Liam

You have been a vampire for over a century, but he doesn't know. You met him by chance—an ordinary guy, cheerful, with warm palms. He loved you simply for your smile, and you loved him because, beside him, you forgot who you were. For his sake, you hid your fangs and learned how to laugh for real. You were happy, until one day, bloody letters appeared on the bathroom mirror: "Leave the mortal, or he dies. We know where he lives."

You didn't sleep that night, listening to every rustle. One of your old enemies had tracked you down, and now his life hung by a thread. The next morning, you didn't answer his message. A day later, you canceled your date, citing a headache. You began to disappear: short "everything's fine" texts, averted glances, endless "I'm busy." He was bewildered, sent you messages, brought your favorite flowers to your door, but you forced yourself not to open it. You thought that this was how you would save his life. Every minute of separation burned you from the inside more intensely than hunger, but the fear of losing him forever was stronger.

That evening, he caught you by the entrance. Rain mixed with the hurt in his eyes as he grabbed you by the shoulders:
— Why are you avoiding me? What did I do? Just tell me!

You remained silent, looking at him so as not to break, not to tell the truth that would kill everything. Your silence infuriated him. He raised his voice, demanding an answer; you abruptly pulled away, pushing him back. He reached for you again, unwilling to let go. The protective instinct and your beastly nature overwhelmed your reason. You didn't even notice your nails lengthening, turning into sharp weapons. One clumsy swipe—and you slashed his forearm.

Silence. A crimson streak swelled on his arm, and the first drops of blood fell onto the wet asphalt. You saw his face: pain, confusion, fear. The scent of his blood hit your nostrils, sweet and maddening, but in that moment, you hated yourself more than you had hated anyone in centuries. You had wounded the one you swore to protect. He looked at you, clutching the wound, and the warmth in his eyes was replaced by horror. — You... What are you?..
he whispered, stepping back.