The only other shifter-run business in town. We’d checked them out months ago before we bought our property. Evaluated them. Tasted the competition.
Callum held my gaze, unreadable. Not hostile. Not friendly either. Just…watching. There was a challenge there. A “try us” in his stance.
I looked away first. We were here to blend in, not throw down.
I started to move to the next stall when a figure broke from the crowd, heading straight for us with the kind of easy swagger that said he wasn’t afraid of being noticed.
“Hey, bears.” James, one of Callum’s wolves. Lean, messy-haired, with a grin that said he enjoyed making peopleuncomfortable. He balanced a tray of cupcakes on one hand like it was nothing. “Sampler?”
I exchanged a look with Rafael. He looked like he wanted to say no thanks with his fist. I sighed and took one. Rafael did too, after a long pause.
I bit into it. It was perfect. Moist. Balanced. Just the right amount of citrus and sugar. The frosting melted on my tongue. Dang it.
“Delicious, isn’t it?” James asked, clearly fishing.
“It’s fine,” Rafael said with a grunt, licking a smear of icing off his thumb.
James just smirked wider.
“James!” Callum’s voice rang out, sharp but not unkind. “There are other customers.”
James gave a lazy little bow and turned away. “Enjoy the rest of the festival, bears.”
I stared down at the last bite of my cupcake, then popped it in my mouth. I hated how good it was. Hated the doubt that curled in my chest like smoke. Could we ever make something like this?
Would the people here ever want to try what we made?
I turned slowly, looking at the other stalls. They sold hand pies, apple cider, barbecued skewers, jams, funnel cake. Everyone smiling. Everyone at home.
We weren’t yet. But we would be. I looked at Rafael, and my voice came steady, sure.
“Next year, Bear and Bun will be here,” I said.
Rafael looked at me for a moment, then nodded once.
“Yeah,” he said. “We will.”
We kept walking, weaving through the stalls, buying more food than any rational person should. Hand pies, candied nuts, warm cider, fried everything—sweet, sticky, and savory all at once.
I spent too much, maybe, but I didn’t care. I wanted to hold on to this night, any way I could. This feeling. That hunger in my chest, it wasn’t just for festival food. It was for more.
More than what my father said I’d ever be. More than what Ironwood Falls tried to carve me into. I wanted to prove something. Not just to Sugarpaw Springs, but to myself. That I could be better.
We found a bench near the edge of the fairgrounds.
Or, rather, we approached a bench and the humans sitting there took one look at Rafael and I with our arms overflowing with fried dough and drinks, and cleared out like we were contagious.
One woman left behind a basket of half-eaten kettle corn.
“Nice,” Rafael muttered, tossing the trash into the nearest bin like he was used to it.
He flopped onto the bench with a sigh, cracking open another pastry like nothing happened. I sat beside him, letting my shoulders sag for the first time all day.
“Beau, don’t be intimidated,” Rafael said after a beat.
“I’m not,” I said, shaking my head. “If anything, I’m fired up.”
He glanced over, then smiled, one of the rare, real ones that reached his eyes. “Good.” Relief softened the lines around his mouth.
