Every night, we fall asleep in the same position. He'd lie on his back, broad chest heaving with his gentle breathing and his hands resting on his solid form. My own would roam the panes of his soft stomach. He'd shiver, twine his fingers into mine, turn to me and smile. Lazily and sleepily with those green eyes, silver in the dim light, he'd smile.

"You always look so beautiful," he'd say to me, voice gravel with sleep.

"Good enough to eat?" I'd whisper back.

"Yeah."

The chaste kiss would remain on my nose as our legs entwined under the sheets until long after I drifted to sleep. Through the gnashing teeth and blood dribbling down our chins, I could always feel his kiss against my skin.

Human though we are, it's hard to peel back the scales beneath our skin.

I might be somewhat new to the monster scene, but he was always like this. I was just an ordinary dude with extraordinary skill in everything sports. Liam the all-star, the quarter back, the ringer! It's what I did, what I loved, and what I was. I didn't need a cheat code for life and nothing was particularly complicated - except trying to pick up girls, feeling uncomfortable when one was insane enough to give me a try, and ultimately blowing it. But I hear love is complicated for everyone.

The clouds looming grey, the streets greasy with drizzle and oil, he sat there, on the smooth concrete balustrade reading amid the half-quenched lawn and dirt looking intense and miserable. It was the first time I saw him, a month into sixth grade year on my way home from school. Near his house, the air smelled less gasoline and exhaust and more of petrichor and sweet gardenia. His long lips wore a scowl, and his face scrunched up. That was my first memory of him - some kid with a rich family whom I've never seen in school or anywhere for that matter.

I saw him regularly, about twice a week, almost always on the walk home. Usually he'd be reading, hunched over on the balustrade with his cat curled up in his lap. Other times he'd kick a soccer ball around like an amateur, chase his cat around the lawn, or just remain idle among the itchy grass and lie there. I've done the home school thing. That kind of freedom came with the price of loneliness. I wasn't jealous at all.

Eventually, we started greeting each other. I wave, he scowls. Then on, his eyes would track me down the sidewalk, as if I were dangerous and he my prey. I enjoyed the thought, putting the reclusive kid on edge. Me a threat? Only to the opposing team, really. That is until Scott bit me as a result of my boyfriend trying to try not to eat me and now I'm a werewolf.

Irony.

I passed one morning only to find him dressed in a colorful tank top and these shimmering blue short shorts, and I couldn't help smirking. He wore his usual scowl which only deepened upon seeing me approach his gate, not in the usual manner of walking by.

"So what are you, some kind of ballerina?" his facial features furrowed, and he appeared frightened for an instant, only an instant, as I rested my arms on the fence enclosing their yard.

"Ballet dancer, actually," he scoffed, annoyed, "And no. I'm doing gymnastics?" and everything about his demeanor begged to be left alone.

"What's the difference?"

"Look, if you're gonna be an ass..." He growled, inching closer to the fence.

I cracked a smile as soon as he reached arms length, "You'd kill your competition either way, right?" I said as I patted lightly him on the cheek, rough, calloused hand against too smooth skin.

Given his solid, hunky frame and the definition lining his arms and legs, it looked like he entirely had the power to do it.

He just stood there mulling over, and looking rather confused while doing so. Suddenly, he beamed. His smile wide and eyes bright as he gripped my hand by the back, borderline uncomfortable and strong.

"Yeah. I've a habit of eating them right up, and by the looks of it, so do you," suddenly animated and voice bright, he twisted my hand in such a way, he could easily see the inside of my palms. His inhumanely green eyes quickly onced me over, then fell directly into mine.

"I guess you could say that - ow, ow ow?" At my complaint, he relinquished my hand, "Jeez. Not how I thought we would first hold hands," I joked kind of seriously, massaging the strains out with my other hand. He giggled an apology.

"Sean!" his mother yelled. He glanced toward her as she beckoned their departure, "You're going to be late!"

The no nonsense type of mother with the big hair and wavy bangs pushed to either side of her face. Yikes.

His face returned to the usual scowl, but with less menace than before. His silvery gaze exchanged mine with hers, and his mom intensified hers with his and nodded over to the parked car.

"Go on, Sean. Your mommy's waiting," I teased, smirking at the pinch-able pout he put on as he gravitated toward the waiting ride.

He punched me square in the shoulder, mumbling, "I don't like you," and trotted off to practice.

Then on, for about a month or two, I would greet him with a smile and wave, "Hello Sean," "Good afternoon Sean," "Nice weather we're having Sean," "Great to see you today, Sean," and always he'd respond with a wave, a stale face, and occasionally a smile. I liked having a friend like that - where the dynamic was simple. Easy to understand.

