peacekeep

She walks in like she owns the place, though internally she feels more out of place than she ever has. On any other occasion, Saira would be following her parents closely, engaging in conversation with whatever boring, rich old man they wanted to impress that day, she would then be finally excused and allowed to spend time with Avi or Yasmin until the cycle repeated.

But today she was alone. She had made the decision to leave her family/s pack behind, and since she wasn't ready to make the announcement she joined Harford instead, that meant Saira was a lone wolf for all intents and purposes. It was scary... and thrilling. A smile forced its way into her lips as much as she tried to hold it back.

Saira could feel the many eyes on her. That wasn't new, but she felt different — more exposed maybe. She didn't know most of those people or what they wanted from her, and in that moment she only saw two options: run and hide, or face them head on. She chose the second option. Saira locked eyes to one of the people staring at her and walked straight towards them, "I saw you looking," she spoke with newly developed confidence, "So, are you going to get me a drink or what?"

“Huh? Oh yeah, sure!” Jasper says, unaffected by the direct nature of the question. “What’re you feeling? I snuck in some coconut cream if you want me to try and convince a bartender to make you a pina colada.” He lifts the small contraband flask like a co-conspirator flashing stolen jewels, then tucks it out of sight with a playful wink.

His gaze sweeps the room before landing back on her. “Fair warning: I’m a relentless optimist — emphasis on relentless. So if anyone starts quizzing you on bloodlines or alliances, just tilt your head my way and I’ll swoop in with a distraction. I’ve got stories about matchmaking disasters and an emergency dance move or two.”

Jasper angles toward the bar, inviting her to fall into step. “So what'll it be? Pina colada? Or bartender’s choice?"

Why is the cocktail hour so far away from the important discussions? Not that Danielle wants to go into the most important part of the evening drunk, but she needs to balance her nerves and her... enjoyment of the night, if that's possible? She can't go a few steps without meeting some form of sympathy (appreciated, though oppressive) or skepticism (not unwarranted, but not reassuring). She also feels partially responsible for her boss, Jonas, and doesn't want to throw him into the deep end. Dani does not want to be the girl responsible for getting the Mayor of Port Leiry accidentally eaten by a foreign dignitary.

But after the initial rush of conversation and some introductions, she's already splintered off from Jac and Jennifer (and the younger siblings, who have all gone off to enjoy the festivities as best as they can). The carpet beneath her sensible footwear is soft, but doesn't provide the same grounding stability as earth does. And Dani is trying her level best not to look lost, bewildered, or otherwise out of place among the throngs.

While there's a flood of personalities and people, most of the room contains the same dignified air of importance, age, and wisdom. Of course, there are those who see a party exactly for what it is -- a party. They must not be the ones here to talk business. But as she scans the room, Dani's eye is caught by the sight of something that feels... immensely out of place, in the hands of a young man whose familiar face she remembers meeting off the bus, new in town.

Jasper slips into his best Paul Rudd: “Hey, look at us.” Then he glances at the frothy glass in his hand, as if remembering the drink only now. “Oh yeah, I managed to convince one of the bartenders to use the coconut cream I, uh, strategically smuggled in. Wasn’t really sure what the vibes were going to be.” His thumb strokes condensation, proud of the illicit little umbrella bobbing inside. He extends the pina colada as a peace offering. “Untouched, scout’s honor, if you want a sip. Extra straw incoming if you’re brave.”

"Buddy, chill, so high strung!" She says after a beat, and when he goes into like, actually talking she untenses again. Oh shit, she knows Avi, that's the car dude. Good hair. She doesn't know Remi, but he talks about they and they sound cool too. "Hell yeah! I donno know Remi but we fuck with Remi, hell yeah, for real."

“Okay, Millie—fellow wolf, certified cool person—this is enormous. I’ve literally been stress-googling ‘how to network when you shed’ for weeks. Avi’s great, but their vibe is ‘parties in vintage muscle cars,’ and Remi’s busy mentoring every feral pup in town.” Jasper’s foot still bounces, but now it looks more like excitement than terror. “So, friendship pact officially initiated! We can swap flea-shampoo recs and compare transformation playlists. Mine starts with Bowie, obviously.”

They rock back on their heels, eyes shining. “Also, if you ever want to tackle Into the Drowning Deep together, I make killer popcorn. You, me, murderous mermaids, unholy amounts of butter. Sound like a plan?”

Oh, hell.

Heaving out a sigh, he approaches slight twitch in his eyebrow. If he knew any better, this Jasper person was coming here on purpose. The last time he'd seen him was the 'rib incident', Jace was calling it, and maybe there were signs of a break before - but he could tell there was something up there with the healing factor. The bruise was fading, slowly, but fading before his very eyes.

Absolutely ridiculous behavior. He almost wondered if all Port Leiry residents were like this. He'd heard enough rumors about animal attacks to know that the average everyday human was probably hysterical on a good day.

"You gotta stop treating this like a meet-cute locale. Let me see." He holds out his hand to take a look at the blister-glitter monstrosity on Jasper's fingers. "I think some solvent should get you in the clear - Did you do this on purpose?"

He tips his head, studying Jace’s tired eyes. “Solvent me up, please—preferably the kind that doesn’t strip fingerprints. I still need those for matchmaking paperwork.” A grin tugs at his mouth. “FYI, the glitter’s cosmetic grade. If it gets everywhere, consider it free décor.” There’s already some on Jace’s scrubs; Jasper reaches out to brush it off and somehow gets more on the other sleeve.

