I checked my phone to find a text from Nathan.
B is out cold. He and Elle made s’mores in the backyard. See you in the morning.
I looked up at Zaden. His eyes were warm but searching, as if he knew the answer before I said it. "Okay."
He smiled, and the whole room seemed to get lighter as he led me to the back of the hallway to a set of stairs that went up to his apartment above the bar.
While he cooked dinner, we talked about work. The bar, the regulars, the way Angel could run circles around any of us on a Saturday night. Zaden told stories about how he’d started the place with a friend who’d since moved to Canada to study wild salmon, how he’d nearly burned it down twice, and how the antique barstools came from a haunted hotel in Alabama. We traded stories, one-upping each other, both of us pretending to be a little more reckless than we really were.
"So, what’s it like being immortal?" I asked.
He looked past me, out the window. "Lonely. You wake up from hibernation, and everything’s different. The people, the slang, the food. Even the trees look wrong. You’re always catching up, but you never quite fit."
I thought about that for a while. I’d always felt out of step, too. Never quite in rhythm with the rest of Stock Creek, always half a beat behind the other wolves, never full pack, never full lone. I understood the feeling, even if I’d only lived one lifetime.
He topped off our glasses and settled back, stretching his legs until his bare feet brushed my ankle. "You ever wish you could start over? Hit reset?"
I snorted extremely inelegantly. "All the time."
He watched me, the intensity of his gaze softened by the bourbon. "Why don’t you?"
I shook my head. "I have Bryce. He needs stability, not a mom chasing wild ideas."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You’re allowed to want things. You don’t have to be a martyr."
That made me angry for some reason. "Easy for you to say. You don’t have anyone depending on you. You don’t have to worry about bills or groceries or what people will think if you fuck up."
He nodded, not arguing. "You’re right. I don’t. But I’d give it all up for someone who gave a damn whether I came home at night."
We sat in silence, the only sound the ticking of a weird old wall clock and the hum of the fridge.
Eventually, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His hand lingered, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw. You’re beautiful."
I flushed but didn’t look away. "You’re drunk," I said.
He smiled. "Only drunk on you."
I don't know who moved first. Maybe it was both of us at once. Our lips met, gentle at first, almost tentative. Then it deepened, the kind of kiss that pushed every thought out of my head and replaced it with hunger. His hands slid into my hair, holding me in place, and I let him, the warmth of his palms grounding me.
I bit his lip, and he made a sound in his throat that sent a jolt through my whole body. I was the one who broke the kiss, breathing hard. I didn’t say anything, just took his hand and led him down the hall to his bedroom.
The room was huge, the bed king-sized, the sheets soft. We undressed each other in the half-light, slow but not shy, taking time to map out the new territory. He kissed every part of me, every scar, every freckle. When he moved inside me, it was like something clicked into place, a piece I didn’t know was missing, suddenly found. Our bodies found a rhythm, slow at first, then faster, until we were both shaking.
I dug my nails into his back, and he moaned, the sound vibrating against my skin. His mouth was everywhere. I wanted to mark him, too, to claim a piece of him the way he was claiming me.
When I came, it was with a sharp gasp, my body arching into his. He followed, burying his face in my neck and holding on so tight I thought I might break.
After, we lay tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on our bodies. He brushed a thumb over my cheek, then tucked me under his arm.
I didn’t want to sleep, but I did. I dreamed of fire and flight, of running through the woods with him beside me, both of us wild and free.
I woke before dawn. Zaden was still asleep, his arm thrown over his eyes, his chest rising and falling in slow, even breaths. For a moment, I watched him, memorizing the way he looked in sleep, unguarded, almost vulnerable.
I slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him. I found my clothes, pulling them on in the dark and let myself out.
I drove home, the sky shifting from black to bruised blue. I parked in the driveway and sat for a minute, hands gripping the steering wheel.
I felt more alive than I had in years. And more terrified, too. I didn’t know what would happen next. But for now, I let myself hope.
