We’re back at the hotel. We were chatting about everything and nothing but got less casual as we got closer to the building. You caught me looking at you and biting my bottom lip a few times, something you know I do when I’m really focused on your physicality. You’re not above giving me a little wiggle, letting me know you know I’m looking. I lead you through the door. “Alice,” I say, taking your hands.

I’ve been in the shower for a little while. You’ve checked your phone, checked yourself out in the mirror, and are now just plain confused about what I could be up to in there. “Do you trust me?” I had asked. Well, yes, but is this what I meant? Suddenly impatient, you jump to your feet. I’d better have a good reason for keeping you waiting. You knock on the bathroom door but there’s no answer.

“In no family or culture is it tradition to stop and get an ice-cream every time you pass an ice-cream van.” “But in miiiine it is,” you say, whining playfully as you stare longingly at the third Mr Whippy we’ve passed. Beside us the sand stretches on, circling lazily around a broad bay, terminating in distant headlands. “Don’t you want to watch me eat ice-cream? I know you like it.”

Maybe tonight. I swing my legs off the bed too and walk to the bathroom door. Light bleeds around the edges. My heart is pounding as I stand outside it, willing myself to knock, to break this taboo. Then the door opens in front of me. You find me blinking in the light, looking vaguely nervous, but my lips have the tight set they get when I’m determined about something.

Freya struggled, melted, poured into your intestines, desiccated inside your colon. Each stage we tracked, both of us fascinated by the mysterious process that converts a living, breathing human being into— well, I have to make assumptions, having never borne witness to the whole of the end result. I’ve certainly seen where some of them goes. You spent a slightly hungover day playing videogames. Over the course of twelve hours Freya ceased to be a distinct lump and dissipated into a diffuse spongy fullness within the whole of your abdomen.

I come to the door when you knock. Will I ever not smile when I first see you? I offer to take your coat, and when you point out you’re not wearing one, I offer to take your pants instead. You bap me on the shoulder and I place a kiss on your cheek. Music is coming from inside, and the scent of incense. An unfamiliar voice is singing to Billie Eilish, quite well.

Today is also the day. And tonight. And today. It’s days before putting in the fangs doesn’t make you excited beyond restraint. You strut naked through the house, you dance, you write, you paint. You slip out into the night, doing I don’t know what. I wonder if you’re hunting for the transfixed woman. I picture you taking other prey and cherish the jealousy it arouses in me. I wake at midnight to find your lips on my upper arm, framing your sharpened fangs.

After last time I’ve been more careful. At least, you haven’t had to come rescue me from any dreamworld creatures or demons. But you know I’ve been working. The first time you told me about astral feeding I almost exploded, veering erratically between cosmic horror, profound excitement, lust, and a kind of stillness that looked like an actual trauma response. Honestly, at the time you didn’t know what to make of it.

Today’s the day. This past week I’ve had a Project. Monday started with me excitedly showing you the contents of an Amazon box: three pairs of high-quality fangs, and a Dremel. “We’re going to give you your teeth.” I could see your excitement, and then your anxiousness about the dangers and whether it would work and whether it would live up to your hopes. We talked about it, decided where research was needed, and now today’s the day.

I look sheepish. “This is technically a little dangerous. But I tested it on myself first.” “If it’s dangerous it’s more likely to hurt you, you idiot.” I grin and kiss your knitted brows. “A&E would fix me up fine. We’re not sure if they’d find anything incriminating inside you, though.” It’s been two hours since you swallowed the curiously heavy marble in its waxy, hermetic plastic. I’ve been tappy-tapping on my laptop while you write long-hand in a pad, the perfect picture of alone-together comfort.