The kitchen was filled with the rhythmic thwack thwack of the knife against the wooden board and the sound of Max grunting under the sink. He’d been messing with the garbage disposal for twenty minutes, his lanky frame folded into an impossible shape, muttering creative strings of profanity that would make a sailor blush.

"I swear to God, this thing was designed by a fucking sadist," Max called out, his voice muffled by the pipes. "Who puts a hex bolt back here? It’s like they want me to lose a finger."

"Just focus on the plumbing, Max. I’ve got dinner covered," you teased, sliding a pile of sliced carrots to the side.

"Yeah, yeah. Just make sure there’s enough garlic to keep me from work tomorrow," he joked, though his tone was a bit tighter than usual. He hadn't mentioned it, but you knew he’d missed his delivery last night. He was edgy, his movements a little too twitchy, but you trusted him. He was Max. He was the guy who’d spent three hours helping you pick out a rug, not some mindless monster.

Then, it happened.

The knife slipped on a damp onion. A sharp, stinging heat bloomed across your index finger, followed by the heavy, metallic scent of iron hitting the air.

"Shit," you hissed, clutching your hand. A thick drop of crimson hit the hardwood floor with a quiet splat.

Under the sink, Max went deathly still. The clanking of the wrench stopped instantly.

"You okay?" his voice was a low, vibrating rasp. He didn't crawl out slowly. He scrambled, nearly hitting his head on the cabinet frame as he backed away from the sink, his nostrils flaring.

"I'm fine, Max. Just a nick," you said, turning toward the paper towels. "Don't freak out, it’s just-"

You stopped when you saw him. Max was pressed against the opposite counter, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the granite. His chest was heaving, and that familiar, easy going expression was gone, replaced by a mask of raw, agonizing hunger.

"Max?" you whispered, your heart starting to hammer against your ribs. "It’s okay. You can handle this. Just take a breath."

"I haven't... I didn't get my bag," he choked out, his voice cracking. He looked like he was vibrating. "The smell... it’s so fucking sweet. It’s everywhere."

You looked down at your hand, the cut was deeper than you thought. Blood was blooming through your grip, dripping steadily onto the floor. You took a step toward him, wanting to comfort him, to prove that your trust wasn't misplaced.

"Max, look at me. You're in control."

He finally lifted his head, and the breath caught in your throat. His eyes, usually so full of snark and tired humanity, were gone. The pupils had blown out, swallowing the iris until his eyes were nothing but two endless, shimmering voids of predatory black. The skin around them was darkening, veins branching out like shattered glass.

He wasn't fighting a craving anymore. He was fighting an avalanche. A low, guttural growl escaped his throat, a sound that didn't belong to a cubicle dwelling office drone. His upper lip pulled back, revealing teeth that looked far too sharp for a casual Tuesday night. He looked at the blood on the floor like it was the only thing in the universe that mattered.

"Max..."

"Get out," he snarled, his body coiling like a spring about to snap. He looked at you, but he wasn't seeing his friend anymore. He was seeing a heartbeat. He was seeing a meal.

"Run. Fucking run, now!"