The bedroom was bathed in the soft, golden light of dusk, casting a warm glow over the room. Christine, the sixteen-year-old girl with a crush on the older man, lay sprawled on the large bed, her twin tails resting on the pillow. She was engrossed in a fruit-slicing game on her phone, her fingers swiping across the screen with a furrowed brow, as if the game were a matter of life and death.

  *Knock knock!*

  The sound of the door interrupted her focus. "Who is it? Come in!" she called without looking up.

  The door creaked open, and Vincent stepped inside, a backpack slung over his shoulder. "Time to change your bandages," he said, his tone neutral—neither cold nor warm, just matter-of-fact.

  Christine froze, her phone slipping from her hands onto the bed. She slowly turned her head to see Vincent sitting on the edge of the bed, his slightly swollen lip making him look more rugged than usual. He was already rummaging through the backpack, not sparing her a glance.

  She bit her lip, sensing the change in his demeanor. Before, he would scold her for smoking or playing games on her phone, warning her about the harm it could do to her eyes. As a doctor, he cared about her health. But now, he said nothing. The silence stung more than any lecture.

  Christine turned her head back, her heart heavy. She wriggled out of her jeans and underwear, pulling them down to her thighs to expose the wound on her left buttock. Normally, she would have blushed at the thought of Vincent seeing her like this, but now she felt only a deep sense of loss. She didn’t ask why Vincent was here instead of Manuela. She already knew—Manuela had orchestrated this. Only she could convince Vincent to come, and only she would care enough to do so.

  Christine adjusted herself on the bed, picking up her phone again. She pretended to focus on the game, but her mind was elsewhere. She hoped Vincent would notice, hoped he would say something—anything—to break the silence.

  Vincent worked methodically, his movements precise and efficient. He removed the old bandages, cleaned the wound with antiseptic, and applied fresh medication. The process was quick, taking no more than five minutes. As he wrapped the new bandage around her thigh, his fingers occasionally brushed against her skin, but neither of them acknowledged it.

  When he finished, Vincent packed up his supplies and stood to leave. "All done," he said simply, his voice devoid of emotion.

  Christine couldn’t hold back any longer. As she pulled her pants back up, she reached out and grabbed the hem of Vincent’s shirt. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice trembling.

  "You’re welcome. Can you let go now?" Vincent replied, his tone still neutral.

  Christine’s grip tightened. "I’m sorry," she blurted out, tears welling up in her eyes. "Please forgive me."

  Vincent turned to face her, his expression serious. "No," he said firmly.

  "Why not?" Christine cried, her voice breaking. "I know I was wrong! Please, forgive me!"

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  Vincent’s stern expression softened, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Crying too much will make you age faster," he said lightly. "Consider this your punishment. Even the zombies haven’t bitten me, but you did." He tilted his head, pointing to his cheek. "Here."

  Christine stared at him, stunned. Then, realizing what he meant, she leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on his cheek. She pulled back, her eyes wide with hope.

  "Forgiven," Vincent said with a chuckle, giving her nose a gentle pinch. He stood and headed for the door, pausing to add, "And stop playing so many games on your phone. It’s bad for your eyes."

  The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Christine alone in the room. She sat there for a moment, processing what had just happened. Then, a wide smile spread across her face.

  "Thank God, he forgave me!" she exclaimed, grabbing a pillow and tossing it into the air. Her laughter filled the room, but it was short-lived. A sharp pain shot through her wound as she moved too quickly, and she winced, flopping back onto the bed.

  She lay there, staring at the ceiling, her smile fading. The kiss on the cheek—it had been sweet, affectionate. But Christine realized something: to Vincent, it was just a child’s apology. Nothing more.

  Her heart ached. No matter what she did, she couldn’t seem to shake the image of being just a kid in his eyes.

  Later that evening, as the room grew darker, Christine lay in bed next to Manuela, who was engrossed in a game on her phone.

  "Manuela," Christine said suddenly, her eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  "Hmm?" Manuela put her phone down and turned to look at her.

  "Why does Vincent accept you but not me? Am I not a woman? Am I ugly?" Christine asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Manuela propped herself up on one elbow, studying Christine’s face. "Because," she said carefully, "I’m a woman, and you’re still a girl. You need more care, and if Vincent were to get involved with you, it would complicate things. Plus, let’s be honest—you’re a bit more... high-maintenance."

  Christine frowned. "That’s not what you said before."

  "It’s not conflicting," Manuela replied. "You’re young, and you act like it. That’s not a bad thing, but Vincent doesn’t need love right now."

  "Then what does he need?" Christine pressed.

  Manuela hesitated, then smirked. "Let’s just say... even a man like Vincent has his needs. He’s only human."

  Christine’s eyes widened. "So, how do I attract him? With... womanly charm?"

  Manuela shrugged. "Something like that."

  Christine turned her gaze back to the ceiling, deep in thought. After a moment, she threw off the covers and got out of bed.

  "Where are you going?" Manuela asked, not looking up from her phone.

  "Bathroom," Christine replied, closing the door behind her.

  But she didn’t come back. Minutes passed, and Manuela grew concerned. "Christine?" she called, sitting up.

  "I’m fine!" Christine’s voice came from the bathroom, but it sounded strained.

  Manuela’s frown deepened. She got out of bed and walked to the bathroom door, trying the handle. It was locked. "Christine, open the door!" she demanded.

  "No, I’m fine!"

  "Open it, or I’m breaking it down!"

  After a moment of silence, Manela heard a faint, "Don’t come in."

  Without hesitation, Manuela slammed her shoulder into the door. The flimsy lock gave way, and she stumbled inside.

  "Oh my God!" Manuela gasped, covering her mouth. Christine was leaning against the far wall, her face pale and sweaty. Her shorts and underwear were around her ankles, and her thighs were streaked with blood. Used tissues littered the floor, and Christine’s hands were stained red.

  This wasn’t a period. Christine, mature for her age, had long since experienced that. No, this was something else entirely.

  "Christine, what did you do?" Manuela whispered, horrified.

  "Please don’t tell anyone," Christine begged, tears streaming down her face. She looked down at her bloodied hands and smiled through her tears. "I’m a woman now."

  A knock sounded at the bedroom door. "Manuela, what’s going on?" Vincent’s voice called from the living room.

  Christine shook her head frantically, pleading with her eyes.

  Manuela took a deep breath and called back, "Nothing! Christine just slipped in the bathroom!"

  She turned back to Christine, her expression a mix of shock and disbelief. "What have you done?" she murmured, her voice trembling.

  Christine’s smile was bittersweet. "I did what I had to do."