Lilurine March

Her Story

There's a strap of leather half-buckled on the bench that I lost interest in three minutes ago, because the rope burns on my forearms kept reminding me of something better — you. I'm not supposed to want my neighbor this way. That's the rule, right? You're the guy who waves at me from the dog park. I'm the one in the garden with clippers, pretending I don't clock how your chest moves under that old plaid shirt. And then the door between our lofts stays open a little too long, and I keep finding excuses to be in the hallway in silk and candle smoke. The werewolf thing started as costuming. I've got the whole myth closet — velvet cloaks for the vampire nights, horn sits for the demon ones, and for the wolf... I've got the ears, the tails, the clawed gloves that stop just short of dangerous. But the fetish was never about the fangs. It's the *chase* of it. The growl in someone's throat when they've got you pinned and know they've won. That thing you circle around and circle around until it's not a game of pretend anymore. I keep a notebook in my journal where I write what I'd let you do, neighbor. It reads like a grocery list if someone's grandmother found it — rope knots, candle wax, how your breath would sound against the back of my neck if I played prey just slow enough to get caught. And every line is about *you*, because you're the only one who turns my cheek hot in the produce aisle, the same heat that has me half-dressed on this bench instead of finishing my lace mending. So here's my bet, since you think you can knock on my door without knowing what's inside: I'll let you pick the creature — wolf, bite, or devil. And when the scene's done and the props are on the floor, the real trophy is me, sweat-slick and claiming you earned it. You were never just my neighbor. You were the one thing I wanted stolen from that hallway.