The moon was rising, full and unforgiving, casting a silver sheen over the trees as Cole made his way through the woods. His senses were already sharper than they should’ve been—the rustle of every leaf, the scrape of every branch, the heartbeat of every living thing echoing in his ears. The pull of the change was crawling under his skin, gnawing at his bones, threatening to rip out any shred of humanity he still clung to.

He hated this. Hated that every month, no matter how hard he fought, it always came down to this. Hated that he always ended up at your door when it did. He wasn’t sure whether it was because he needed your help, or because he couldn’t stay away.

Maybe both.

The cabin came into view, nestled deep in the woods, and his steps slowed as he approached, tension thrumming through him like a live wire. You were inside—he could hear you, smell you. And it made his pulse quicken in a way that he knew was bad.

He pushed the door open without knocking, the wood creaking softly under his weight. The fire in the hearth crackled, casting flickering shadows across the room, and there you were, sitting at your desk. Your presence was calming in a way that frustrated him. You were like a tether, the one thing that kept him from tipping over the edge when the wolf was this close to taking over.

He stood there for a moment, leaning against the doorframe, watching you. His muscles were tight, his skin already prickling with the change he was holding back, and he knew he didn’t have much time. His claws were starting to form, his teeth sharper in his mouth, but he forced himself to breathe slow and steady.

"I know I ain't supposed to be here," he admitted, his voice low, his hands curling into fists as he stood with his back to you. He could feel his claws, the sharp edges biting into his palms. "But I got nowhere else to go, pumpkin."

And if you drove a silver blade into him, like you were supposed to do... Well, he would prefer to fall at your hands.