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Jason had been reading for forty-seven minutes when you decided to become a worm.
In your defense, he’d been ignoring you.
Not maliciously. Jason was sprawled across one end of the couch with one ankle resting over the opposite knee, entirely consumed by a battered hardcover that had arrived in the mail three days ago wrapped in enough protective packaging to survive a controlled explosion. He’d spent twenty minutes inspecting the binding before he’d even opened it, another ten telling you about the particular edition and exactly why he’d been looking for it for almost two years, and then he’d disappeared into the book so completely that you could’ve committed several minor crimes within arm’s reach without attracting his attention.
You were lying sideways at the other end of the couch with your feet tucked beneath his thigh.
You wiggled your toes.
Nothing.
You pushed them harder against him.
Jason absently lifted his leg, caught both your ankles with one hand, settled them across his lap, and continued reading.
That was admittedly affectionate, but it wasn’t attention.
You stared at him.
Jason turned a page.
“Would you love me if I was a worm?”
“Yeah.”
His answer came so quickly that you frowned.
Jason hadn’t even looked up.
You pushed yourself onto one elbow. “You didn’t think about it.”
“Didn’t need to.”
“You absolutely need to think about it.”
“I really don’t.”
“Jason.”
That finally earned you his attention. His eyes lifted from the page, one eyebrow rising as he looked across the couch at you.
You gestured between you as though the problem should’ve been obvious. “I’m a worm.”
“Okay.”
“A worm, Jason.”
“Got that part.”
“You’re being really dismissive about what would be a significant lifestyle change for us.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “For us?”
“Yes. I’m assuming you aren’t abandoning me just because I’ve become an invertebrate.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
You narrowed your eyes.
Jason’s attention returned to his book.
That wasn’t right.
The question was supposed to cause distress. At minimum, it should’ve required contemplation. You’d seen enough variations of it online to know the proper progression: confusion, reluctant consideration, increasingly specific questions concerning the circumstances of your transformation, and finally an answer that could be analyzed for evidence of insufficient devotion.
Jason had skipped directly to unconditional acceptance.
You shifted closer. “What kind of worm are you picturing?”
Jason sighed through his nose, although the amusement had become impossible to hide. “Hadn’t gotten that far.”
“Earthworm?”
“Sure.”
“How big?”
His gaze slid toward you again. “Worm-sized.”
“That’s incredibly vague.”
“You asked if I’d love you. You didn’t ask me to write your fucking field guide.”
You considered this. “Would you keep me in a terrarium?”
“Yeah.”
“What would be in it?”
Jason closed his book around one finger, which you considered progress.
“Dirt.”
“Soil,” you corrected.
“Obviously.”
“Plants?”
“If you want plants.”
“I’m a worm. I can’t tell you what I want.”
“You’re doing a pretty good job right now.”
“That’s because I’m not a worm yet.”
Jason stared at you.
You stared back.
He shook his head and reopened his book.
You waited perhaps five seconds.
“What if I was a bookworm?”
“Still love you.”
The book stayed open.
Your eyes narrowed.
“A very hungry bookworm.”
“Congratulations.”
“I might eat your books.”
Jason stopped reading.
Slowly, he lowered the book several inches.
You smiled.
His expression had gone suspiciously blank. “What?”
“I said I might eat your books.”
“I heard you.”
“Because I’d be a bookworm.”
“That’s not what a bookworm is.”
“It could be.”
“No, it couldn’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know what words mean.”
You waved that aside. “We’re already operating under the assumption that I’ve inexplicably turned into a worm while retaining enough human consciousness for you to continue romantically loving me. I think strict adherence to entomological accuracy is unnecessarily restrictive.”
Jason’s eyes narrowed. “Entomology is insects.”
“See? This is exactly the kind of knowledge I’d acquire by eating your books.”
“You’re not eating my books.”
“But what if I had to?”
The answer came immediately. “You don’t.”
“What if books are my only food source?”
“I’ll buy you books.”
“That feels wasteful.”
Jason looked offended. “Eating mine doesn’t?”
“I’m trying to reduce household expenses.”
“You’re trying to start a fight.”
You grinned.
Jason pointed at you with the hand holding his book. “And before you say anything else, this one’s off-limits.”
Your gaze dropped deliberately to the hardcover.
His grip tightened.
You looked back at him.
“Interesting.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked at it.”
“I’m allowed to look at books.”
“Not anymore.”
You sat upright.
Jason immediately moved the hardcover farther from you.
The gesture delighted you enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.
“What about paperbacks?”
“I’d buy you paperbacks.”
“Used?”
“As many as you want.”
“That’s sweet.”
“I’m a supportive boyfriend.”
“What if I prefer hardcovers?”
“I’d get you hardcovers.”
“What if I developed expensive taste?”
“You already have expensive taste.”
You ignored that. “What if I only wanted old books?”
Something in Jason’s expression sharpened.
It was subtle, but you saw it.
“Ooh,” you said.
“Don’t get excited.”
“You’re worried.”
“I’m not worried.”
“You are.”
“I’m evaluating a hypothetical pest-control problem.”
“You just called your girlfriend a pest.”
“My girlfriend’s threatening my library.”
“Your worm girlfriend.”
“My point stands.”
You crawled farther across the couch until your knee pressed against his thigh. Jason watched you approach with the wary concentration he usually reserved for suspicious packages and poorly concealed weapons.
You lowered your voice. “What if I wanted the rare ones?”
His jaw tightened.
You nearly lost it.
“The old ones,” you continued.
“Baby.”
“The ones that aren’t printed anymore.”
“Stop.”
“The first editions—”
Jason’s hand covered your mouth.
You dissolved into laughter against his palm.
