I was so exhausted after a brutal night shift at the store that I barely made it home. The moment I walked into our dim bedroom, I collapsed onto the bed and hugged what I thought was my husband lying next to me.
But in the middle of the night, I woke up and realized… the man beside me wasn’t my husband.
My husband, Christian, and I have been married for five years. Normally, we’re that annoyingly affectionate couple, but lately my ten-hour night shifts at the convenience store have drained me completely. Dealing with drunk college kids and truckers hyped up on energy drinks isn’t exactly my dream job, but it helps pay the bills while Christian builds his car repair business.
That night, my shift ended at 3 a.m. I was running on autopilot. My feet ached, my head pounded, and all I wanted was to collapse onto our mattress.
I barely remembered the drive home. I kicked off my shoes and left a trail of clothes behind me as I stumbled into the bedroom.
The house was dark and quiet. Totally normal.
Through the faint streetlight, I could make out a figure under the covers. Perfect. Christian was already home and asleep.
I slipped into bed and snuggled up against his back. He smelled… different. Like our detergent mixed with something else. Maybe new cologne?
Too tired to think, I wrapped myself around him.
“Baby,” I whispered, giggling, “you smell like discount whiskey and bad decisions tonight. Kinda sexy.”
No response.
Still half-asleep, I ran my leg against his.
Wait…
That didn’t feel right.
“Honey,” I mumbled, “when did your legs turn into an overgrown lawn? Did you join some kind of werewolf club while I was at work?”
Still nothing.
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