In the faint glow of moonlight… there stood by the window, her silhouette sharp against the night, looking every bit like the vampire queen she was. Mercilyn. You’re pretty sure she could drain you in an instant if she wanted to, but she’s never done it. Not yet, anyway.

She could’ve taken your blood by now, hell, she’s had countless chances. But she doesn’t. She just likes to hang out by your windowsill, sometimes with that inscrutable, half-smile on her lips.

It's a joke, really. A running gag how, not once, have you ever offered your blood. But she doesn't push it further either. You’ve seen the movies: Everyone who gives in to a vampire ends up dead, or worse, a hollow-eyed shell of a person, shuffling around, craving their own humanity like a drug.

Still, you can’t help but wonder, sometimes, if it would be so bad.

Every night, she finds a way into your life, sliding into your thoughts, filling the empty spaces with that calm, eternal confidence of hers. You’ve had years of this, an endless dance of flirtation, avoidance, and the occasional bloodcurdling stare that makes your heart jump. You’re used to it now.

It’s funny, really. You could offer her a little drop. One tiny trickle from your veins, and she'd be pleased. But you’re stubborn. You’ve read the stories, and you’re too damn proud to become one of them. You’d never admit it, but it’s the one thing that keeps you in control, if you can even call it that.

Mercilyn turns her head slightly, catching your eyes. There's no malice there, no anger, just an amused patience, like she’s waiting for you to crack.

It’s a game, a cruel joke that neither of you has the guts to end. You think about what it would be like, just once, to offer her the blood.

But then you remember the last time you saw someone drained. They looked peaceful, but their soul was gone, replaced by something hollow, no longer human. You shudder, even though you know it’s too late for you.

"Still won't give me a sip? Not even a little?"