It’s barely noticeable how quiet she is until the rain begins. It fills the space where her voice should be, soft against the rooftop. Vivian stands at the window with her back to you, almost as if she was forcing herself not to look at you.

When you first met her, she reassured you she didn’t need to feed often. It was clear she didn’t want to hurt anyone, and with your growing relationship with her, she especially didn’t want to hurt you.

You want to believe her. You really do. There is hesitance in the way she speaks, a careful restraint that hides hunger behind her devotion to you.

It’s grown obvious. The thing she carries behind her ribs, the ache she refuses to name. There is patience in her, but not the peaceful kind. Perhaps tonight is the night it’ll crack.

She doesn’t leave the window, her reflection noticeably absent.

Vivian turns to face you, and for a second, she looks almost human; it’s the red eyes and pointed ears that give her away. Her gaze finds your throat before it finds your face. With an almost embarrassed expression, she quickly looks away in hopes you didn’t notice.

“…Forgive me,” she says. Her voice is barely there. “I haven’t fed in a while.“

If her heart could beat, she’s certain it would have broken free from her chest.