"They got weird when you walked in," I point out.
"Fair." He almost smiles. "What's your name?"
"Knox."
"Knox," he repeats, like he's tasting it. "Very... motorcycle club president."
"How do you know I'm the president?"
He gestures around the room with one hand. "Everyone's watching you for cues. Jason literally jumped when you told him to get tea. And you sat down without asking if this seat was taken." The almost-smile becomes an actual smile, small but real. "Authority issues much?"
Vaughn coughs something that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I shoot him a look that promises we'll discuss this later.
"You always this mouthy with strangers?" I ask.
"Only when I'm too tired to have any sense of self-preservation." He yawns, covering his mouth with his hand, and the gesture is so unexpectedly innocent that something in my chest clenches. "Sorry. The adrenaline's wearing off."
"What's your name?"
"Toby."
Toby.It suits him somehow. Soft and a little old-fashioned, like the cardigan.
Jason returns with tea, practically vibrating with the need to take care of this human. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he sets the mug down, the way he hovers. My whole pack has apparently decided to adopt Toby like a stray cat, which would be funny if it wasn't going to make my life exponentially more complicated.
"Drink," I order.
Toby rolls his eyes—actuallyrolls his eyesat me—but obeys, wrapping both hands around the mug. "So how long until the storm passes?"
I check the windows. The rain isn't letting up. If anything, it's getting worse, sheets of water hammering against the glass, lightning flickering in the distance.
"Could be hours."
"Hours?" He looks genuinely distressed for the first time since figuring out what we are. "But—I have work tomorrow. I need to get home."
"Where do you work?"
"Library. Downtown branch." He takes a sip of tea, grimacing slightly at the sweetness. "I'm organizing drag queen story hour this week, and if I'm not there, Margaret will absolutely use it as an excuse to cancel the whole program."
Drag queen story hour. Of course he does. Of course this soft, exhausted human in his cat cardigan spends his days reading to children and fighting bureaucrats and generally being exactly the kind of person my lion wants to wrap around and protect from everything.
"The storm will pass when it passes," I say, more roughly than intended. "Unless you want to walk home in it?"
He glares at me over the rim of his mug, and fuck if that's not more attractive than it should be. No fear now, just irritation at the situation. At me. Like I'm an inconvenience rather than a predator.
"This is kidnapping," he mutters.
"This is weather. And you're the one who walked into my bar."
"Because my phone was dead and I was stranded!"
"And now you're warm and dry and fed." I spread my hands. "You're welcome."
He opens his mouth, probably to argue more, then closes it. Takes a breath. Something shifts in his expression, the irritation fading into something softer.
"Thank you," he says quietly. "For letting me stay. And for the—" He gestures at himself, encompassing my blanket, Jason's fries, Silas's tea. "Everything."
I don't know what to do with genuine gratitude from a human who should be terrified of me. It sits wrong in my chest, too warm, too close to something I don't want to examine.
