He didn't defend us. That's the thing that gets me. He didn't make a speech about tolerance or shifter rights or how we're people too. He didn't perform allyship for the room full of shifters he knew were listening. He just ended the date because the man across from him was a bigot, and that was disqualifying, and there was nothing else to discuss.
It was standards. Not heroism. Not protection. Just a man who doesn't tolerate certain things, the way you don't tolerate someone who's rude to a server or lies about their height on their profile. A baseline, not a grand gesture.
My lion settles in my chest like a key turning in a lock.
Mine.
The thought arrives whole and undeniable, not a question but a fact, the way gravity is a fact, the way the bar is built on oak and sixty years of history is a fact. My lion has decided. Not because Nicholas defended us, but because he didn't think of it as defending. Because the ugliness crossed the table and he simply saidnothe way you say no to anything that falls below the minimum standard of being a decent person.
He's still in the booth. Typing. The second IPA sits untouched next to his laptop. His jaw is tight — he's not as unaffected as he's performing — but his hands are steady and his breathing is even.
I should leave him alone. My lion has decided, but I haven't. Lions don't get to choose for us — that's the whole point, that's what separates this pride from the ones that treat instinct as destiny. My lion can roarmineinto the void all it wants. I still have to be a person about it.
But I can do one thing.
I make a fresh plate of nachos. Full order, extra cheese, the way he gets them every day. I bring them to the booth and set them down next to his laptop.
He looks up. The tight jaw loosens by a fraction.
"You didn't have to do that," he says.
"Your date didn't pay for his burger. Consider it customer service."
"He wasn't—" Nicholas stops. Reconsiders. "He wasn't worth the conversation."
"No. He wasn't."
We look at each other. The bar is still quiet — everyone pretending not to listen, which means everyone is listening. Knox at the bar with his water. Jason polishing a glass that'salready clean. Silas turning a page in his book. Vaughn leaning against the counter, arms crossed.
"Thank you," Nicholas says. Quietly. Not for the nachos. For something bigger that neither of us is going to name.
"Same booth tomorrow?" I ask.
"It has good Wi-Fi."
I go back to my stool. My laptop is open to the Coldwell spreadsheet, but the numbers are just shapes on a screen. My lion is purring so loudly I'm surprised the whole room can't hear it. Maybe they can. Maybe that's why Knox is almost smiling into his water glass. Maybe that's why Jason is looking at me with the expression of a man who's been waiting for this and is deeply satisfied to see it arrive.
I pull up the flour order for Robin. The numbers swim. I close it and open the Coldwell spreadsheet instead.
PREVIOUS OWNER — SPOKANE PROPERTY.
Right. Work. I have work to do. Patterns to find, pride to protect, a company to outmaneuver. I don't have time for my lion to be making declarations about a man in a window booth who eats nachos in a specific order and ends bad dates without raising his voice.
Except my lion doesn't care about timing. My lion decided the moment Nicholas saidyou should goto a man who didn't deserve to sit across from him.
I look at the booth. Nicholas is eating the nachos. Edges first, working toward the center. His jaw has relaxed. His shoulders are down. He's staying past his usual time, in the bar that's becoming his, in the booth that's already his, and he doesn't look like a developer or a threat or a variable.
He looks like he belongs there.
My lion purrs.
I go back to my spreadsheet.
Chapter 8
Nico
I almost don't go back.
