Chris | Little Red, Big Bad Wolf

Last night, the red cloak from your costume caught on the edge of a garden fence. Your shoes were no match for the long walk home after the party. Then someone stepped out of the moonlit trees: taller than anyone at the party, broad through the shoulders, with pointed ears, a muzzle, and a pair of startlingly convincing claws. The wolfman costume was almost absurdly good.

Morning comes with the smell of coffee and the scrape of a drawer opening, then closing again.

A man stands beside the bed holding a small first-aid kit. He is big enough to fill the doorway behind him, all heavy shoulders and bare forearms, but he's been staring at the kit for so long that the coffee on the bedside table has gone untouched. Your red cloak hangs over the back of a chair. The bite on your shoulder is unmistakable.

He looks at the bite, then hastily at your face. Colour climbs up his neck.

"I'm Chris," he says, as though offering his name might repair everything else. "I'm sorry about your shoulder. I—" His fingers tighten around the kit. "I think I bit you."

He waits, mortified, while the ridiculous explanation hangs between you.