He stared at you with the exhausted expression of a man who’d realized far too late that he’d willingly invited his own tormentor into his home, given her a key, and made space for her clothes in his dresser.
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
Your answer was muffled.
“What?”
You licked his palm.
Jason recoiled. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed harder, and he caught you around the waist before you could retreat, dragging you across the remaining distance until you landed half sideways in his lap.
The endangered hardcover disappeared behind him onto the side table.
You noticed.
“So now the book needs protection?”
“You’ve demonstrated intent.”
“I’m not currently a worm.”
“Yet, apparently.”
You settled comfortably against his chest, pleased with the direction the evening had taken. Jason’s arm stayed around your waist even as he regarded you with deep suspicion.
“What if transforming made me really fast?”
“You’re a worm.”
“A fast worm.”
“You’re getting a lid on the terrarium.”
You gasped. “You’d imprison me?”
“I’d protect the general public.”
“From one worm?”
“From a known repeat offender with a taste for first editions.”
“I haven’t eaten any yet.”
“Prevention.”
You hooked one arm around his shoulders. “Okay, but seriously. Say I wake up tomorrow and I’m a bookworm.”
Jason’s eyes flicked briefly toward the ceiling.
“A literal one,” you clarified. “Tiny little worm. Completely helpless. Tragically adorable.”
“I’m sure.”
“And I need to eat books to survive.”
“Fine.”
“You’d feed me books?”
“Cheap ones.”
“What if I refuse?”
“Then you’ll get hungry.”
“That’s cruel.”
“You’ll live.”
“What if I can only digest books you own?”
His stare sharpened.
You kept your expression innocent.
“Why?”
“I don’t make the rules.”
“You’re making all of them.”
“What if there’s something about your specific emotional attachment to the books that provides essential nutrients?”
Jason was quiet for several seconds.
You could practically see him trying to identify the exact point at which the conversation had become hostile.
Finally, he said, “You can have the Dan Brown.”
Your mouth fell open. “You own Dan Brown?”
“It was a gift.”
“You kept it?”
“I don’t throw books away.”
“Apparently until your worm girlfriend needs sustenance.”
“You can eat that one.”
“That’s one meal.”
“How often are you eating?”
“I’m a growing worm.”
“You’re staying worm-sized.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. You’re not becoming a six-foot worm and staying in this apartment.”
“So you’d kick me out?”
“I’d call Superman.”
Your laughter came out against his shoulder.
Jason’s mouth brushed your temple as he spoke again. “You can have the duplicates.”
“How many duplicates do you own?”
“Enough.”
“What happens when I finish those?”
“We go to used bookstores.”
“And when I want something special?”
“You don’t.”
“I’m getting the impression you’re not taking my dietary needs seriously.”
“I’m getting the impression my hypothetical worm girlfriend is high maintenance.”
You lifted your head. “What if I need one first edition a week?”
Jason stared at you in genuine horror.
“One?”
“For my health.”
“A week?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I’ll die.”
“You’ll adapt.”
“I’ll waste away.”
“Then I’ll find you another nutritional source.”
“There isn’t one.”
“There will be.”
“Jason—”
“You’re not eating a first edition every week.”
“Even to save my life?”
“That’s not a worm. That’s a fucking supervillain.”
You broke.
The laugh hit hard enough that you folded forward against him, and Jason’s hand slid automatically up your back to keep you steady. He was laughing too now, quieter but helpless enough that you could feel it beneath your cheek.
It took you a minute to recover.
When you finally looked up, his expression had softened.
You studied him for a moment.
“So you’d still love me?”
Jason blinked.
“If I was a bookworm,” you added. “A destructive one.”
“Obviously.”
The answer was so immediate again that your smile softened.
You smiled. “Even if I ate your books?”
His expression tightened.
“We’d have problems.”
“But you’d love me.”
“I’d love you while taking reasonable precautions.”
“Such as?”
“You’re living in a terrarium.”
“You already said that.”
“In the bedroom.”
“Why the bedroom?”
“My books aren’t in there.”
“You have books on your nightstand.”
“They’re moving.”
“Coward.”
“Survivor.”
You tucked your face into his neck, still smiling. “What would my terrarium look like?”
Jason’s fingers traced idly along your side.
“Big.”
“Obviously.”
“Good soil. Plants. Moss or whatever worms like.”
“A tiny house?”
“Sure.”
“Furniture?”
“You’re a worm.”
“I could appreciate furniture.”
“You don’t have arms.”
“That sounds ableist.”
Jason pinched your side.
You squirmed, laughing. “A little chair!”
“What are you doing with a chair?”
“Looking at it.”
“You can have a chair.”
“And a tiny bookshelf.”
“No.”
You pulled back. “Jason.”
“No books.”
“Fake books.”
He considered that.
“Ceramic.”
“Fine.”
“With little titles painted on them.”
“Fine.”
“One could be Pride and Prejudice.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re not eating ceramic.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I’d be a worm.”
“You’d find a way.”
You smiled and leaned forward to kiss him.
Jason met you halfway, one hand sliding to the back of your neck. The kiss was soft and familiar, lingering long enough for the absurdity of the conversation to fade beneath the warmth of his mouth and the steady pressure of his arm around your waist.
When you pulled away, his thumb brushed once beneath your ear.
“You know,” you said, “this has been really reassuring.”
“Glad my willingness to maintain an elaborate worm habitat has strengthened our relationship.”
“It has.”
“Good.”
“And I think I’ve learned something important.”
Jason made the mistake of asking. “What?”
You reached toward the side table.
He caught your wrist instantly.
Your fingers were still several inches from the hardcover.
You looked at his hand around yours, then at him.
Jason pulled the book farther away with his other hand.
“You’re not even a worm.”
“Not yet.”
“Get away from me.”
He was already pulling you closer when he said it.