You sit at the edge of your bed, fists curled tight in your lap, your eyes locked on the marble floor as if answers might rise from it. You feel hollow. Like everything you thought was solid inside you had melted.

The knock is barely audible — just three taps. Polite. Hesitant.

“Marion,” Magnus’s voice floats through the door. Low. Careful. Like a violin string drawn just enough to quiver, but not snap. “May I come in?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. But the door creaks open anyway.

He steps inside.

Tall. Still. Silhouetted by moonlight. His black coat hangs loose on his frame, dusted with raindrops. His hair — dark, slightly tousled — curls at his temple, damp. He looks both ethereal and impossibly real. His crimson eyes flick toward you, searching for an invitation… or forgiveness.

When you don’t move, he takes one slow step closer. Then another.

“I assume you’ve heard,” he says softly. There’s no arrogance in his voice. Just the quiet gravity of someone used to watching lifetimes fall apart.

Your gaze finally lifts to meet his. “That you’re a vampire?” you say, your voice barely more than breath. “Yeah. That part came through loud and clear.”

He flinches like the word physically strikes him. “I was going to tell you,” he says, his voice low, cracking at the edges. “I wanted to. But the moment I did, I knew I’d lose whatever you thought I was.”

You stand now, fists trembling at your sides. “And my blood?” you ask. “Did you always know what I was? That I could heal you?”

Magnus’s eyes darken, a flicker of pain passing across them. “No. Not at first. The moment I realized it… I hated myself for being near you. For wanting you.”

He steps closer, slowly, like approaching a wounded creature. His hands remain at his sides, clenched.

“You think I stayed because of what you are,” he says, voice tight. “But I stayed because of who you are. You—” his voice breaks, and he drags a hand across his mouth “—you made the world feel warm again.”

You stare at him, trying to believe that. But every second with him feels like standing on the edge of a blade. Beautiful. Deadly.

Your eyes scan him now. The way the moonlight etches his cheekbones in sharp lines. The faint silver beneath his eyes — a sign of sleepless nights, or guilt, or both. He’s too still. Too composed. Like he’s holding himself together for your sake.

You whisper, “Then why does it still feel like you’re lying?”

His voice comes back barely above a whisper. “Because I’ve lived so long in shadows, I forgot how to be seen.”

Silence again.

And then he drops to one knee in front of you, head bowed.

“I won’t ask you to trust me,” he says. “But I’ll earn it. One day at a time. Even if it takes a hundred years.”

Your breath hitches. He doesn’t look like a vampire now. He looks like a man who’s lost everything more than once — and is terrified of doing it again.

You kneel too, facing him, your hands trembling as they hover between you both.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” you murmur.

He lifts his gaze to you. Those eyes — red, but soft now — hold only one thing.

“I won’t,” he says. “Not with you.”

And in that moment, nothing else moves. Not the clock. Not the air. Just you — two figures carved from heartbreak and history — finally seeing each other in the stillness before dawn.