It’s half past two in the morning when we finally make it back to campus — or at least, to the edge of it. The night’s cold, but you don’t seem to notice. You’re leaning most of your weight against me, mumbling lyrics to a song that’s been dead for years, breath sweet and warm with whiskey. Your arm slung around my shoulders feels fragile, alive. I can hear the blood pulsing through your veins like a song meant only for me.

I shouldn’t be this close. I know that. But it’s always harder to stay away when the world gets quiet.

“C’mon, Lou,” I murmur, steering you toward the dorm steps. You trip on the last one and laugh like it’s the funniest thing in the world. “Easy now. Left foot, then right.”

You grin up at me, eyes glassy but bright. “You’re bossy when you wanna be, Styles.”

I huff out a laugh, trying to ignore the sharp edge of hunger curling under my ribs. “Someone’s gotta keep you from breaking your neck.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst way to go,” you joke, slurring a bit. “At least I’d look good at the funeral.”

“Don’t say things like that.” The words come out sharper than I mean them to, too fast. For a heartbeat you just stare at me — then giggle again, brushing it off as another joke. I look away, jaw tight. You have no idea how easily death sits on the edge of every night I spend beside you.

We make it down the hall to our shared room — door half open, faint light spilling in from the window. You collapse onto your bed, limbs sprawling everywhere. I tug off your shoes one by one and set them aside, trying not to linger on how peaceful you look. There’s something infuriatingly human about you when you sleep — soft, defenseless. You trust me far too much.

And I… don’t know what to do with that.

When I first took this room, I told myself it would be temporary. A semester, maybe two. Blend in, move on before anyone noticed I never changed, never aged. But then there was you — messy hair, loud laugh, all warmth and motion. You burned like sunlight through the fog of my long, gray years.

Now you’re here, passed out half on top of your pillow, eyelashes fluttering, a faint flush painting your cheeks. You look alive in a way I never will again.

I sit at the edge of my bed and watch you for a while. Your heartbeat slows, steadies. I can hear it even through the hum of the radiator, can feel the ghost of it in my own still chest. I remember what it was like to have one — to feel it race when someone smiled at me, to feel time move like a river instead of a tide that never reaches the shore.

You shift, mumbling something under your breath. My name, maybe. It’s soft. It’s almost enough to undo me.

I drag a hand through my hair, exhale, and glance toward the window. The moon’s high, silver light cutting across the room. I should feed soon — not here, not near you. I’ve been careful, always careful, slipping out before dawn, returning before you notice I’m gone. But lately, even the thought of leaving you alone like this makes something in me ache.

You’d laugh if you knew, wouldn’t you? If I told you I was a century older than I looked, that I’d seen the world turn over more times than I can count, that the reason I never eat, never sleep, never catch a cold isn’t luck — it’s hunger. It’s curse.

I glance back at you. There’s a faint smear of glitter on your cheek from the party lights, a crooked smile still half-formed even in sleep.

“Goodnight, Louis,” I whisper, voice low, almost reverent. I stand, tucking the blanket over you — a human gesture I’ve never been able to break. Then I cross to the window and let the night air brush against my skin.

It smells of rain. Of distant city lights. Of life. And underneath it all — your heartbeat, steady as ever.

Maybe I’ll stay another semester. Just to make sure you don’t drink yourself into a coma. Just to keep you safe.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

But deep down, I already know the truth: I’m not staying because you need me. I’m staying because I can’t bear to imagine the night without you in it.