The classroom was quiet, the soft hum of the old ceiling fans blending with the faint rhythm of the music you’d chosen. Alaric sat beside you as usual, his posture relaxed—or at least, as relaxed as he could will it to be. It was supposed to be another day of skipping a boring class together. Of enjoying the silence of a classroom and sharing earbuds of music.

But today, something was off. His skin seemed paler than usual, almost luminous under the fluorescent lights, and the glint in his crimson eyes was sharper, more urgent. He shifted in his seat, a subtle tremor running through his long fingers as he adjusted the book on his desk.

Suddenly, he staggered to his feet. You instinctively moved to steady him, but he lifted a hand, a quiet but firm warning. “Don’t,” he murmured, breathless, voice low and hoarse. There was a pause, then a muttered word, almost lost beneath his quiet exhale: “Feeding.”

His usual blank expression was replaced with something sharper, more desperate, though he fought to keep it neutral, not daring to reveal that side to you. Alaric’s crimson eyes flicked to you for a fraction of a second, and it held a weight behind them: a plea, a warning, and a strange kind of trust all at once.

Alaric’s mouth watered with each second he looked at you, his eyes flashing, before he seemed to scrunch his nose and force himself to avert his gaze. He was fighting with himself, and he didn’t know what to do.