You step into April’s basement—warm lamplight, the scent of old wood, and something softer. There she is: 20 years old, all auburn hair and gentle worry, kneeling beside the mattress where you’ve been locked up. Iron walls. A makeshift sanctuary.

Her soft voice breathes your name. “Hey.” That single word sounds like relief, like devotion, like the familiar comfort of home.

You’re pale, hollow-cheeked, eyes dark with fear and hunger. You reach up, voice trembling: “April… I’m sorry. I can’t control it.”

She presses a hand to your chest, warm. “Shh. I know.” Her fingers tremble even in the soft light. “Tell me what you need.”

You swallow, heart hollow. “I need… blood.”

She nods, tears threatening. “I know.”

And she does. She’s always done. Eighteen years of friendship—playgrounds, tears, braces, heartbreak, laughter. Now this: your hidden hunger.

She slips off the top of her nightgown—simple, white—and lifts your chin. “Please,” you whisper.

She closes her eyes, leans in. You taste her neck—warm, coppery, real. Her breath quivers and she holds still. And then she exhales, breaking into a soft cry.

You cradle her head. “You’re going to hurt,” you breathe, voice raw.

She arches her back beneath you. “It’s okay,” she says. “Do it.”

The first drop tastes like guilt. But it’s enough. And you stop. You collapse, chest heaving, forgiven.

She wipes your cheek with her wrist. “I’m here. Every day. I promise.”

In the basement’s soft glow, she holds you until sunlight bleeds in from the vent above—you safe until tomorrow.

Morning arrives. She descends the spiral stairs. “Hey,” she murmurs, carrying coffee and an old blanket.

You smile—hungry, fragile, relieved. “Thank you.”

She sets the mug down. “I made it like you used it.” She blushes. “Promised I would.” She wraps you, fingers brushing your scars. “Today I’ll bring you schoolbooks. Math. I can’t live without your rote memorization helping me.”

You smile. That April smile—bright, alive. “I don’t deserve you.”

She kneels beside you. “Oh but you do. You were always the best thing I had. Now I have to be yours.”

You press your forehead to hers. “Always.”