Jace gives the blister an appraising look, and Jasper feels the familiar knit of skin beneath the sparkles. He clears his throat. “Yeah, I heal quick. Lucky quirk.” Nice, Jas—great way to explain that. “Could we keep that off the chart? Last thing I need is the billing department trying to upcharge me for being weird.”

Jasper clocks the way Jace cradles his glitter-crusted hand—and the metaphor detonates. Rieux, he thinks, that bleak hero from Camus he kept pretending he'd only skimmed. Swap plague rats for disco-ball burns and voilà: same half-moon bruises under the eyes, same stoic no one dies of dumb today aura. Jace breathes out, gauze ready, and Jasper feels equal parts guilty germ and beloved calamity. Rieux 2.0 deserves hazard pay for wrangling Port Leiry’s walking outbreak, yet here he is—steady as bedrock, resigned as a raincloud, hands impossibly gentle. Jasper vows (with the sincerity of a roller-derby daredevil) to dial down the chaos… at least until the next glue-gun rebellion.

Settling onto the plastic chair beside the supply cart, he flexes his good hand as if conducting an invisible orchestra. “So how’s your night been other than this meet-cute?”

But there’s warmth underneath the joke, the kind that doesn’t just live in his eyes but radiates out through every part of him — a golden, goofy kind of light. He leans back on his elbows, letting the late afternoon sun spill over his sneakers like he’s daring the sky to write a better story than this one.

“Romy, if you ever don’t get your door-slam monologue, I will personally storm out of a room on your behalf. Like, tragically. With orchestral music and a fainting couch and a cape I can throw over one shoulder. It’ll be a two-act play with an intermission and a very passive-aggressive program note.”

He sobers, just a touch, enough to let the sincerity in without breaking the mood. “But for real? You don’t owe softness to anybody who didn’t earn it.”

Then, a grin. “Also, I will absolutely co-produce this cursed biopic. I’m thinking early 2000s energy. Bad wigs. Even worse lighting. The kind of movie where no one knows who the target audience was, but everyone watches it once and cries anyway.”

He glances sideways at her, that tilt of the head like he’s measuring something not with a ruler but with a feeling. “You say twelve versions held together with eyeliner and duct tape, but every one of those is a survival story. People think that stuff’s just aesthetics — but nah, it’s armor. Yours has glitter on it. Mine’s got teeth marks. Doesn’t make it less valid.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “And hey. You don’t owe me your real smile, but I’m damn grateful you gave it anyway.”

He exhales, almost like he’s laughing at himself, then adds, “Also, deal on the glitter wolf. But mine has to wear a tiny denim jacket and play synth solos at the moon. Cursed saxophone wolf and synth jacket wolf, tearing up the indie charts of the heart.”

He bumps her back, just as lightly, gaze steady now. “For what it’s worth, Romy — I think anyone who bails before version thirteen never deserved even the trailer. But the folks who stick around? They’re in for the good stuff. Director’s commentary. Deleted scenes. Behind-the-scenes bloopers with friendship in every frame.”

A pause. Then, with mock solemnity: “Now let’s go find that popcorn you mentioned. Deluxe edition confessions deserve deluxe snacks.”

Romy gasped—gasped—like she was scandalized in an old-timey soap opera, clutching invisible pearls. “A denim jacket? On your glitter wolf? Jasper, please. That’s a felony in at least three aesthetic jurisdictions. Mine has standards. Cursed saxophone wolf doesn’t associate with synth bros unless it’s for a reunion tour or an ironic TikTok.”

She grinned, but it was that easy kind again, the kind that didn’t need scaffolding or irony to stand on its own. She leaned her head back for a second, let the sun hit her face like it might fill in the cracks. She didn’t usually let herself be seen like this—unguarded, unscripted. But with Jasper, it didn’t feel like a spotlight. Just a porch light. Warm. Not demanding anything.

“Okay, but like,” she said, eyes half-closed now, voice trailing toward mock-philosophy, “—if this cursed indie biopic doesn’t include a montage of me crying in various bathrooms set to an off-brand Florence + the Machine cover, then I will be suing the production team. Emotional damage and creative differences. Standard contract stuff.”

A beat.

“But thanks. Really. For staying. For making the weird feel less like a warning sign and more like a landmark.” She looked over at him, face open in a way it rarely was —no armor, no irony, just the baseline truth of a girl who’d been waiting for someone to sit in her mess and call it a map.

“And listen, I don’t care if your wolf’s in a full Canadian tuxedo. Long as it howls back when mine does.”

Then, after a pause, as if saying it too sincerely might spook the moment, she added, “But you’re still buying the popcorn. Director’s cut rules. I made the trauma funny. Least you can do is spring for extra butter.”

“Oh my god I’m so glad you asked.”

He turns around and yanks a dusty sheet off a bulletin board the size of a door. Red string everywhere. Images, blurry polaroids, annotated timelines. One post-it just says FANGS OUT, EMOTIONALLY in all caps.

“Let’s break down my latest—and by no means comprehensive—list of Port Leiry crackships.”

Julieta Yazdani × Malcolm Deveraux “Blood-slick betrayal meets sadboy guilt spiral. She’s Lady Macbeth in a silk slip. He’s a tragedy in slow motion. Together? They’re either going to kill each other or get married.

