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The moment she slurred, “Would you still love me if I was a worm?” Peter Hale regretted every single step in the long, careful process of making his Wolfsbane-infused rum.
Precisely distilled, bitter with a hint of honey, steeped with microscopic traces of Wolfsbane so minuscule they wouldn't kill, but just enough to affect supernatural metabolisms. A miracle in a bottle for werewolves who wanted to feel something when drinking alcohol.
Isabelle, his chaotic, loud, soft-bellied, unpredictable wife, had taken three generous glasses like a champ. Now she was barefoot in their living room, wrapped in a throw blanket like a human werewolf burrito, cheeks flushed, eyes watery from laughter or tears, he wasn’t sure anymore.
And then she had said it.
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”
Peter blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
She rolled onto her side on the couch, knocking over one of the throw pillows he’d fluffed only ten minutes ago. “A worm,” she said again. “Like a little squishy pink worm. You know. No arms. No legs. Just vibes.”
Peter stared. “No. No, Isabelle, I would not love you if you were a worm.”
A gasp so loud, so full of betrayal, it might’ve made soap opera actors jealous exploded from her mouth. She flopped dramatically, legs kicking against the back of the couch. “Peter Hale, you cruel bastard!”
Peter sipped from his own glass, his second and smirked. “What exactly would you like me to do with a worm, darling? Keep you in a jewelry box? Read you Wuthering Heights out loud? Sprinkle you with kale flakes?”
“I thought we were soulmates!” she cried. “Forever! Through everything! Even m-m-meta-morp-hosis!”
He chuckled. “Metamorphosis? Worms don’t go through metamorphosis. That’s caterpillars. You’re drunk and biologically inaccurate.”
“Metamorphosis of the soul, Peter!” she said dramatically, arms flailing out of her blanket cocoon like a deranged moth. “If I was cursed by a witch and became a worm, like, a cute worm, you should be the one person who still loved me!”
He sauntered over, leaning down until his face was mere inches from hers. “You think a ‘cute’ worm is going to have the same ass I married?”
“I’d still wiggle it!” she shouted indignantly. “Even as a worm!”
Peter set his drink down, mostly so he wouldn’t spill it from laughing. “Would you expect me to take Worm You out to dinner? Carry you in my pocket like some grotesque Tamagotchi? Whisper sweet nothings to your gooey little body?”
Isabelle groaned and pressed a hand to her forehead. “Ugh. You’re so mean.”
“I’m realistic, my little grub.” He tapped her nose. “Besides, you’d die within a week. You’d crawl somewhere dramatic like the freeway or a hawk’s nest just to make your point.”
“I would not,” she pouted. “I would be an independent worm.”
“Oh, forgive me. You’re right,” Peter said mockingly, grabbing a throw pillow and tossing it at her. “You’d start a little worm commune and give all the other worms TED Talks about feminism.”
Isabelle hiccupped, laughed, and then sat bolt upright, wobbling unsteadily. “Wait! What if you were the worm?!”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Then I’d be less sarcastic and probably dead.”
“Noooo,” she said, crawling across the couch toward him like a tipsy jungle cat. “If you were a worm, I’d love you so hard, Peter Hale. I’d protect you. I’d build a worm tank with soft moss and little pebbles and name it the Hale Habitat. I’d feed you cucumber peels. I’d... I’d write you poetry.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “Poetry. For Worm Me.”
“Don’t underestimate me.” She cleared her throat, planted one hand dramatically on her chest, and proclaimed:
"Oh my worm, my long pink noodle,
You slither into my soul like a hero on a quest,
Your segments divine, your silence so pensive,
Even limbless, you are still the best."
Peter stared. “That was deeply upsetting on several levels.”
“Thank you,” she said proudly.
He laughed again, this time deeper, more genuine. She had this effect on him, always had. It was impossible to stay aloof when Isabelle was spiraling into some nonsense tangent, half logic, half melodrama, all heart.
She snuggled back under the blanket, eyes drooping. “You’d be a sexy worm, though.”
“Not a sentence I ever hoped to hear.”
“Like, thick. Muscular. Alpha worm.”
“Oh dear Lupa.” He reached down and gently tugged her blanket burrito so she’d lie flat.
“Do you think worms have alphas?” she asked.
“Stop talking.”
“But what if—”
“I said no.”
She groaned, threw an arm over her face. “You’re not being romantic, Peter.”
“Oh, sweetheart. If romance means pledging eternal love to a future version of you that is two inches long and can’t tell your ass from your face, I think I’ll stick to seduction.”
“I knew it. You’d leave me for a butterfly. You’re shallow.”
Peter crouched beside the couch again, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek. “I’m many things, Belleza. Shallow isn’t one of them. I married you, remember?”
She blinked. “Hey!”
“I mean that lovingly,” he added, lips twitching. “You’re a lot. And somehow, exactly my kind of chaos.”
Her face softened, a sleepy smile spreading across it. “I love you.”
“I know.”
“If I turn into a worm, I’m haunting you.”
“Oh good. Undead worm haunting. That’ll spice up the bedroom.”
Isabelle reached for his hand and pulled it under the blanket, curling around it like he was her emotional support security blanket. “You wouldn’t even know it was me. You’d be walking barefoot, and squish!”
Peter grimaced. “I really wish I had stopped this conversation six minutes ago.”
“I’ll have Bellatrix turn me into a ghost worm and possess your coffee.”
“You’re drunk.”
“I’m passionate.”
“You’re drunk and passionate. Which is a dangerous cocktail.”
She hummed. “I bet you’d still sleep with me even if I was a ghost worm.”
Peter’s voice dropped into a lower register, one that always made her ears burn. “Would that be before or after I bottle you in a vial and wear you around my neck like the world’s creepiest necklace?”
“Ugh.” She shivered with delight. “That’s weird. I love it.”
“Of course you do.”
He kissed her forehead, lingering just a second longer than necessary. Despite the ridiculousness, despite the worm talk and the poetry and the dramatics, there was something beautifully, stupidly tender about nights like these.
He’d made the rum to feel human again. But it was Isabelle who always reminded him how alive he really was.
As she slowly dozed off, mumbling something about “sexy worm armor,” Peter stood, stretched, and gathered the empty glasses.
He paused at the kitchen counter, poured himself one more splash, and raised it in salute to his absurd, ridiculous wife.
“To Worm Wife,” he murmured. “Long may she wriggle.”
From the couch, a sleepy voice slurred, “Heard that.”
Peter smiled. “Of course you did.”