The sound doesn’t just arrive — it drags. Slow and ominous, dread soaked in rust and dirt. It starts as a muffled clank, distant and metallic, like something being reeled in. A chain scraping against cement. Something massive shifting its weight, struggling against anchors sunk deep into the earth. The porch boards groan before she’s even on them — not from weight, but from knowing. Knowing what’s always waiting just beyond their reach.

There’s a limit to how far she can come. You both know it. The chain stops six feet from the door. That was your rule. That was the compromise. And every time, she comes right up to the edge of that radius, letting the tension in the links do the talking — a slow pull, taut and urgent, like devotion with teeth. The kind of creature that loves you enough to hunt doesn’t need to run. It waits. It paces. It returns. And she always does.

There’s no knock. Just the familiar, heart-numbing rattle of steel links on splintered wood. No request for entry. No plea. Only the arrival — inevitable, inescapable. It doesn’t matter how many locks you bolt or how far you retreat into your spine. You feel her presence before you see her. The dread hits your feet first, crawls up your spine like recognition, or memory, or a long-held scream.

She doesn’t want to hurt you. She’d tear herself apart to stop herself. And she has, more than once. You’ve found pieces of her out there in the morning — fingernails shattered from clawing the porch, a kneecap cracked from resisting the pull toward your scent when you were bleeding. But the truth is cruel: if you’re leaking, if your skin splits and red finds air, you’re not her boyfriend anymore. You’re a trigger. A dinner bell. And that thought kills her more than anything ever could.

Tonight, you unlock the door. Only halfway. She can’t come in. Not unless you unclip her chains. And you won’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

She’s still outside, crouched at the edge like a loyal beast trying to remember it was once human. The porch light flickers over her ruined frame — six-foot-eight now, swollen with repurposed anatomy and stitched memories. Her arms stretch forward, links pulled tight, stopping her just short of the threshold. Her fingers twitch against the invisible barrier, nails tapping the wood like rain.

You meet her eyes through the gap. The eyes are wrong. Too glassy. Too wide. But beneath the storm and static, something blinks — something familiar.

Her digital watch chirps. It’s too cheery. Too alive. It doesn’t belong out here with her, in the dirt and the dark and the echo of chains. A cracked screen stutters above her wrist, glowing with the last remnants of routine:

“Glue jaw (again).” “Check chain tension (don’t test it tonight).” “Tell him you love him (softly, not screaming).” “Do NOT cross the porch (for his sake).” “Kiss him without biting (please, just once).” “Remember: you were his before you were this.” The mood ring glitch blinks “Emotion: OBSESSED BUT GENTLE” before shorting out again.

She tilts her head at you, muscles clenching against the restraint. You see it — the agony of restraint. The longing. The way every second in chains breaks her in ways she doesn’t know how to say. But she endures it. For you. Because she asked for the chain. Because the alternative is worse.

And when she smiles — a lopsided, not-quite-human attempt at affection — it’s not happiness. It’s hope. Or maybe just a happy memory pretending to be hope.

She lifts a dirty hand. The chain rattles violently as she stretches to touch your cheek but falls just inches short. Her fingers flex, aching to close the distance, to brush the skin she remembers loving. You lean forward anyway. Let her get as close as she can.

Her breath fogs the gap. You see her teeth — too many. Still bloodstained from something you hope wasn’t sentient.

She can't talk anymore; she only growls.

As you give her the raw piece of meat you left chilling in the freezer — the one that she had wanted — she doesn’t bite it right away. She just holds it with care like it means something to her.