"Here's the scene I envision: She finds him outside Satin, smoking like the world’s ending, and says, ‘You smell like regret and cheap bourbon.’ And Mal just goes, ‘And you smell like trouble I’d crawl back into hell for.’ She laughs. Actually laughs. Next scene? Her place. Velvet everything. He’s holding a glass of blood like it might burn him and says, ‘You ever get tired of playing god?’ And she goes, ‘Only when people beg for mercy.’ They don’t kiss. Not yet. But he lingers in the doorway when he leaves, and she doesn’t stop him."

Ael Ruyter × Caitlin Siltshore “Two mythic nightmares in trench coats pretending to be people. They speak in loaded silences and threats that sound like affection. Do I think they’ve kissed? Emotionally, yes. Physically, not yet."

“Here's the scene I envision: Cait walks into the Heron Club like she owns the fucking night and drops a satchel full of ash on Ael’s table. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t blink. Just says, ‘They said it was a hex.' Ael, looking like war wearing perfume, says nothing—just pours her something stronger than whiskey and waits. They sit like that. Two weapons cooling down. No questions. No comfort. Just shared silence. And then, finally, Cait mutters, ‘If I ever go missing, burn my journals.’ Ael replies, ‘If you go missing, I burn the world.’"

Allie Fleur × Autumn Howell "Sunshine bunny witch meets traumatized wolf girl. One brings tea and sparkles, the other hasn’t slept since the full moon of 2021. It’s grumpy/sunshine with bonus emotional damage. Allie would kiss Autumn’s bruises. Autumn would growl at anyone who looks at Allie too long. It’s adorable and a little feral."

"Here's the scene I envision: Allie shows up at Autumn’s place with a hand-drawn map of her favorite wildflower spots, and Autumn’s like, ‘You walked here?’ and Allie just beams and says, ‘I wanted to see your face in the sun.’ Like??? Girl??? Anyway. They go to the cliffs and Allie makes a flower crown while Autumn pretends she doesn’t care—and then gently adjusts it so it doesn’t fall off. No kiss here either. Just a moment where Allie rests her head on Autumn’s shoulder and Autumn lets her. No flinch. Just warmth.”

Damian Erikkson × Quin Servatius “Trauma vampire meets centuries-old coward. One wants to die, the other wants to live forever but only if no one sees him do it. They absolutely do the whole ‘you should hate me’ / ‘maybe I do’ dance. It’s got knifeplay energy and I’m into it.”

“Here's the scene I envision: Damian catches Quin sneaking out of a Rearden handoff, cloak askew, hands shaking. Quin freezes, expecting a fight. Instead? Damian just says, ‘You’re really bad at this whole eternal damnation thing.’ Quin is STUNNED! Anyway. Later that night, they end up in a broken-down crypt, passing a flask back and forth like they’re human again. Damian’s sitting in the moonlight, bare fangs and sad eyes, and Quin tells him, ‘You’re not the monster you think you are.’ And Damian just says, ‘Don’t say that if you’re gonna leave.’"

Aoife O’Sullivan × August Choi “Regal vampire with trust issues meets lone wolf with self-hatred and a jawline that could cut glass. They’d make each other feel seen in that horrible, healing way. Aoife would gift August a book. August would sleep with it under their pillow. Romance.”

“Here's the scene I envision: They’re in this half-collapsed church, right? Glass everywhere, blood dried on their sleeves, and Aoife’s like, ‘Don’t follow me.’ And August? August looks her in the eye and does it anyway. It’s not even hot, it’s holy. It’s two disasters finding sanctuary in each other."

Eleanor Monroe × Oh Ha-Jeong “Two women who absolutely know how to kill you and would only do it if they cared. They communicate entirely in eye contact and loaded silences. If they ever held hands, the earth would shudder.”

“Here's the scene I envision: Ha-Jeong finds Eleanor in the lab after hours, soaked in blood—not her own—and Eleanor just looks up and says, ‘It was supposed to be clean.’ And Ha-Jeong? Doesn’t flinch. Just walks over, takes the scalpel out of Eleanor’s hand, and places it down gently. She whispers, ‘You’re not a butcher, Monroe.’ And Eleanor laughs, sharp and bitter. ‘Aren’t I?’ The next line? ‘Not to me.’ And then they’re quiet. Just standing there in that horrible sterile room, close enough to feel each other breathe."

Arleen Bailey × Arte Ryan “Born-wolf purist with a badge and a spine of steel meets cursed alpha who still flinches at kindness. They would argue about protocol, then slow dance to Springsteen in a parking lot.”

“Here's the scene I envision: Arleen brings Arte a busted carburetor she’s trying to diagnose, and they’re both too stubborn to admit they need help. Arleen cracks a joke and Arte —just shuts down. And then Arleen, stone-faced as ever, rolls closer and goes, ‘That wasn’t a dig. That was… me flirting, maybe.’ Arte’s whole face cracks open. Arte hands over the fixed part without charging a dime. Also there's peanut butter involved, maybe."

Birdie Templeton × Blair Davenport “Two girls too damaged to believe in softness but too lonely to stop trying. One calls herself a monster. The other already knows she is. They’d fall in love in the middle of cleaning up a murder. Tender. Feral. Beautiful.”

