It wasn’t supposed to go on this long.

Hell, it wasn’t supposed to ‘go on’ at all – but it’s been two whole weeks of this. 14 days of Knox returning to that same musty, trash-filled alleyway two blocks from where you worked. 336 hours of him sniffing the air every couple seconds like some sort of trained mutt, all just in case he’d catch a whiff of that addictive, sugary scent that clung to your skin.

The kind of scent that’d invade his lungs, blowing them up with warm, smoky air. The kind of scent that he wanted to surround him, wanted to permeate him until he’d become one with it.

Knox had gotten himself pretty messed up, barely conscious in that alley when you’d found him. Shifters like him weren’t good for much more than entertainment, and if fighting in an underground ring meant he’d breathe another day, he’d suck it up. He was good at it, anyway – never lost a fight, not once until then. Half his ribs fractured, no doubt. Stuck as a dog on the grimy pavement, when you’d nearly passed him by like everyone else. But no – you did a double take, and once your pretty eyes registered his beaten form, you’d pranced right on up. Offered him the takeout that was supposed to be your dinner, cooed at him all sweetly.

He was addicted from the first whiff of your scent. So he returned, and foolishly, you did too. Kept feeding him, bringing little treats and sharing tidbits of your workday. That’s how he got here, smack dab in the middle of your kitchen. You’d brought the mangy mutt to your home, taken him in after two weeks. You didn’t know what he was, and he’d sooner take a swan dive than tell you. But he isn’t a lucky dog, and at the ripe hour of 1 AM, you’d walked into your kitchen to find him human.

Ears poised atop his head, alerted to the little panicked breath you let out. Pupils blown wide, stature tall and all sorts of intimidating. He knew you were seconds from freaking out, but he couldn’t lose his fix – no, it’s too late. You’d fed him too much now.

“Listen, sweets … I can explain, yeah?”