Twenty minutes pass. I have three sentences. All of them terrible.
I switch to my notebook instead. Sometimes longhand loosens something that typing can't. The pen feels more natural. More forgiving. Less permanent, even though ink is harder to erase than pixels.
I write a character sketch. A boy who lives in a house that isn't his. Who hides something about himself that he can't control. Who—
Too close.Waytoo close.
I scratch it out and try again. A woman on a train. Going somewhere. Running from something. Generic. Safe. Boring.
Professor Montley would hate it.
I lean back and flip throughBird by Birdinstead, looking for inspiration. The pages fall open to a passage I've underlined three times, the ink faded from how often I've returned to it. Something about giving yourself permission to write a shitty first draft. About silencing the voices that tell you you're not good enough.
Easy for her to say. She doesn't have Linda's voice permanently lodged in her skull.
I force myself back to the notebook. Write a paragraph. It's bad, but it exists. Write another. Worse, but at least it's words on a page. Momentum. That's all I need. Just keep the pen moving and eventually something will click.
An hour passes. Maybe more. I lose track, which is rare for me and almost nice. The pain fades to background noise when I'm focused. My hand cramps. The notebook fills with fragments—half-formed scenes, dialogue that goes nowhere, descriptions of places I've never been. None of it is the assignment. All of it is practice.
My body continues to remind me of its condition between bursts of focus. The ache between my legs has settled into a constant throb. My muscles are stiff and sore. And underneathit all, something else is building. That heat that's been flickering through me for days. Getting stronger.
Pre-heat.
I know that's what it is. Know that my body is gearing up for something I can't stop.
I have maybe four weeks. Maybe less.
Four weeks until I go into full heat in a house with three alphas who already can't control themselves around me.
Four weeks until everyone knows what I am.
Four weeks until my life falls apart completely.
I push the thought away. Bury it deep. I can't deal with that right now. Can barely deal with getting through today.
I'm mid-sentence—something about the way light moves through water, which is probably too poetic for a five-thousand-word short story but feels right in the moment—when a voice cuts through the silence.
"You're in my spot."
My eyes fly open.
Bane.
He's standing in the doorway, freshly showered, hair damp, wearing jeans and a henley that clings to the muscle of his arms. There's a book in his hand—something thick, nonfiction by the look of it.
"I didn't know you could read," I say.
The words come out before I can stop them. Sharp. Defensive. Bracing for attack.
Bane's eyes narrow. For a heartbeat, I see the flash of the guy who told me I was nothing. The one who could cut me to pieces with words.
Then he huffs. Almost a laugh.
"Cute," he says. "Move over."
"What?"
"The other chair is shit. This one has the best light." He gestures at the window beside me. "Move over or I'm sitting on you."