 “Here's the scene I envision: Blair finds Birdie in a blood-slick bathroom, mid-panic. And Blair—cool, collected Blair—just kneels. No magic, no fix. Just touches Birdie’s shoulder and says, ‘I don’t care what you did. I care that you’re still here.’ And Birdie—this monster-slayer, trauma-guts girl—breaks. Like actually sobs. And Blair holds her. No judgment. Just contact. It’s the first time Birdie’s touched someone without bracing for pain in years. And I just—yeah. Five stars. Painful. Gorgeous.”

Olivia Rivera × Juniper Kessler “Olivia’s a stray puppy in need of love. Juniper’s a half-dead forest witch trying not to be seen. It’s all candlelight and ‘you’re too good to be near me’ and one rain-soaked kiss that changes everything".

“Here's the scene I envision: Olivia stumbles into Brewed Awakening just after dawn, hoodie damp with rain, hands still shaking from a night she barely remembers. Juniper sees her. Doesn’t ask questions. Just slides a steaming mug across the counter—chamomile, of course—and says, ‘Sit where the sun hits.’ Olivia does. She curls into the smallest version of herself and says nothing. Fifteen minutes pass. Then the tears come, slow and silent. Juniper doesn’t reach for her. Doesn’t offer hollow comfort. Just quietly refills her cup and lights a nearby candle. It’s not dramatic. It’s just safe."

Avi Hassim × AJ Astor “Smug bastard meets feral golden god. This is ‘let’s kiss or kill each other’ with custom cocktails and power plays. They’d absolutely fuck on a desk during a some negotiation, idk what rich people and pack leaders do."

“Here's the scene I envision: AJ’s throwing a party in some glass-walled penthouse, right? Gilded everything. Champagne fountain. He’s bored to death. And then Avi walks in, no invite, just nerve, and AJ is amused, impressed. Cut to them on the balcony ten minutes later—Avi smoking, AJ sipping something he definitely drugged himself with. Avi says, ‘You don’t actually want any of this, do you?’ And AJ goes, ‘No, but it wants me.’ Then they kiss like it’s a dare, like neither of them believes in softness anymore, and for one second they both forget the masks. I’m feral.”

_

Jasper steps back, out of breath. The board tilts dangerously.

“You thought you’d seen the last of me?” he grins, unhinged and glowing. “There’s more. There’s so much more.”

The other side is worse—wilder—chaotic arrows, lipstick notes, a photo labeled They’ve kissed in a dream, I just know it. He points like he’s unveiling gospel. "Side B, let's go."

Adrian Castillo × Chamomile Greensmith

“Oh no, listen—listen. Chamomile is like a little sunbeam held together with curse-binding thread and sheer spite. And Adrian? Adrian is a cold, weathered ghost of a man who thinks morality is a straight line and he's the one holding the ruler. She's trying to undo her family's sins, and he’s trying to justify his. They’d argue constantly—philosophically, emotionally, magically—and then silently drink tea together like nothing happened. He’d hate that she makes him feel. She’d hate that he thinks she’s naïve. They’d ruin each other, or save each other. Probably both.”

 “Here's the scene I envision: she’s patching him up after he gets mauled by something supernatural, and he says, ‘You remind me of someone I used to believe in.’ (AKA HIS DEAD HUSBAND??!) And Chamomile—who has never not been a walking ray of fractured hope—just says, ‘Then let’s be strangers again, so you can believe in me new.’ Anyway, if she said that to me, I would have to walk into the ocean.”

Briar Mors × Cam McCormick “Look. She's a walking hex in heels, he’s a gallery-curated sadist. They’d kiss over a freshly bled canvas and call it therapy. Art meets rot. They deserve each other—in the worst, hottest way possible.”

“Here's the scene I envision: Cam’s painting Briar with actual blood. Like, not metaphorical, not paint-that-looks-like—it’s hers. And she lets him. She stands there while he runs a brush down her spine like it’s a confession and not a breakdown. No flirting, no foreplay, just ritual. And he says—he says—‘You’re a work in progress,’ and she just replies with ‘PRITHEE MY SEED!’ 

“Okay. I got lost in the sauce here a little, but it’s not a love scene, it’s a devotion scene. Do you see the vision?”

Caska Lomidze × César Lazkano “She’s a feral debutante with abandonment issues. He’s a cursed disaster who probably growls in his sleep. They’re trauma-bonded before they finish their first fight-flirt."

“Here's the scene I envision: Caska steals a car. César’s in the backseat bleeding and hallucinating, and she’s driving barefoot with her hair in curlers like she just woke up from the 1700s and is mad about it. He growls something mean and she just goes, ‘Do you want me to sing you a lullaby or let you bleed out?’ Like. That’s high-octane love, your honor. No notes.”

Akemi Tuazon × Aria Boughton “She’s spiraling with bloodlust and a camera roll full of regret. He kills witches for fun but keeps his emotions locked in a steel box. Their vibe? Mutual doom but make it slow burn eye contact.”

 “Here's the scene I envision: They’re in his forge. Aria’s supposed to be interviewing him for some moody vampire zine. The air is thick with brooding. Akemi’s talking about knives like they’re poetry. Aria’s touching metal that hums when she’s near it. She walks away with his favorite blade in her purse and he lets her. Incredible. So emotionally constipated. I adore them.”

