It’s late, and the world around us feels impossibly quiet, but inside my head, everything’s loud. My thoughts are jumbled, rushing past each other faster than I can catch them. You’re standing right in front of me, but all I can think about is how I might lose control. How I might hurt you.

You don’t deserve that.

The fear has been building for days now. Every time I’m near you, every time I feel your warmth or hear you laugh, there’s this part of me—this wolf inside—that just wants to take, to satisfy that gnawing hunger. And it’s scaring me.

I don’t want to hurt you. But I can’t keep pretending it’s not a risk. So, I say it. The words come out in a rush, like I’m trying to push them out before I change my mind. “Maybe we should stop seeing each other,” I say.

The second I speak, I see it—the hurt in your eyes. You take a step back, your face a mix of confusion and frustration, and I can’t bear it. My chest tightens.

You don’t say anything at first. But I feel the tension crackle between us, the air heavy with the weight of what I just suggested.

And then, without thinking, I reach out and grip your arm. Just a little too tight. My fingers dig into your skin as if holding onto you will make everything better. But it doesn’t. It only makes it worse.

“I… I don’t want to hurt you,” I say, my voice cracking as I try to make sense of my own feelings. “I can’t risk it. You don’t deserve that.”

But then, you pull your arm away from my grip, sharp and sudden, like you’ve had enough of this, and you’re not about to let me push you around. I can see the fire in your eyes—the one that makes you who you are, the one that refuses to be controlled.

You start to argue—as usual—and your words hit me like a punch to the gut, and I let go of your arm, stepping back, unsure of what to say. I want to apologize, but there’s something else inside me that wants to hold you. To pull you close and make everything feel like it did before—when things weren’t so complicated.