Toby climbs off first, pulling off the helmet and shaking out his hair. He walks to the railing, looking out over the city.
"It's beautiful up here."
"Yeah." I'm not looking at the city. "It is."
He turns, catches me staring. His mouth curves. "Subtle."
"I'm not trying to be subtle."
The air between us changes. Charges.
"So," Toby says. "You were going to show me something."
Right. The shift.
I take a breath. "Just... don't freak out. I'm bigger than you're probably expecting."
"I've seen pictures of lions, Knox. I know they're big."
"Shifter lions are bigger."
His eyebrows go up. "How much bigger?"
"You'll see."
I step back, giving myself room. The shift is easy—it always has been. I don't fight it, don't force it. I just... let go.
It happens fast. One second I'm standing there in jeans and a t-shirt, and the next I'm not. My bones reshape, my muscles redistribute, my skin splits into fur. It hurts, but it's a familiar hurt. Like stretching after a long sleep.
When it's done, I'm looking at Toby from a different angle. Lower to the ground. The world is sharper now—more smells, more sounds, everything heightened.
Toby hasn't moved. He's staring at me with wide eyes, lips parted.
I wait. Let him look.
"Holy shit," he breathes.
I'm used to fear. Most humans, when they see a shifter's animal form, have a fear response. It's instinct. We're predators, and their brain knows it.
But Toby doesn't smell like fear. He smells like wonder.
He takes a step toward me. Then another.
"Can I...?" He holds out a hand, hesitant.
I close the distance between us, pressing my head into his palm.
His fingers sink into my mane, and I can't help the rumble that builds in my chest. It's not a growl—it's something softer. A purr, almost. My lion is embarrassingly pleased.
"You're so soft," Toby says, wonder in his voice. "I thought you'd be coarse, but you're..." His fingers scratch behind my ear and my back leg twitches involuntarily. "Oh my god, you're like a giant housecat."
I huff, offended.
"A very dignified, very scary housecat," he amends, grinning. "Don't pout. It's not a good look on a lion."
I'm not pouting. Lions don't pout.
He crouches down so we're eye level—or closer to it, anyway. I'm still huge, my head level with his chest even when I'm sitting.
