Chapter 2
Juliet
I grabbed Louis's arm, feeling the solid muscle beneath his sleeve. "Why are you still so tense? Relax, you'll loosen up once we get started."
Louis followed me obediently toward the kitchen, his tail giving these tiny, confused little twitches that made me want to smile.
"What's wrong?" I asked, glancing back at him. "Would you prefer to start in the living room instead?"
His eyes met mine, and for a second they seemed to burn with this intense heat. I could swear I saw a flash of gold in his pupils.
"Kitchen is fine," he said, his voice low and rough.
What happened next probably wasn't what he expected.
I reached into my cleaning supply cabinet and pulled out a brand-new dish towel, pressing it into his hands with a satisfied grin. "Thanks for taking over from Sarah—seriously, this place is a disaster. I just switched to a new lavender laundry detergent last week, so the towels might smell a little different."
Louis stared down at the towel in his hands like it was some kind of alien artifact, then his nose twitched. "Lavender?"
His tail went completely rigid, and the look on his face was pure bewilderment.
It was honestly pretty cute.
"Well, mopping, sweeping, laundry—whatever other chores need doing," I said, waving my hand vaguely. "Just pick what works for you. And if you need more supplies, just let me know."
Louis nodded, but when he turned to the sink, I noticed his hands were slightly unsteady. He picked up a plate, scrubbed it, then set it down a little too hard. A minute later, he reached for the dish soap and knocked over the bottle—soap suds spilling across the counter.
"Shit—sorry," he said, his voice tight, as he grabbed a rag to clean it up.
I blinked. Sarah had said he was "perfect" at chores. Maybe he was just having an off day?
"Its fine—accidents happen," I said, stepping in to help. "Maybe the lavender’s too strong? I can switch back to my old citrus one if you want."
Louis's head snapped up, his eyes wide. "Citrus?"
"Yeah—smelled like oranges. I just thought lavender would be calmer, but if it’s bothering you..."
He shook his head quickly. "No. It’s fine. I’ll adjust."
But he didn’t adjust. That afternoon, I caught him staring at my laundry basket—specifically, at a pile of my cotton tees—with a faraway look. When he folded them later, he held each one for a second longer than necessary, his nose twitching like he was breathing in the scent. That night, he knocked on my bedroom door at 10 PM, saying he was "checking the windows," but he lingered by my bed, his tail brushing the edge of the sheets, his gaze fixed on the pillow where my hair had fallen.
Weird. But he still made dinner that night—steak, cooked perfectly medium-rare—and folded my sheets with military precision, so I didn’t say anything. Maybe he was just a little OCD? Or maybe werewolves had weird sensory things?
The next week was more of the same. He’d get distracted when I wore my citrus-scented sweater, but zone out when I put on the lavender one.
He’d collect my empty coffee mugs and wash them by hand, even though the dishwasher was empty.
And once, I caught him tucking a crumpled tissue I’d used (blown my nose, gross, I know) into his pocket.
I was this close to asking him about it—seriously, who collects used tissues?—when Sarah texted to check in. [How’s Louis doing?] she wrote. [Still quiet? He never gave me any trouble—just kept to himself, did his job.]
"Yeah, he’s great," I replied, staring at the tissue box on the counter. "Just… has some interesting storage habits."
Sarah sent a laughing emoji. "Well, as long as he’s not stealing your jewelry, right? Enjoy the clean apartment!"
I put my phone down, but the thought lingered. Stealing jewelry? No. Stealing tissues and staring at my clothes? Definitely.
Then, that weekend, I decided to clean out the storage closet—something I’d been putting off for months.
It was full of old boxes, seasonal decorations, and a few of my college textbooks. I was stacking a box of winter sweaters when I knocked over another box—this one smaller, made of worn canvas, with Louis’s name scrawled on the side in messy handwriting.
I shouldn’t have opened it. But curiosity got the better of me.
Inside, wrapped in a soft cloth, was a small collection of… my things. A handful of my hair, tied with a black ribbon. The gold hairpin I’d worn to my birthday dinner last year—I’d thought I’d lost it at the restaurant. An empty citrus-scented candle jar. And a crumpled piece of paper, with handwriting so stiff it looked like it had been written by someone just learning to hold a pen:
[Citrus makes chest stop hurting. Her things don’t let me panic. Don’t let her see.]
My breath caught. I stared at the paper, then at the hair, then at the candle jar.
All the little things—his distraction with lavender, the way he held my clothes, the tissue in his pocket—suddenly made sense.
He wasn’t being weird. He wasn’t OCD. He was collecting my things. My scent. Because it calmed him down.
I folded the paper back up, put everything back in the box, and closed the closet.
My heart was racing. What do you even say to someone who collects your hair to feel better?
That night, when Louis brought me a glass of water before bed, I hesitated. "Louis," I said, my voice quiet. "Do you… want me to switch back to the citrus laundry detergent?"
His eyes widened. "You don’t have to—"
"I want to," I said. "I like it better anyway."
He stared at me for a long time, then nodded. "Thank you, Juliet."
That night, I heard him folding laundry in the living room. No more clattering dishes, no more staring. Just the soft sound of fabric, and a quiet, contented rumble.