“Food first. Lecture later.” Rick slid the skillet off the burner and carried it to the small round dining table. He didn’t bother with plates, just set the sizzling pan down on the trivet with the fork still in it. Then he settled into the chair and patted his lap. “C’mere.”
Ash raised an eyebrow, folding his arms.
Rick smirked, waiting.
His stomach roared in betrayal. Ash huffed, resistance melting fast enough. He crossed the room, draped himself sideways over Rick’s thighs, feeling the graze of stubble alonghis shoulder when Rick tilted his head close. Rick speared a forkful of egg and bacon, brought it to Ash’s lips. Ash bit down, the salt and grease coating his tongue, before Rick withdrew the fork, aimed it at his own mouth, and ate the next bite himself. Back and forth, sharing one fork, one skillet, one chair. Naked, ridiculous, yet oddly perfect.
Ash found himself smiling despite everything—the ruined clothes, the pile of dirty dishes, the lack of silverware. For once, he didn’t mind the mess. He had Rick’s warmth beneath him, food in his mouth, and the world felt easy. He caught himself studying Rick’s face, the set of his jaw, the way a smear of grease caught in the corner of his stubble, and had to drag his gaze to the pan before he embarrassed himself. “Shouldn’t you be at work?” he asked, chewing.
“I always take a day off after the full moon,” Rick mumbled, mouth full.
Ash leaned into him, too aware of Rick’s chest solid at his side, one arm bracing him from behind. The heat of him was everywhere, steady, grounding, impossible to ignore. He let himself sink into it, lulled by the scrape of the fork against the skillet, the music from the radio, the rhythm of Rick’s breathing at his neck. It felt dangerously normal, the kind of comfort he wasn’t used to keeping.
Suddenly, the memory flared—Griffin flying in that alley, muscles buckling as though yanked by invisible strings, and Ash hadn’t laid a finger on him. The thought broke the spell, a sudden reminder of how far he was from normal.
“Oh,” he said. “I almost forgot. There was a reason I came barging in here last night.”
Rick glanced at him, one brow cocked as he sawed off another piece of egg with the fork. “Oh? And here I thought you just missed me.” He slid the bite between Ash’s lips before Ash could answer, smirking around the words.
Ash chewed slowly, searching for a way to phrase it that didn’t sound deranged. Nothing came. Finally, he swallowed and blurted, “I think your werewolf cum has given me superpowers.”
Rick paused to lick bacon grease from the corner of his thumb. “Is that right?”
Ash twisted in Rick’s lap and nodded toward the cluttered countertop. “Okay. Watch this. Don’t blink.”
Rick raised an eyebrow, swallowing another mouthful. “What am I watching?”
“Shh.” Ash squinted at a dirty mug on the counter. He pictured it sliding forward, off the heap, landing neatly in the sink. His gut tightened with focus. Nothing. He clenched his jaw and tried again. A vein pulsed along his temple. Still nothing.
“You planning to stare that thing to death?” Rick deadpanned.
“Shut up. It worked before.” Ash shifted, glaring harder, muscles locking like he could will the cup to move through sheer effort. His temples throbbed. His frustration climbed. He shoved the thought outward—Move, damn you!
The mug went flying. Not into the sink, but across the room, shattering against the fridge in a spray of porcelain shards.
Ash jolted, breaking into a grin that split his face wide. “Holy shit! Did you see that?”
Rick didn’t smile. Instead, he eased Ash off his thighs with a quiet gentleness and rose. He crossed to the fridge without a word, stepping past the ceramic slivers, the pads of his bare feet finding safe purchase with an animal surety. The door opened with a muted sigh, spilling a square of yellow light over his muscles. He pulled out a carton of orange juice, tipped it to his mouth for a long swallow, Adam’s apple shifting. Then he held it out, wordless.
Ash blinked at him, excitement guttering, confusion chasing in. “Tough crowd,” he muttered. Still, he took the carton and swallowed, the taste sharp and sweet on his tongue.
While he drank, Rick snagged a dish towel from the counter, crouched, and swept the shards into a cautious heap with practiced care. The clink of china as he tipped them into the trash was just another motion folded into the quiet morning. When Ash handed the carton back, Rick stowed it inside and closed the fridge with his hip, waving him over. “C’mon.”
They went into the living room, where pale daylight slanted through the blinds in broken stripes that cut across the dust and gloom. Rick Slade’s world revealed itself in cluttered fragments: a leaning bookshelf with novels crammed in double rows, spines faded and foxed; a few framed photographs turned face-down, as though to silence the past; in the corner, a plant that had long since withered into a brittle silhouette. The couch sagged beneath a clutter of discarded clothes. Rick swept them aside in a rough, almost embarrassed gesture before sinking into the cushions.
Ash hovered, then curled beside him, folding one leg under himself. “You know what I am, don’t you?”
Rick reached for the pack on the table, pushing aside a scatter of yesterday’s paper and a dog-eared fitness magazine. He tapped out two cigarettes, struck a match, and brought the flame close. Ash watched the flicker catch in those gray depths. One drag to life, then the other, before Rick passed one over. Smoke drifted into the hush, softening the dull gray light that pressed in past the blinds.
They sat facing each other on the couch, fabric warm and worn beneath Ash’s bare skin. Smoke drifted between them, curling into languid shapes before dissolving into the dim. Beyond the walls, the city went on humming: distant traffic, a lone horn, life carrying itself somewhere far removed. In here,though, it was hushed: the faint flow of jazz from the radio, the steady tick of a hidden clock marking time that didn’t seem to pass.
Rick exhaled, eyes half-hooded, voice low and edged with something Ash couldn’t read. “You ever tried to get in touch with your birth parents?”
The question caught him off guard, sharp enough to still the rhythm of his lungs. He blinked. “My what?”
“Parents. The real ones. Before Adam and Lisa Hunter.”
Ash let out a laugh that wasn’t a laugh, more bark than breath, sharp enough to cover the sudden twist in his chest. “Why would I? They gave me up. Hunters were the ones who raised me. Theyweremy real parents.” He dragged from his cigarette, smoke stinging his throat, then let it pour from his nose in a thin stream—armor made of fog.