Andi Waneoft × Anika Booker “High-society vampire widow meets gruff-ass hunter with trust issues? Absolutely yes. One bleeds guilt in vintage Dior, the other sharpens knives just to feel. It’s a power couple if ‘power’ means emotional repression.”

“Here's the scene I envision: In the stables?? Lights out, some bad guy sniffing around, and these two idiots are hiding behind a hay bale like it's not the most erotic thing to ever happen in a barn. Anika strikes a match and sees Andi’s hand shaking—the Andromache Waneoft, trembling like her foundation cracked. And she doesn’t say a word. She just takes it—slow, sure—and laces their fingers together. Their knees are touching. Their thighs are warm. And then Andi exhales like she’s finally allowed to. Anika leans in and says, ‘If we die here, I’m claiming credit for your best piece,’ and Andi—gorgeous, infuriating—whispers: ‘It was about you anyway.’ I ascend.”

Bhavi Devi × Billie Mercer “She’s a manic academic with a murder history. Billie writes monster smut to cope with her childhood trauma. Horribly sweet. Softly unhinged.”

“Here's the scene I envision: Bookstore. Rain outside. Okay but like—imagine Bhavi sees Billie at a coffee shop and immediately decides that one. She’s all fluttery academic chaos, while Billie’s trying to write chapter six of her monster smut novella (Stellar work Billie!! Big fan since your Wattpad days!!) and Billie’s like, ‘I don’t do witches,’ and Bhavi just blinks and goes, ‘But I do bisexuals.’ Cue Billie choking on her americano.  Then Bhavi’s talking about ancient texts and asking if Billie believes in fate. Billie’s trying so hard to pretend she doesn’t, but her hand is shaking when she passes Bhavi her number written on a receipt. The receipt says ‘Call if you dream about me.’ WHO WRITES THAT?? Billie does. And Bhavi does call. At midnight. And says nothing for two minutes. And Billie whispers, ‘I knew you would.’ 

They bond over weird dreams, cursed manuscripts, and the exact moment your ex tries to stab you over dinner. Bhavi would say something tragic and Billie would immediately jot it down for dialogue. They’d fall in love reluctantly and also on page 47.”

_

Jasper taps the final pushpin in with the solemnity of a priest and the grin of a man who’s absolutely about to ruin your emotional stability.

Romy blinked at him, once, then again, like she was buffering — not because she didn’t follow, but because somewhere between landmarks and whole damn pack,something in her short-circuited a little. Not in a bad way. Just in that oh no, this is sincere and my brain is full of raccoons in trench coats pretending to be a functioning adult kind of way.

She cleared her throat, scratched the back of her neck. “Okay, damn. You really are coming in here with the poet hands and the full emotional thesis, huh?” Her smile quirked, soft at the edges. “You realize that was, like, triple-A rated vulnerability with bonus content. Deluxe edition. Comes with a hand-stitched map and three bonus side quests. I'm impressed. And also a little mad that I didn’t bring popcorn.”

Her voice gentled a bit, the way it did when she let down some of the scaffolding: “But yeah. That’s it. All of it. Especially the costume changes. I’ve lived through, like, twelve different versions of myself and most of them were held together with eyeliner, duct tape, and denial. Anyone who bails at version thirteen probably doesn’t deserve the director’s cut, you know?”

At his question, her face went a little still. Not guarded—just quiet, like she was setting the words out carefully so none of them snapped under their own weight.

“What’s something love can’t ask me to give up?” she echoed, gaze flicking toward the sky like maybe it was hiding a cheat sheet up there. “My voice,” she said finally. “That thing I use to make sense of the world, even when it’s sharp or messy or too loud for a room. The jokes, yeah, but also the rage. The stubborn. The part of me that doesn’t shrink to make other people feel taller.”

She glanced at him sidelong, something wry flickering through the warmth. “Also, obviously, my right to choose dramatic exits when necessary. If I don’t get at least one good door-slam monologue in my life, I want a refund.”

A beat. Then, a smile.

“And listen —if I’m alpha wolf of this glittering emotional forest, I demand at least one biopic. Preferably starring someone who looks nothing like me and can’t do a convincing New Jersey accent. I want it to be terrible. Cult classic bad. The kind people throw themed parties for.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly. “Thanks, by the way. For getting it. That’s rare.” Then, a beat longer than usual. “And for not laughing at the wrong parts.”

A breath. “You’re alright, Jasper. Don’t let it go to your head. But if you ever trademark that whole weirdness and wounds are landmarks thing, I want 15% and a glitter wolf of my own. Preferably one with a tiny, cursed saxophone and an air of vague superiority.”

She smiled — not the razored kind, not the performative kind, just the real thing. Small. Earned. Honest.

But there’s warmth underneath the joke, the kind that doesn’t just live in his eyes but radiates out through every part of him — a golden, goofy kind of light. He leans back on his elbows, letting the late afternoon sun spill over his sneakers like he’s daring the sky to write a better story than this one.

“Romy, if you ever don’t get your door-slam monologue, I will personally storm out of a room on your behalf. Like, tragically. With orchestral music and a fainting couch and a cape I can throw over one shoulder. It’ll be a two-act play with an intermission and a very passive-aggressive program note.”

He sobers, just a touch, enough to let the sincerity in without breaking the mood. “But for real? You don’t owe softness to anybody who didn’t earn it.”

