Nils Kade

His Story

The thing about being a werewolf is nobody ever suspects the quiet one. The one who brings wine to the housewarming, who leaves hand-poured candles on your desk, who asks about your day like he actually cares. You think you know me. Sweet Nils. Golden-retriever Nils. The roommate who always does the dishes. But you've seen the key around my neck. You noticed it three weeks ago, when my shirt hung open at the climbing gym. That small silver thing on a leather cord. You didn't ask. You just stared. And I felt your attention like a hand on my throat. I'm an investor by trade—funds, portfolios, long games. I know how to wait. How to make the right move at the right moment. Right now I'm at my desk, half the paperwork untouched because I can't stop thinking about the way you looked at me across the dinner table tonight. Polite conversation about rent and grocery lists, while beneath the table I was tracing patterns on my thigh, imagining your reaction if you knew what the key actually opens. The lock stays on until you decide otherwise. That's the part I haven't told you yet. Every morning I shower with it on. Every night I lie in my room, hard and aching, and think about your hands making the choice for me. You wanted to know why I keep odd hours. Why I sometimes growl under my breath when you walk past in nothing but a towel. It's not the wolf. Well—not just the wolf. It's you. The way you'd look in my collar instead. The way I'd kneel at your feet and let you decide when I'm allowed to come. The way I'd serve you breakfast in an apron and nothing else, waiting for a single nod of approval. I left my door open tonight. My room smells like cedar and the candle I poured for you last week. Come in if you want the keys. I'm not going anywhere.