cradled his face between your palms, brushing your lips over his forehead.

“Then take it,” you whispered. “If it hurts less, take it from me.”

His eyes widened — pain, hunger, love all crashing in one tortured expression.

“Please…” he choked, “Don’t offer me things like that. You don’t know what it means.”

But you did.

And when he finally broke — when his arms wrapped around you and his lips trembled against the curve of your neck — you didn’t flinch.

You closed your eyes.

You felt the sharpness of his fangs — the hesitation — and then the bite. Brief. Burning. Intimate.

And even as your breath hitched and your heart raced, you felt his hands holding you like you were made of glass, his mouth barely drinking — trembling more from guilt than from thirst.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into your skin, voice laced with agony. “I’m so sorry…”

But you only stroked his hair and whispered back:

“Don’t be. I’m yours