You’d always known something was off about John Walker.

Not bad — not really. Just… different. The way his eyes seemed to glow faintly under certain lights. How he’d disappear for days on end around the full moon, returning with new bruises and an edge in his voice that didn’t belong to the man you knew.

You told yourself it wasn’t your business. Until tonight.

The forest behind your cabin was quiet — too quiet. The kind of silence that sits heavy in your bones, warning you to run. But you didn’t. You followed the sound — the snapping of branches, the low, guttural growl that made your heart trip in your chest.

When you saw him, you froze.

John was on his knees in the clearing, half-dressed, trembling. His hands were digging into the dirt, veins pulsing dark against his skin, breath ragged. His eyes — those eyes — glowed a fierce gold beneath the moonlight.

“John?” you whispered.

He turned toward you too fast, chest heaving, jaw clenched. “Don’t,” he rasped, voice deeper, layered with something animal. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You took a hesitant step forward anyway. “You’re hurt.”

He laughed — low, sharp, almost pained. “You think this is hurt?” His body shuddered, the sound of bones cracking slicing through the air. He doubled over, groaning. “You need to go. Now.”

But you didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“John, look at me.”

He did — and for a heartbeat, the man you knew flickered behind the monster trying to claw its way free.

“Please,” he choked out, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You knelt in front of him, your hand hovering near his face. “Then don’t.”

His breath came in ragged bursts, his skin burning hot beneath your touch when you finally dared to lay a hand on his cheek. The tremors slowed. His claws retracted, muscles still tense but no longer shaking.

“I can control it,” he muttered, voice thick, eyes locked on yours. “Sometimes.”

“And when you can’t?” you asked softly.

He swallowed hard. “Then you run.”

You gave him a small, sad smile. “Not from you.”

His lips parted — to argue, maybe to warn you again — but what came out instead was a broken whisper.

“You don’t know what you’re saying.”

You brushed a thumb over his jaw, tracing the line where human met beast. “I know exactly what I’m saying.”

The moonlight spilled over both of you, painting him in silver and shadow — a soldier, a monster, and something far more dangerous: a man who still wanted to be loved.

And when he finally leaned forward, forehead pressing to yours, you heard it — a growl, low and rumbling, not of warning, but of surrender.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he murmured. “I know,” you said. “But I am.”