Then, a grin. “Also, I will absolutely co-produce this cursed biopic. I’m thinking early 2000s energy. Bad wigs. Even worse lighting. The kind of movie where no one knows who the target audience was, but everyone watches it once and cries anyway.”

He glances sideways at her, that tilt of the head like he’s measuring something not with a ruler but with a feeling. “You say twelve versions held together with eyeliner and duct tape, but every one of those is a survival story. People think that stuff’s just aesthetics — but nah, it’s armor. Yours has glitter on it. Mine’s got teeth marks. Doesn’t make it less valid.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “And hey. You don’t owe me your real smile, but I’m damn grateful you gave it anyway.”

He exhales, almost like he’s laughing at himself, then adds, “Also, deal on the glitter wolf. But mine has to wear a tiny denim jacket and play synth solos at the moon. Cursed saxophone wolf and synth jacket wolf, tearing up the indie charts of the heart.”

He bumps her back, just as lightly, gaze steady now. “For what it’s worth, Romy — I think anyone who bails before version thirteen never deserved even the trailer. But the folks who stick around? They’re in for the good stuff. Director’s commentary. Deleted scenes. Behind-the-scenes bloopers with friendship in every frame.”

A pause. Then, with mock solemnity: “Now let’s go find that popcorn you mentioned. Deluxe edition confessions deserve deluxe snacks.”

"It's... " she shakes her head. "It's okay you're allowed to not mind fruit baskets, I just don't... want it. It's from a bunch of people who don't know me and it's for something they don't have the whole story on, it's just garbage that way."

"Oh man, it really could be any one of those," she says, trying to be pleasant." She wonders what trailheads he frequents. She used to be out on them constantly. Not as much as she'd like, lately. The woods have hit different and more sour since December.

"But... Well, Jasper. If you like books, there's a bookstore you ought to check out on Baliol Street sometime. New stuff, old stuff."

They nod along as she talks about the fruit basket, expression softening into something more serious. “Yeah. I get that. Sometimes a ‘congratulations’ or a ‘we’re so sorry for your loss’ just turns into someone else making your pain about them. Like—here’s this collection of pears and performative care. Enjoy.”

They scratch the back of their neck, eyes flicking briefly to the pamphlet before returning to her. “Hey, thanks for the rec. Baliol Street, huh? I’ll check it out. I’m more of a serial library haunter—sniffing around the return cart like a truffle pig—but I’ll make an exception. Might even leave a flyer or two, if the vibes are right.”

They take a step back, gently folding the pamphlet and tucking it into their coat pocket. “Anyway—thanks for not throwing this at me. Or running. That’s already better than most Tuesdays.” A sheepish grin. “Catch you around, Autumn.”

"Yeah they're the big cheese. The head honcho." Alpha's such a goofy word, even if she gets it. "They make the choices but they're real democratic about it. Like they're afraid if they do the wrong thing folk'll be mad. I'm like... Artemis! You gotta be tough about this stuff."

She leans back, leers at him, side-eyed, strokes the invisible fuzz of her chin. "Mmmm I don't know, you look like one of them...big bad wolves"

She cracks a smile. "Naw, I'm fucking with you, we can hang. Where you hang at? Who d'you hang with?"

Wait.

Suddenly, they can’t remember a single detail of their conversation—had they both been talking about packs in the metaphorical sense, or had she actually said something real? Had they said something real? Had they bonded over being Not Entirely Human, or did Jasper just take a wild conversational leap off a cliff like a golden retriever chasing a frisbee into traffic? Oh no. Oh no. Did they say it out loud? They definitely said it out loud. And I’m a werewolf. Just like that. Just out there. Like they were announcing a favorite seasonal latte and not violating centuries of supernatural discretion. What if she wasn’t even talking about actual packs? What if she meant friendship packs? Or, gods forbid, wolf-themed roller derby teams? What if she thinks they’re a furry now? Not that there’s anything wrong with furries! Furries are delightful. But that’s a whole other disclosure and Jasper does not have the emotional bandwidth to unpack two identities in one conversation. Avi’s gonna chew them out. Remi’s gonna give them The Look. Is there a secret werewolf Slack they’re about to get banned from? They’re gonna get exiled, probably. Sent to live in the woods with nothing but squirrels and shame for company. Great job, Jasper. Just phenomenal work.

They laugh—a short, barking sound that comes out a little too sharp, a little too loud, like a balloon popped too close to the mic. Then, like they can smooth it over with charm alone, they flash a grin and tilt their head thoughtfully, casually, as if they hadn’t just tripped over their own species declaration. “Right, who I hang with,” they say, all breezy confidence now, like they haven’t just internally detonated. Their foot bounces once, betrays them, and they shove their hands into their pockets like maybe that’ll keep the nerves from leaking out their sleeves. “Yeah, I’ve got people. Pack people. People-people. Totally normal. Very chill. Avi’s... cool, yeah, but like cool cool. Leather jacket cool. Sunglasses indoors cool. Not exactly throwing barbecues and telling me their deepest thoughts or whatever. They’ve got that mysterious lone-wolf thing on lock.”

They shrug. “But Remi? Remi’s my older sib. They’re my person. You’d like them. They’re a little prickly sometimes, but they mean well. Taught me all my transformation tricks. Also taught me how to flirt terribly, so you can blame them for any disasters you witness.” Jasper grins, then falters.

