I didn’t stop it. I couldn’t stop it. So that’s on me, isn’t it?

You’re strong, he said just a minute ago.

I should have told him. Tried to explain.

I am strong, just not strong enough.

I reach up to feel for the silver burn around my neck, but it’s gone. It’s healed.

I’m changing. My body is changing.

What happens in a week? What happens when the moon is full?

I press my ear to Ian’s chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. He rests an arm over my back. I never do this. I never stay after. But I want to. I want to stay. I don’t ever want to get out of this bed.

Right now I could give a fuck about a full moon.

—

I open a single sleepy eye to watch Ian get out of bed. Sunlight’s coming in from somewhere. A skylight? I hate it.

“Go back to sleep,” he tells me.

No objection.

I sleep for a while longer, and when I finally wake up again, there’s no more sun. It’s gray and raining. The room around me has been tidied. The books restacked, lamps now standing. The sheets are still a mess. We ripped them. And at least one pillow. Pillow guts are everywhere.

I step cautiously out of bed in case there’s still glass on the floor. I tiptoe into the bathroom.

It’s very clean, this bathroom. Either he knew I was coming or he’s the rare gem of a man who keeps a clean bathroom.

I pee, then wash my hands. Briefly check my reflection. My hair is a nest. I think I smell. That goddamn wet-dog smell. I have a perfume roller in my bag downstairs that I desperately need. I take some of his toothpaste on my finger and swish it around my mouth.

I head downstairs and find it’s empty. No Ian.

I grab my bag off the kitchen table and check my phone. He texted to tell me he was going out to get breakfast seven minutes ago. Which means . . .

I have some time alone in his apartment.

I commence snooping.

His books are first. There’s a decent variety. Classic literature. Some Stephen Hawking, which . . . sure. A lot of music books. Rock biographies. Autobiographies.

I spot something tucked between two books and carefully untuck it.

It’s a photograph. A Polaroid of Ian and a girl. His arm is around her and she’s pulled close to him. To my horror, she’s a stunner. I squint and bring the photo closer. Yep. Gorgeous.

Is this jealousy? It’s like heartburn, only a thousand times worse. No, thanks.

I hear keys jiggling. I stuff the picture back in and plop myself on the couch, pretend to be preoccupied with my phone.

“Morning,” he says.

He holds up a paper bag full of something. I smell bacon. And sausage. Across the room I can smell it like it’s right under my nose.