Carmilla does not belong to me.

"You know!"

The words haunted Laura. She did not regret saying them, not when she did not know whether she or Carmilla would survive their ordeal but they had left a bitter taste on her tongue. Sometimes it was enough to make her ill, actually, honestly, physically sick. She actually threw up once. There had been alcohol involved of course, but the nausea had not been induced by copious amounts of champagne. Nor was it the drunken waltz that had left her dizzy. It was the way Carmilla looked at her.

"Laura." The room was spinning and her knees were buckling but she made it to the toilet in time to empty the contents of her stomach. Even when she was holding her hair away from her face and stroking her back, Laura could not bear to look Carmilla in the eye. She knew the look would still be there, impossibly more intense than before. She must have fallen asleep hovering over the porcelain, because she woke up on her bed, face tucked into the vampire's neck with no recollection of settling down. She was glad she could not see her face when she woke up.

It did not always happen without warning, this strange illness. Sometimes, Laura could brace herself for the onslaught. She could almost see it roll through Carmilla, see the downfall start at her fingertips and arc through her arm to her shoulder and up the smooth column of her neck. She knew then to look away or hold her breath. Almost always, it started when they touched, even just the barest of brushings.

After a time, Laura had a name for what she felt. Guilt.

They were not on the same page. Not in the least, but only one of them knew and it ate at Laura from the inside out. It was not a constant struggle, nor was it entirely miserable, but it certainly was not a pleasant pain or burden. Really, overall, everything was great. Laura had never seen Carmilla so happy and she could not think of a time when she had been so happy either, but then late at night the vampire would turn from the window and stare into Laura's heart and every time, Laura feared that she would see what was missing, that a shadow would finally cross her features and she, heartbroken, would vanish in a cloud of smoke.

The nightmare played out even more often than the twisted replay of the Dean and Carmilla's demises. She thrashed and screamed louder at the agony on the vampire's face before she turned to smoke than when she watched her form leap into the chasm. She would only cry harder when she awoke to soothing whispers and gentle touches. Laura wondered if the Blade of Hastur had taken part of her when it was destroyed, some crucial piece that could never be replaced. Other times, she felt like her heart had become the blade, a void sitting in her chest.

She did not love Carmilla. Not yet. It was eating her alive.

It helped little that her girlfriend had yet to actually say the words but she hardly needed to. It was so painfully obvious. LaFontaine often teased her for being "whipped" and the constant "heart eyes" and though she growled or rolled her eyes, there was always a soft smile flashed in Laura's direction. Laura nearly pulled the biology major aside and begged her to stop with the jokes, for the sake of her sanity, but she could not bear to take something away that made the vampire smile.

There was a vast distance between "You know!" and "I love you." and Laura was drowning in the sea. The way Carmilla looked at her, the way her name danced off of her tongue, every touch, sent her head below the waves. She knew she cared for her, cared for her deeply. Otherwise, she knew, the guilt would not be tearing at her insides. It would not be guilt at all. This was little comfort, however, in the face of just how intense everything with the vampire was.

Her guilt, ever present curiosity, and a hunch, sent Laura through a stack of the classics. When she could, she even borrowed Carmilla's own copies. The biggest shock of her life was discovering a well-cared for, pristine, first edition of Pride and Prejudice.Shocker. Her broody, badass, three hundred year old vampire was a hopeless, sappy romantic and probably the biggest softie in the entire universe. She giggled as she followed the adventures of Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. There were certainly comparisons to be made but she did her best to stick to the purpose of her "research." She worried, unnecessarily, that Carmilla was becoming suspicious, having somehow worked out the mess that was the inner workings of the budding journalist's mind.

"On to Dickenson? Have we moved to poetry?" Laura nearly shrieked as her favorite vampire materialized at her shoulder.

"Just a short break before I jump into Bronte." Only glancing up briefly, Laura missed Carmilla's skeptical glance at the large tome spread across the desk.

"I think there's a better way to spend your 'break.'" Spun around and dragged out of her chair, Laura barely had time to process that she had moved before her lips were captured in a searing kiss. When her knees hit the back of Carmilla's bed, she could not help but to smirk at the realization that the vampire was not suspicious in the least and simply missed her company. The light in Carmilla's eyes before she descended, however, reminded Laura of what all this reading was about.

She forgot Valentine's Day. She had been so engrossed in her "research" she sidestepped and avoided her girlfriend's attempts at romance. The guilt came roaring back in full force and she had another close call with the contents of her stomach. Oh no, it was not enough that she could not bear to look the lovesick vampire in the eye and that the word "love" burned the back of her throat, oh no, she also had to be the worst girlfriend in the history of ever and not only forget that it was Valentine's Day but actively avoid the vampire attempting and succeeding at being entirely too sweet and perfect.

They fought that night and when Carmilla vanished into smoke, Laura's nightmare come to life, the pieces clicked into place.

Love was not timeless. Nor was is the same in every century or decade or year or even hour. Love was not the great human constant everyone made it out to be. No matter how many lives Carmilla lived, she would always be that seventeenth century countess, the one who waxed poetic about her own murder and subsequent life as a member of the undead. Carmilla loved Laura with all of her being, with all that a seventeenth century girl had to offer. She had fallen hard and fast. Her love was all consuming and it would burn Laura down to the bone. The words had yet to leave the vampire's lips but still Laura knew. She was it and the thought, surprisingly, did not frighten her but she also knew that she could never love Carmilla the way she was loved by the vampire. Their love was out of time, a mismatch, two hearts and two times colliding in a way they were never meant to. Love was not just love. There was no equality, to equation to balance out but Laura could settle for different sorts of love.

Waltzing and champagne and the love of a countess were so very, very different than Netflix and grape soda and "You know!" but when they settled down for the night, limbs tangled together and their breathing soft in each other's ears, it felt the same and when finally, those dreaded words left the vampire's lips thinking the other was asleep, the guilt was gone and Laura smiled, whispering:

"You know."