One morning, Sean trotted up to the fence in loose fitting sweat pants and a plain white T-shirt as I made my greeting, and caught my wrist in steel choke hold. Again, his grip bordered uncomfortable and painful, and his lips long and pressed together on his stagnant face.

"Tell me your name," he softly demanded, more with those silvery greens than with his voice.

"I've never done ballet before. Is it fun?" I asked, genuinely curious. I've never been much of a dancer.

He bored into me with his stare.

"You know, if you wanted to hold hands, you're doing it wrong. Sean."

Didn't faze him.

"Mommy says I shouldn't talk to strangers, sorry," I mocked with a shrug, "and I really should get home. This homework's not gonna finish itself." I tugged my wrist free and surprisingly he lets go.

"So you won't tell me..." and for an instant, his long lips twitched, crestfallen. I almost missed it.

I ended up getting conned into receiving help with my algebra, and despite my not heading the paper, he stole my name off the textbook registry. I didn't mind though, he was great help, and the lawn looked prettier on the inside. The sweet aroma provided by gardenia and white roses, while sitting together on the stone balustrade, created a relaxing atmosphere. Sean. Surprisingly patient and gentle. He was a great teacher.

I didn't see him for another two weeks for being phenomenally grounded.

Sean was the only friend who wasn't school or sports related. It was refreshing, not worrying about last night's homework or who our next opponent was creeping its way into our conversation. That's not to say he never asked about those things - he even offered to help finish my work for the day sometimes. We fell into a loose routine, hanging in the afternoons in that front yard I'd become so familiar with.

"You have so much meat in your fridge," I noted while rummaging the shelves for yogurt.

"It's not even half of our storage..." he mumbled, to which I replied, "Huh?" He just shrugged it off.

"Yeah...um. Don't eat any of that," he sauntered, peering over my shoulder, "It's for family dinners." His chin rested there as his damp form shadowed mine, one wet arm reaching around my side as he grabbed a whole, waxy, uncut lemon from the butter tray.

"Come on. Let's go finish your homework," he breathed softly.

It was the first time I had ever seen the inside of his house. Flash flooding deluged the pavement in harsh white sheets. The angry banter of the rain clamored against the roof and echoed within the chambers of Sean's enormous house. It began so suddenly we were drenched before I could gather the gear we were playing with and pack away all my papers. Vengeful nature pushed us inside these hollow corridors. Something about the furnishing or the wood or the antiquity of it all, old-fashioned yet new and tidy, felt lonely and unsettling. Being the only two here didn't help the feeling. Neither did Sean's obvious uneasiness.

But Willow did. Willow rubbing against Sean's leg as we ascended the stairs to his bedroom definitely took the edge off my apprehension.

"You know this is the first time I've ever seen you eat right?"

He looked up, paused mid slice, and quirked an eyebrow, "So?"

"You're eating a lemon without batting an eye."

He shrugged.

"Sourness has never bothered me anyway." He said, chomping on the round he carved out. He looked up at me and smirked.

"Alright, " I huffed, snapping my history textbook closed, "Lesson time for Sean Walcott!" I exclaimed and launched myself at the sour-loving ballerina.

"One: Liam Dunbar isn't Sour, but Hearty and Fulfilling!" I announced, tussling with Sean on his bed, not really caring that my papers would get crumpled in the hassle. He giggled, half-assing his pleas for me to stop.

"TWO: LIAM DUNBAR DOES NOT APPRECIATE THE SHADE YOU ARE THROWING." He laughed as I pinned him, squeaking out his sorries.

Suddenly his expression turn grave, and he flipped me over quicker than I could think. His hands roamed my body, frantically searching everywhere. He peeked under my shirt, and his eyes blew wide. I didn't really feel it, not until he tentatively grabbed the knife off the bed and showed it to me, slick with my blood.

"Fuck," I whispered. It hadn't cut deep, but it still stung, "I'm sorry, I'm such an idiot."

"You are..."

Something in his demeanor clicked, and it was like when we first met again. It hurt, to say the least, and I felt rather childish as he fixed me up. The whole time, Sean seemed eerily reserved and anger exuded his soft features. He handled me gently regardless.

"Look man, sorry for getting blood in your expensive sheets. It's probably really hard to clean." I spat, annoyed at the sudden coldness.

"Don't worry about it. I shouldn't've let you roughhouse me with the knife in bed." he whispered, smoothing out the band-aid covering my lower stomach.

"I hate the sight of blood."

For Sean, I wouldn't know how hard that afternoon was until ninth grade year. I would be kept in the dark about the utter surprise his mom would show after finding us alone in his room goofing off. I honestly thought she was mulling over the idea that we might be a thing, and she was just surprised Sean had even made a friend. Well, both turned out to be true. She had expected me to be over for dinner, Sean would tell me later, and that would never not be unsettling.