"Your eyes are gold."
Shit. I blink, force it back. "I'm fine."
"You're growling."
"I am not —" I was. Under my breath, barely audible, but Knox heard it. Of course Knox heard it. "I'm fine," I repeat.
Knox doesn't say anything else. Doesn't need to.
The date continues. Troy eats his burger with his mouth open. Talks about a fishing trip. Shows Nicholas something on his phone that requires leaning across the table — an excuse to get closer. Nicholas leans back, just a few inches, maintaining distance so smoothly that Troy probably doesn't register the rejection.
Then Vaughn comes in from the garage.
It happens fast. Troy's eyes track Vaughn across the room — the size of him, the grease-stained hands, the way he moves with a predator's economy. Troy's gaze catches on Vaughn's eyes. The gold.
Something crosses Troy's face.
It's quick. If I weren't watching, if I didn't have twenty feet of distance and a shifter's eyesight, I might have missed it. But I don't miss it. A tightening around the mouth. A pulling back of the shoulders. His hand moves his beer closer to his body — a guarding gesture, unconscious. Protective.
Disgust. Quick and instinctive, the reflexive flinch of someone who just realized where he is and doesn't like it.
"This is a shifter bar?" Troy says. Not loud. But loud enough.
Nicholas sets his IPA down. "Yes."
"You didn't mention that."
"I didn't think it was relevant."
Troy looks around the room again. Recalculating. Seeing the gold eyes, the size, the predator stillness. I watch him reassess every person in the bar — Knox next to me, Jason behind the bar, Silas in his corner, Vaughn heading to the counter. His lip curls. Barely. Just enough.
"It's a little weird, right?" Troy says, pitching his voice lower like we can't hear every word. "Like, no offense, but hanging out in a place like this? With them just — sitting around?"
Nicholas is very still.
"I mean, they seem cool or whatever," Troy continues, apparently interpreting Nicholas's silence as agreement. "But I've heard some shit. My buddy says they're territorial as fuck. Like, aggressive. You gotta be careful around—"
"I don't think this is going to work out," Nicholas says.
Troy stops. "What?"
"This isn't going to work out. You should go."
"Wait, what? Because I said — I'm just being honest, man. I didn't mean—"
"I know what you meant. You should go."
No raised voice. No argument. No dramatic gesture. Just a man sitting in a booth with a half-finished IPA and a face that's gone from neutral to closed. A door shut, quietly and completely.
Troy sputters for another ten seconds. Tries to backtrack — "I didn't mean it like that, I have nothing against them, I was just saying" — the standard deflection of someone who knows they showed their hand and wants to stuff it back in the deck. Nicholas doesn't engage. Doesn't argue. Just waits.
Troy leaves. Doesn't pay for his burger. The door closes behind him with more force than necessary.
The bar is very quiet.
Nicholas picks up his IPA. Takes a sip. Sets it down. Opens his laptop. Goes back to work.
Like nothing happened. Like a man just showed his ugliest self across the table and Nicholas filed it underdisqualifiedand moved on. No processing, no second-guessing, no wondering if maybe Troy had a point. Just — done. Assessment complete. Insufficient. Next.
