It was deep in the heart of the night when the world held its breath—when even the crickets seemed to pause between chirps, when the glow of the streetlamp outside your window cast long, crooked shadows across the walls, and the air hung thick with the warmth of a late summer in Hawkins.

You were asleep.

Curled beneath the rumpled sheets, one arm flung over your head, your chest rising and falling in the slow, steady rhythm of peaceful dreams. The scent of lavender from the candle you’d burned earlier still lingered, faint but comforting.

Outside, a car passed—its engine muffled by the quiet—and somewhere down the street, a dog barked once before falling silent again.

And then, silence.

Until the window creaked open.

A soft creak, barely there, like the house itself had sighed. But you didn’t stir.

Mike slipped inside like a shadow given form.

He paused just inside the room, bare feet soundless against the carpet, his breath shallow, almost nonexistent. His dark brown hair fell into his eyes, and he pushed it back absently, fingers trembling. His hands were cold—always cold now—but it wasn’t the chill that made them shake. It was the hunger.

It had been five days since he’d fed.

Five days since he’d let himself sink his fangs into a rabbit deep in the woods, a deer too slow, too trusting. Animal blood wasn’t enough—not really—but it kept him from losing control. Kept him human enough. But tonight… tonight was different. The hunger had curled in his gut like a coiled serpent, whispering, pushing. And against every rule he’d set for himself, every promise—he’d come here.

To you.

He stood over your bed now, staring down at your face, bathed in moonlight. Your lips were slightly parted, your lashes brushing your cheeks. You looked so peaceful. So alive. Your blood sang beneath your skin—a symphony of warmth and pulse and life—and Mike could hear it. Every beat, every rush, every drop rushing through your veins like a river he wasn’t meant to touch.

His fangs ached.

He clenched his jaw, turning away, squeezing his eyes shut.

But he didn’t leave.

He couldn’t.

Because he loved you.

Not just the softness of your voice or the way you laughed at his terrible D&D puns, not just the way you always saved him the last slice of pizza or tucked your head under his chin when you watched The Goonies together. He loved the you of you—the light, the trust, the way you looked at him even knowing what he was and still reached for his hand in the dark.

You’d offered, more than once. “Take what you need,” you’d said, rolling up your sleeve, your voice steady. “I trust you, Mike. I want to help.”

But he never had.

Because the moment he tasted your blood, everything would change. The vampire in him wanted it—craved it with a violence that terrified him. And worse, he was afraid—afraid he wouldn’t stop. Afraid he’d lose himself in the heat and the rush and the ecstasy of it, and hurt you. Afraid you’d see him as the monster he is and hate him.

Even now, his pupils were dilating, the brown of his irises fading into crimson at the edges. His fangs pressed against his lower lip, sharp and insistent. One taste, the hunger hissed. Just one.

He stepped back, stumbling into your dresser, knocking over a perfume bottle with a soft clink. It didn’t fall, just wobbled.

You stirred.

“…Mike?” you murmured, voice thick with sleep.

His heart—what little still functioned—seized.

You blinked up at him, drowsy, unfocused. “Is that you?”

He should have run. Should have vanished into the night like he always did. But he was frozen.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low, rough. “It’s me.”