Page 55 of Werewolves and Witches AU

He’s still faraway when we pull up to the menu board of the drive-thru. Mindful of my tone, I ask, “What do ye want?”

Milo pats his pockets. “Oh, erm…” Then he bites that lip again.

“It’s my shout, Pup.” I wince internally.

That word keeps slipping out around Milo. At first, I’d said it to be condescending and establish a clear dominance; he was an unknown Package with ties to a mission that had just gone south. But I’m not so emotionally bankrupt that I can’t admit—to myself—that something in the way I’m using it has changed.

“A coffee’s fine, thanks.”

I stare at his lean frame, lingering on the almost concave dip of his lower torso, and shake my head. “No, coffee isn’t a breakfast. It’s a drink. A wrap or a bagel?”

He lowers his eyes. “The wrap. With hash browns. Please.”

I nod… better. Dropping the window, I order the wraps, a couple of croissants in case he wants one of those too, an apple and a banana, two coffees, and a few blueberry muffins. Peripherally, I clock the arch of Milo’s pierced brow when I pay.

“Alpha,” I state, as if that one word is a satisfactory explanation.

Milo snorts a laugh, and something in the sound helps me unclench. He’s okay.

I’ve already finished my wrap and I’m halfway through a cheese and bacon croissant when he reaches for the green apple, then hesitates. With a full mouth, I hum and gesture for him to take it.

His crunching is loud in the otherwise silent car, and I wipe my greasy fingers on a napkin. Whatever thoughts had plagued him seem to lessen with each bite he takes, and my wolf relaxes more too.

The drive to Brightview Court is short, and unsurprisingly given the time of day, all the visitors’ bays are empty. I park in the one Milo points to, set away from the main entrance.

While he slurps on yet another chocolate-syrup-laced iced coffee, I scan the truck’s mirrors and allow my wolf forward to map our immediate location for any hidden heartbeats. Nothing. Wherever Time Guy is, it’s not here.

Milo doesn’t wait for my all-clear before exiting the truck with his coffee in one hand and the paper bag of muffins in the other.

Given his very recent return to a more Milo way of being, I choose not to engage with him over it. Instead, I ask, “How do we contact Ethel, if guests aren’t allowed for another ninety minutes?”

Without slowing his pace, he marches alongside the hedge we just parked in front of, as he smiles and nods over his shoulder toward the side of the sprawling two-storey retirement complex.

Following, I take in this little slice of middle-class suburbia. Its landscaped gardens and accessibility-friendly entrance is a far cry from the run-down bedsit that Milo lives in, and once again, I wonder what the relationship is between the two that it would create such a difference in living standards.

We continue past the Court’s full-glass façade and beyond the adjoining mobility scooter park, until we reach a small wooden gate that blocks a woodland path. The sign reads “Dogs on leashes at all times,” and Milo chuckles. I shake my head at his antics, but my smile is wide, nonetheless.

Still holding his coffee, and the muffins, he scales the gate and somehow lands quietly on the other side. I leap it with ease, then overtread his footprints in the bark chippings to disguise his scent—in case Time Guy can track him the same way I can.

Hidden around the back of the complex is a quaint courtyard boasting smooth tarmac paths lined with decorative gravel. The paths, I realise, are wide enough for two wheelchairs to navigate a circuit around the well-managed flowerbeds with ease.

Milo’s stride is lithe as he confidently weaves through the small maze—no doubt it’s a route he’s cut several times before. He comes to an unexpected stop, places his coffee and the muffins on the ground, and stoops to collect a couple of the pebbles from the border. Hefting them in his palm, he aims, and pelts one of the small rocks at a balcony door on the upper floor. It’s a perfect shot, and Milo turns to aim a megawatt smile my way.

Hiding my smile behind my hand, I scratch through my short beard—this feels like something I shouldn’t be encouraging.

Dropping the other pebbles back in the border, he waits, and eventually that same door opens onto the shared balcony. From inside emerges a petite older woman with a vivid blue rinse. She steps out in a kaftan that shows a cat smoking a cigar—I stare hard at Milo’s delightful racoon.

Ethel, I presume, pulls the world’s thickest glasses from a pocket and smiles when she spots him. Then she turns her gaze my way, and the lenses magnify her pale eyes to almost comical proportions. Milo draws her attention back his way by raising the bag of muffins high in the air and shaking it like he’s summoning pigeons.

She nods and holds up a finger, but is surprisingly spritely as she manoeuvres around the various chairs strewn along the balcony and makes her way to the spiral metal staircase at the far end. Instinctively, I move closer to offer my assistance while Milo plonks onto a nearby wooden bench.

“What level contraband is that?” she inquires when she’s close enough to not strain to be heard.

“Level one, but there are three of them.” He opens the bag and lifts out a muffin.

“Pah, they’re blueberry, aren’t they? You know the healthy ones are harder to fence.”

“Three, though. You should be able to trade them for at least two cigarettes.”