"Don't you all have work to do?"
"Nope," Ezra says cheerfully. "It's a slow day. And we're taking bets on how long before you cave and go to the library."
"I'm not going to the library."
"Sure." Jason doesn't even pretend to believe me. "Hey, do you think he only wears cardigans? Like, is that his whole thing? What does he sleep in? Probably something adorable. Pajamas with little dinosaurs or rubber ducks or—"
I throw a socket wrench at him. He dodges, cackling, and retreats to the other side of the garage where he proceeds to not do any actual work while continuing to speculate about Toby's wardrobe.
The morning continues like this.
I try to work on the bike. Every twenty minutes, someone mentions Toby. His glasses. His obvious exhaustion. The way he just accepted us being shifters like it was mildly interesting information rather than a life-altering revelation. The dark circles under his eyes. The way his scent changed when he looked at me—fear spiking and then settling into something warmer, more curious.
"He didn't even flinch when you flashed your eyes," Silas observes around eleven, wandering through with a sandwich. "Most humans would have run."
"He was too tired to run," I mutter.
"He was toointerestedto run," Silas corrects. "There's a difference."
I break a ratchet.
At noon, Jason starts wondering aloud what Toby's doing right now. "Probably at work, right? Reading to kids? Do you think he does voices? I bet he does voices. Different voices for different characters. That's so—"
I throw a screwdriver at him. He catches it and keeps talking.
"Probably hasn't been properly fucked in years," Vaughn muses around two PM, apropos of nothing. He's leaning in the doorway, eating one of the sandwiches Silas made. "That date definitely wasn't going to do it for him. What kind of asshole leaves someone on the side of the road?"
I break a torque wrench. It snaps clean in half in my grip.
"Boss, that's the third tool today," Silas observes mildly from somewhere behind me.
"Bill me."
At 3:17, Ezra's head snaps up from where he's doing paperwork at the desk in the corner. His whole body goes alert, predator-still.
"Car," he says.
We all freeze, ears straining. Then I hear it too—an engine, smooth and expensive, purring into our lot. Not the rumble of a truck or the rattle of an older sedan. Something high-end.
"That's an Audi," Vaughn says, moving to the window. He lets out a low whistle. "RS5. Jesus, that's a seventy-thousand-dollar car."
Jason shoves him aside to look, pressing his face against the glass like a kid at a pet store window. "Someone's getting out of the driver's side—holy shit."
"What?"
"He'sgorgeous."
That gets my attention. I abandon the bike and move toward the window, looking over Jason's shoulder.
The driver is sliding out of the car with the easy grace of someone who knows exactly how good he looks. Tall, lean, dressed in fitted jeans and a black henley. Artfully tousled dark hair, the kind of cheekbones that belong on magazine covers. He moves like a dancer or a model—all fluid confidence and casual elegance.
Then the passenger door opens, and Toby climbs out.
He's wearing a mint green cardigan covered in rubber ducks wearing pirate hats. His hair is sticking up on one side like he slept on it wrong. He looks exhausted, dark circles visible even from here, but he's smiling at something the pretty boy is saying.
The pretty boy who immediately goes around to Toby's side. Who reaches out and ruffles Toby's hair with easy familiarity. Who stands too close, inside the bubble of personal space that should bemine.
"You sure you don't want me to come in with you?" Pretty Boy asks. His voice carries through the open window—warm and teasing. "I could meet the lions properly."
