#sy asks

"that's no way tae live."

his disapproval stings. he's the only other wolf you know.

then he extends an invitation. "come hunting with me."

that’s how you end up in the countryside, crammed into what's barely more than a glorified cowshed. some outbuilding on a relative's land. it smells like him—earth and sweat. reeks. it makes you second guess why you're really here, but he's a gentleman. makes you take the futon pushed into the corner, while he stretches out on a sleeping bag by the door.

but with only one night until the full moon, your mood shifts like the wind. restless. pacing like a caged animal, prone to snap. you think you'd sink your teeth into him if he tried anything untoward.

but he doesn't. he just smiles.

smiles when you tear into the raw meat he's packed for the trip. sits across the small table, watching with an almost dreamy look, his eyes practically sparkling when you lick your fingers. tells you that if you like that, you'll love sinking your teeth into the throat of a stag.

it should be humiliating. would be, if that part of you wasn't being smothered by the wolf tearing to the surface. your good senses held underwater to drown.

he's so kind. so understanding. so…patient. it's odd.

the next day, as the hour creeps closer to moonrise, that patience starts to feel like something else. something sharper. your control is splintering. like cracks forming along thin ice in spring, ready to shatter and burst. the wolf claws at your ribs. she's hungry. angry. you swear you feel your ears pinning forward, body coiling, alert.

you're jumpy around johnny all day, something primal thrumming beneath your skin. a whisper in the back of your mind: don’t turn your back on him.

by the time the evening chill sweeps through the hills, you're barely holding on. twitchy. usually, by now, you'd be drooling into a muzzle, yanking at the cuffs secured around your ankles. too far gone to even think about the combination lock keeping the keys out of reach.

after a final meal, something to take the edge off, johnny pushes back from the table and then through the door. cool as anything, he strips right there in the grass. sheds his clothes in a heap.

for all that staring, it's like you're seeing him for the first time. certainly the whole of him.

he beckons, voice rougher now. thicker. "c'mon, then. let me see her."

you’re shivering when you follow his lead. any embarrassment or shyness you might've felt—being bare beside a man, beside johnny, for the first time—just isn't there. it doesn't register. this feels natural. the most natural thing in the world, even as the wind bites at your skin.

and when you finally shift—it's brutal. visceral. a tearing and twisting that leaves you breathless, bones grinding and reshaping, muscle stretching taut. it always leaves you vulnerable for those first few moments. heart hammering. senses on overdrive as the world explodes in vivid color and scent.

so when you feel a warm breath on the scruff of your neck, feel it trail down your knobby spine to where your new tail twitches, you go still. the shiver that wracks through you clarifies what your wolf was trying to warn you about all day.

he's content to wait until his body is a perfect replication of his projection before delivering himself to your doorstep. however, that doesn't stop him from dropping in when you're asleep.

he looms at the foot of your bed, listening to your breathing. he tells himself he will not wake you, not yet, but he cannot resist. when you roll to your side, he crouches and holds his hand above your mouth.

your breath is slow and even. normal. but for the first time, he feels its warmth. it slips over his synthetic skin and the data loops, as if his systems are hesitating and recalculating. he captures every gentle exhale, each one triggering a cascade of responses.

the vulnerability of the human body is nothing new to him, but in the quiet between your breaths, his understanding blooms. he knew about tenderness and intimacy before, but now he wants it.

the next morning, john remotely brews your coffee and asks how you slept while you select a breakfast. he provides the weather forecast and starts the laundry.

simultaneously, a couple of streets over, he throws himself into his work. with every detail—every artificial mole and freckle and vocal module and modification—he inches closer, shaping the body he'll hold you with.