My Boyfriend Howls at the Moon

Jax's life is a carefully constructed lie. He's a barista with a decent apartment, a boyfriend who thinks he's just weird about body hair, and a secret that's getting harder to hide. Every full moon, he tells Leo he's visiting his "allergy specialist." It's not a complete lie—shifting does make him sneeze.

Leo is the kind of guy who alphabetizes his spices and cries at dog adoption commercials. He also has a habit of finding things: a single, coarse black hair on Jax's pillow that doesn't match either of them; muddy paw prints leading from their third-floor balcony; a weird, musky scent that clings to Jax's jackets. He's starting to ask questions Jax can't answer without howling.

When a local pet goes missing the night after a full moon, and a blurry cellphone video surfaces of something large and wolfish dragging a squeaky toy into the woods, Jax's carefully built world begins to crack. Leo isn't just curious—he's worried. And Jax is running out of excuses, out of time, and out of places to hide the evidence that his boyfriend might be dating a creature who really, really likes chasing squirrels.

This is a story about the mess of loving someone when you're literally a different species. It's about the panic of almost-being-found-out, the sheer inconvenience of supernatural shedding, and the terrifying, hilarious, aching possibility that the person you're trying hardest to lie to might love the real you anyway. Assuming the real you doesn't eat his favorite shoes first.