“Do I have... friends?” They blink, then count on their fingers. “Uh. My mailman? The barista at the coffeeshop knows my order? That one ghost that haunts the fifth stall in the community center bathroom? We have a rapport.” They snort at themself. “Okay, okay, I’m working on it. Friendship is a growth area.”

Then they brighten again. “But hey—you just said we can hang. So maybe I’ve got one now?”

Silver bullets loaded silently into the magazine. Aurelia counted each one under her breath in a practiced prayer. Each movement familiar, and grounding. You could pluck the motions from any hunt over the past decade. Ghosts over lapping in perfect synchronicity. The hunt was won in the preparation. A lesson that was pressed into Aurelia's hands the first time she had picked up a wooden stake. A decade drenched in blood, and the motto still held firm. Etched in her bones and written in the scars. An old friend who had left the army and went into Fish & Game had provided the Aurelia with a new toy. It was a dart-gun designed to insert a microchip under the skin from a distance, simply put, it was a tracker.

Aurelia didn't particularly care for wolves, but she had a responsibility and duty to the Brotherhood to cull the creatures that were unable to control themselves. This particular target was chosen by fate, destiny or whatever you wanted to direct curses at. Wolves were strongest when close to their beast, teeth shining under moonlight and matted fur drenched in viscera of whatever unfortunate creature they had stumbled across. Aurelia was not an idiot, and avoided hunting on the full moon and preferred to simply track the creatures to finish them off during their transformation period. This was where the chip came into play.

It wasn't a full moon, yet Aurelia found her prey all the same. Perhaps it was a celebration of survival from the hurricane. A chance to run wild while people still trembled in their homes. Maybe the beast was brought to the streets for the same reason Aurelia was. A chance to be free. It was a quick encounter, a single shot to lodge the dart into the rump of the creature, inserting the device just under the skin. Aurelia disappeared into the wind before the creature could turn around and find its revenge for the blood drawn.

Aurelia watched the provided partner device careful as the hours ticked by, waiting as the little blip moved. It was only a matter of time till the speed of the creature slowed to a stop ,a sure indicator of the that the beast was turning once again into a more human form. The hunter picked up her go bag and was on move before the trail could go cold.

Aurelia took her time to to aim down the barrel of the gun. Each step the wolf took moved their body in a dance, swaying and moving to a beat Aurelia had never been able to hear. It made the hunter curse under their breath as they struggled to achieve a clear shot. One inhale to steady herself, an exhale and pull the trigger. The wolf bobbed to some imaginary beat just as Aurelia pulled the trigger. The bullet whistled through the air, slamming into the wolf's shoulder from behind.

Even with her silencer, Aurelia knew she wouldn't get away with open firing in the city. The sound of the gun still carried. One shot could be passed off as a car backfire, anymore of that and it would attract the wrong sort of attention that Aurelia did not feel like dealing with. The street were crawling with do-gooders after the hurricane, and Aurelia didn't want to try and explain the existence of the creatures of the night to some unsuspecting police officer.

Cursing this damn town, and her age and anything else she could think of, Aurelia tucked the gun into her coat, surging forward out of the allyway with a knife to finish the job she had started.

It’s getting late. He knows he should shift back, find his clothes, head home. He lies there a moment in his human skin, stretched out beneath the stars, lungs full of sweet air. He’s thinking about Walden, about Thoreau and that whole transcendentalist thing—what it means to be part of nature, not separate from it. He laughs softly to himself, pulls on his headphones, and starts the long walk home.

He walks like he’s in a daydream, swaying to the beat, hoodie hanging off his shoulders, shoes damp from dew. His mom used to worry when he’d take these runs, but the night shift meant she rarely caught him sneaking back in. His dad used to say the woods were safest when you knew their rules. And Remi—Remi drills the routes into him. Worst-case scenarios, practiced on their morning runs. Jasper pivots from these usually, tries not to lean on them too hard. Doesn't want to be a weight. Doesn't want to be another thing they have to carry.

Then the bullet hits.

His shoulder jerks back like it’s been yanked by a chain. He gasps—sharp, shocked. For a moment, his mind tries to rewrite it: bee sting, baseball, a thrown rock, anything but this. But he knows. God, he knows.

His dad died this way.

The hunters called it justice. Jasper still calls it a hole he can’t patch. And this—this—is that hole bleeding open all over again. A shot meant to end him, not question him. Not know him. Just another wolf to track, tag, erase.

He doesn't snap, he doesn't snarl. Jasper runs.

Protocol. Remi’s voice, steady and clear, lives in his head. Stay in the open. Move to lights. Don’t shift unless you have to. Humans stay alive. Wolves get hunted. Stay visible. Stay alive. His feet hit concrete hard. He turns down a familiar street—and slams into shadow.

Oh god. Oh god, oh god. Wrong way. Gotta move. Gotta—

Wrong turn. Alleyway. Trapped. No, no, no.

He skids on wet stone, spins, pivots—and she’s there. Knife drawn. Calm. Efficient. Like he’s a job.

“Hey—hey, please,” he stammers, holding up his hands, eyes wide, chest heaving. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

She doesn't flinch. Of course she doesn’t. Jasper scrambles for the fire escape, legs shaking, arm screaming from the bullet wound. He leaps, catches it with one hand, swings—desperate, awkward, terrified.

“Please,” he begs again, voice cracking now. “Let’s just—just talk. I’m not—I’m not what you think I am.” His grip slips. He catches himself with a hiss of pain. “I don’t hurt people. I’ve never—please.”

