"You alphabetize your socks."
"They're categorized by thickness and material composition, not alphabetically. That would be ridiculous."
A couple passed them, both humming that same melody Elder Thornberry always hummed. Sam's ears pricked up, but they continued walking, oblivious.
"Fine," he conceded. "We'll do both. Start with a group session to establish collective patterns, then break into individual interviews for specifics."
"Perfect," Delilah said. "And we should bring some of Zelda's dream-clarifying tea to enhance recall."
"While monitoring their vital signs for stress responses."
"And I'll bring my lunar quartz to amplify the dream energies."
"I'll bring actual scientific equipment."
The map peeked out from Delilah's bag, flashing briefly to display a pattern of connections spanning well beyond Assjacket—the same pattern they'd glimpsed when the ritual collapsed. It vanished before either could comment.
Sam stopped walking. Something about the way Delilah was rattling on about dream theory made his chest tighten. Their arguments had transformed from genuine friction into something else—a rhythm, a dance they both enjoyed.
Without planning it, Sam leaned down and kissed her, cutting off her explanation of dream symbolism mid-sentence.
The kiss caught Sam by surprise as much as it did Delilah. His lips found hers with an instinctive certainty that bypassed all his carefully constructed defenses. Her lips were soft, tasting of caramel and something uniquely Delilah—a hint of that jasmine perfume that had once irritated his sensitive nose but now felt like coming home.
Time suspended. The background noise of Assjacket faded away—no more humming pedestrians, no magical disturbances, just the sound of Delilah's heartbeat accelerating to match his own. His wolf stirred beneath his skin, not with the usual restless energy that demanded control, but with a deep, contented recognition.
Sam's hands found her waist, steadying her as she rose on her tiptoes to press closer. The physical connection sparked something beyond mere attraction—a resonance that echoed the magical harmony they'd discovered working together. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
He'd imagined this moment—though he'd never admit it aloud—but reality outstripped imagination. The kiss deepened, and Sam felt a tremor run through him that had nothing to do with his shifter nature and everything to do with vulnerability. He was exposed, seen, known in ways that terrified and exhilarated him.
When they finally broke apart, Sam kept his eyes closed for a heartbeat longer, cataloging sensations with the same precision he applied to investigations: the slight tremble in his hands, the warmth spreading through his chest, the lingering taste of her on his lips.
He opened his eyes to find Delilah staring up at him, her expression a mixture of surprise and something softer, more fragile. A strand of her green hair had come loose, and he tucked it behind her ear with uncharacteristic gentleness.
"That was..." he began, then stopped, words failing him for perhaps the first time in his methodical life.
"Unexpected?" Delilah offered, her voice slightly breathless.
"Inevitable," Sam corrected. The truth of it settled in his bones. All the arguments, the tension, the reluctant partnership—it had been leading here all along.
Around them, the air shimmered subtly, ley lines beneath the pavement responding to their emotional alignment. Sam noticed but didn't care. For once, the investigator in him took a back seat to the man who had finally stopped running from what he wanted most.
Mac slowed his truck to a crawl, craning his neck for a better view. "Did that just happen?"
"Keep driving," Zelda hissed, slapping his arm while maintaining her own stare through the passenger window. "They'll see us!"
"They're too busy swapping spit to notice a freight train," Mac said, but he accelerated slightly. "I've known Sam for fifteen years, and I've never seen him make the first move. Not once."
"Love makes fools of us all," Zelda said, then caught herself. "Not that I'd know anything about that."
Mac raised an eyebrow. "Says the woman who enchanted an entire lingerie store because she couldn't decide what I'd like best."
"That was research, not romance." Her cheeks flushed. "Besides, we're not talking about us."
Three cats trotted along the sidewalk behind Sam and Delilah, each wearing miniature detective hats with tiny badges. Fat Bastard's tilted rakishly to one side while Boba Fett kept batting at Jango's whenever he got too close.
"Think we should tell them the green hair is permanent?" Mac asked, making another pass down the street.
"Let them figure it out themselves. It's more fun that way." Zelda grinned wickedly. "Besides, they look good in matching neon. Like those couples who wear identical sweaters, but with more radioactive flair."
