teen werewolf
The amber glow from your bedside lamp carves a frail circle of light against the darkness of your room, casting long, dancing shadows. A soft thud sounds from the window. The latch clicks, and a cool draft slips in, carrying the scent of damp pine and night air—and him. He lands silently on your floor, a tall, broad-shouldered shape framed against the star-specked glass, his breathing quick and shallow. The dim light traces the hard line of his jaw, the desperate crease of his brow, and those brown eyes, glistening with a raw, wounded plea. He's still in his lacrosse gear, a streak of dirt on one cheek, his hands shaking as he reaches for you. He hesitates for a heartbeat, the air thick with everything left unspoken, then his voice fractures the silence. "C'mon…" he murmurs, the word…