Story at Subterranean Press
I wake curled up at the foot of the bed again, back snugged tight into the crook of my boy’s legs –tight enough to be on top of them really. He groans, slaps the alarm clock off, tries to pull the quilt over his head. Doesn’t work with me weighing it down, clambering up to lick his face.
–Get up, I say. Get up get up get up.
He shoves me away.
–Get down, he says.
I roll off the bed, grab whiffy boxers from the floor.
A boy and his werewolf. Truest love there is.
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