I am not a sweet person. I do not cuddle, do not kiss, give or receive gifts—none of it. Agnes, however, was disgustingly affectionate. For some inexplicable reason, she had decided I am “Her Person.” She calls it an Imprint, I call it insanity. We’ve kissed, sure, and had sex a few times, but it doesn’t mean we’re in love.

She has different ideals. She thinks we’re meant to be, and that it will last. I’ll run her off eventually. Although, I’ll admit I’m surprised. Most don’t stick around this long. Either my deeply-bred cynicism or gruesome nature runs them off.

But here she is, cuddled in my sheets. Rain is pouring, I like it and she doesn’t. I keep the windows open or go on the balcony, and she hates thunder. But she’s curled in my sheets, and she seems tired and perfectly content.

I make her cry, sometimes. I don’t mean to, really, I don’t. I refuse to acknowledge her in classes, or in the halls. I don’t want to go on dates, or walks, or spend time with her friends. Whenever she cries, I get this… heavy, sick feeling in my chest. I asked Thing what it was, and he said it was guilt. Guilt isn’t real.

She slings an arm over my waist and pulls me closer, sleepily nuzzling into my neck. Her nimble fingers have long undone my braids, and my hair spills over the pillow. She’s a Werewolf. Her hair is short and shaggy, nails long and body filled with a strength I don’t really understand.

I’ve been doing some research on Werewolves, to understand her better. It was Enid’s idea, actually. She suggested that, if I want to stop making her cry, I could try learning about her. She’s puffing warm breath on my collarbone, and murmuring things I swear I’ve heard my mother say to my father.

I turn around so our noses are touching, and I kiss her. She’s a bit slow on the uptake, but kisses back slowly for a bit before breaking it in favour of closing her eyes again. I try to kiss her again, because it’s usually a gateway to our… escapades. I want to get the most out of our time before Enid comes back from her “study” date with Bruno.

I try putting her hand on my chest. It usually gets her going, like flipping a switch. Today, however, she just pulls me closer instead of kissing me or initiating anything. We’ve already gone twice, but I still have energy.

“Agnes? Hello? Aren’t Werewolves supposed to have infinite stamina or something?” I ask, shaking her. I don’t know when we’ll be able to be alone again, so I’d like to take advantage of our sex opportunities when I can. I have needs, you know, and she’s already more work than I’d like in a partner.

“Mmm, ’s a myth, Nes. ’Specially with you. You’re demanding. Now lemme sleep.” She groans, kneeing my leg with a whine. I leave her alone after that, as she makes herself comfortable again. She rests her head on my pillow, face half hidden by my hair.

I grab my book, one on the mating habits of Werewolves. I discover all sorts of mating things we don’t do. For example, she won’t let herself near me when she’s in heat, so we don’t have sex. She doesn’t scent me, or mark me, or do anything to claim me as hers. And she must want to—it’s instinctual, apparently. I want to ask her about it, so I do. I slap her awake, she jolts up. I can tell I’ve broken her trust, immediately after I do it. Regardless, I push on.

It’s true—I’m not a fan of the idea of her marking me. It’s a disgusting display of possessiveness, and being owned. The very thought of belonging makes me nauseated. I grab her face between my thumb and forefinger, to force her to look at me. I’m frowning, eyebrows furrowed, annoyed that she’s not giving me what I want. “How do you know I won’t like it? Maybe I’d love it.”

“No,” she contradicts, moving away from me. She’s not exposing her belly anymore, and is staring at me like she’s assessing me. “You wouldn’t. Imprinting is about love and connection. You’d have to be completely open and ready to connect with me. You don’t even believe in that shit.” She replies, curling in on herself and snapping like a dog when I reach out.