He nodded. “I got good at being the exception. Got better at leaving before anyone decided it was their business.”
“You left. Not discharged.” I’d read the file twice, but I wanted to see his face when I said it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Figured I’d try doing something I could actually stand to wake up for.” He looked out the window, city lights painting his face in warped geometry. “I like writing. I like being left alone. Apartment above the bakery, rent paid in advance. That’s it.”
“Gay romance novels,” I said. I made it neutral, not a question, just a statement of fact.
He watched me, close, waiting for the punchline or the judgment. When neither came, he shrugged. “Somebody’s got to do it.”
“Do you like it?” I asked.
He hesitated, for the first time. “Yeah. I like it.” The edge on his voice softened, just a fraction. “I like writing something that might actually help someone.”
I nodded. It made sense. “You don’t strike me as sentimental.”
“Not sentimental,” he agreed. “Just practical. People are dumb. But sometimes they get a thing right.”
He spun the lollipop in his hand, not meeting my eyes. The silence stretched, not uncomfortable, just measured.
“You’re good with Grace,” I said.
He barked a laugh. “She’s easier than most people. She doesn’t lie.”
I let the conversation slide into the next register. “You want to talk about her shift?”
He shrugged. “What’s there to say? She went full wolf on my duvet. Didn’t eat me, so I figured it was fine.”
“Most pups can’t shift at that age,” I said. “Not on purpose, not on accident.”
He looked at me. “You worried about her, or about what it means?”
“Both.” I wanted to touch him.
Didn’t.
“You got theories?”
“I have three,” I said. “One, she’s a throwback. Some packs produced shifters like that, before the culls. Two, she’s a hybrid with something else. Or three, she’s unique.”
He considered it. “What’s your guess?”
“Unique,” I said, flat.
He smiled, for real this time. “I like that one better, too.”
There was a warmth building in my chest that had nothing to do with the scotch or the ambient temperature. The longer I watched him, the more it felt like the world was narrowing down to just the two of us, one neon-lit island in a city of sleepwalkers.
He caught me staring. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said, and meant it.
He smirked. “You’re not subtle.”
“Neither are you,” I said.
He grinned. “I know.”
We were quiet for a long stretch, just listening to the hum of the city and the sound of Grace’s tiny, rhythmic breaths as she slept. I could tell he was thinking, winding up for the next round.
