December's full moon was our first official test of the new system.
Marcus had given me three days' notice, circling the date on our shared calendar with a red marker and adding apologetic notes about expected noise levels and probable furniture damage. I'd appreciated the heads up, even if his damage estimates turned out to be wildly optimistic.
I'd prepared by moving all fragile items out of common areas, investing in foam padding for the walls, and booking myself a study room at the library until well past midnight. When I'd returned home around one AM, the flat had been suspiciously quiet.
I'd found Marcus in the kitchen, fully human but covered in bandages, attempting to make tea with his left hand while his right arm hung in an improvised sling.
"How'd it go?" I'd asked.
"Better!" he'd said with forced cheerfulness. "Only destroyed two chairs and a lamp this time."
"And the arm?"
"Got a bit tangled up in the shower curtain. The new one's stronger than I expected."
I'd surveyed the kitchen, noting the careful way he'd cleaned up after himself and the fact that he'd actually managed to avoid getting hair in the sink. "Not bad. What's the damage total?"
"Forty-three pounds, give or take. I've already ordered replacements online."
"That's a significant improvement."
"I tried howling into a pillow like you suggested."
"How was it?"
"Oddly therapeutic, actually. Though I think I need a bigger pillow."
"We can work on that."
The following months had established a routine that was almost normal, if you ignored the supernatural elements. Marcus would warn me about upcoming full moons, I'd make myself scarce during the worst of it, and we'd spend the following day assessing damage and planning improvements.
February had brought the Great Howling Pillow Experiment, which had resulted in Marcus accidentally destroying three pillows but successfully muffling most of the noise. March had seen the introduction of rubber furniture protectors, which had proven surprisingly effective at preventing claw damage. April had been the breakthrough month when Marcus had figured out how to partially control his pacing patterns, resulting in our first transformation night without major furniture casualties.
By May, we'd developed what could generously be called a system.
"Right," I'd announced over breakfast one Tuesday morning. "I've been thinking."
Marcus had looked up from his raw steak sandwich with the weary expression of someone who'd learned to be cautious about my ideas.
"Dangerous," he'd muttered.
"What if we leaned into it?"
"Into what?"
"The werewolf thing. Instead of just managing the damage, what if we actually made it work for you?"
"I'm not following."
I'd pulled out my notebook, now significantly thicker after months of werewolf-related problem-solving. "You always complain about not being able to go for runs during the full moon because you can't work door handles."
"Right."
"And you get frustrated because you're stuck in the flat with all that nervous energy."
"Also right."
"What if we installed a dog door?"
Marcus had choked on his sandwich. "A what?"
"A very large dog door. Custom-made. You could come and go as you pleased."
"Jamie, I'm seven feet tall when I'm transformed."
"They make industrial pet doors for Great Danes and Saint Bernards. How much bigger could you be?"
"Significantly."
"We'll measure you next time."
"You want to measure me while I'm a werewolf?"
"For science. And practical home improvement."
Marcus had stared at me like I'd suggested we take up competitive fire-eating. "That's either brilliant or completely insane."
"Why not both?"
"How exactly do you plan to measure a hostile supernatural creature?"
"You're not hostile. You're just poorly managed."
"I have claws, Jamie. Large ones."
"And I have a tape measure and a healthy respect for personal boundaries. We'll figure it out."
That conversation had led to what would later be known as The Measuring Incident, which had resulted in Marcus accidentally destroying our tape measure but successfully establishing that he was, in fact, too large for even the biggest commercially available pet door.
"Custom job it is, then," I'd said, making notes while Marcus nursed his wounded pride and several minor scratches.
"This is mental."
"This is problem-solving."
"Same thing, really."
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