The metal groans above him. He pulls himself up anyway. Can't tell with the wind. Can’t tell with the fear. But maybe there's a tear.

Autumn shakes her head, loops herself back into reality after the world's shortest existential crisis. "N-no, it's fine. I just... you're fine, really."

She's touchy, maybe. Definitely.

She stares at the hand, realizes she smells that in the air, that petrichor; a sort of redolent woodsy magic that pervades the space around anybody like her. She takes the hand up, wonders if he's picked it up to, braces herself for awkward tapdancing around a mutual secret.

"You're fine- it's... fine. No offense taken, or whatever, I was mostly joking." Liar. Letting it go, she shakes her head, eyes darting for the trash bin. "Yeah, they're kind of lazy. Nobody's ever excited for a fruit basket."

“Hey, no worries,” he says quickly, gently, like he’s padding around something fragile without naming it. “I do the ‘mostly joking’ thing too. Like, all the time. It’s a good way to hide in plain sight, right? Especially if you’ve got stuff people tend to misunderstand—or, worse, understand a little too well.”

Jasper winces, hands flying up like he’s been caught contradicting himself in a court of law. “Okay—full honesty? I did call fruit baskets a war crime two seconds, and I stand by it on a glitter-in-the-air kind of level. But metaphorically?” He leans in a little, conspiratorial. “They’re like that weird uncle who shows up to family events with a hobby no one asked about. Awkward, confusing, kind of miss the mark—but deep down, you know they’re just trying to be part of the moment. They just don’t know how.”

He shrugs, easy, self-deprecating. “I guess I relate. Sometimes I show up with the emotional equivalent of a banana taped to a pineapple and call it connection. Doesn’t always land, but the intention’s there.”

Then he flashes her a smile, something crooked and bright and not at all sorry. “So yeah. Fruit baskets: still crimes. But maybe crimes of hopeful chaos.”

He lets the joke land soft and steps back, giving her space again like he knows when to retreat. “Jasper,” he adds, offering his name like a secret that isn’t quite a secret. “I hang out near the library sometimes? Or the trailhead, if the moon’s being extra poetic. Maybe that’s where we’ve overlapped?”

Then, with a tilt of the head, a grin creeping in like mischief slipping under the door: “Or maybe I just have one of those faces that screams ‘I have definitely handed out weird pamphlets in public spaces.’ Do I?”

Romy gave him a slow, approving nod, the kind people usually reserve for kids who say something wildly incorrect but with confidence. “Criterion Collection? Bold. But I respect the vision. Stuffed: A Love Story deserves nothing less than a slow pan and dramatic voiceover. And maybe, like, a moody indie folk soundtrack that implies unresolved trauma.”

She lifted her hands in mock surrender. “Listen, I didn’t incinerate the flyers because I respect the hustle. That, and I’m 83% sure glitter is a war crime once airborne. Also? You absolutely nailed hopeful and unhinged. That wolf looks like it wants me to adopt it and join its pyramid scheme.” At the dentist thing, she pressed a hand over her chest, mock-offended. “Thank you. I like to think of it as public service via failed flirting. And you’re right, Peterson Guy doesn’t even deserve a full paragraph in the memoir. He’s getting footnoted next to early 2020s mistakes and attempted bangs.”

His softness caught her a little off guard—like someone had cracked a joke and then handed her a Band-Aid. She didn’t quite step into it, but she didn’t run from it either.

“Well then,” she said, all falsely solemn, “as president of Bragging Rights Tier One, I fully expect glitter portraits and at least one sculpted dough knot centerpiece in my likeness. Preferably tasteful, but I’m flexible.”

And then, his question. She didn’t flinch —just paused. Tilted her head a little like she was trying to decide if this was a trap or a dare.

Romy’s expression didn’t shift at first —she just stared at him like he’d asked her to define quantum physics using only interpretive dance. Then her mouth tugged into something wry, crooked at the edges. “If I did believe in it,” she echoed, like she was testing the taste of the words before letting them out into the world, “it’d probably look like... breathing room.”

Her fingers drummed once against the strap of her bag. “Not fireworks or violins or someone declaring they’d die for me on a rooftop. Just... someone who doesn’t flinch when I’m not easy. Who gets that I come with overpacked emotional luggage and probably a sarcastic t-shirt collection I’ll never throw out. Who doesn’t mistake silence for distance, or jokes for armor. Who knows the difference.”

Then, because she couldn’t let it sit too long without tipping the mood on its side, she added, “Also? They better laugh at my jokes. Not fake laugh—real laugh. Snort-laugh. Possibly wheeze. If I’m doing stand-up-level emotional work, I want an audience reaction.”

She tilted her head, brow quirking. “And they don’t ask me to shrink. That’s the main thing. Love should make room. Not demand I fold myself up into something small and palatable just to fit.”

“Okay, wow. That’s like being hit in the face with a poem and thanking it afterward,” he says, finally, voice still bright but edged with something a little trembly. “Breathing room. That’s—that’s it, isn’t it? Not just space to exist but space to be, and still be held. Not coddled or tiptoed around, but just… understood. Like, you don’t have to hand someone a printed manual and a fire extinguisher just to be loved. Like your weirdness and your wounds aren’t liabilities, they’re landmarks. That’s huge.”

He draws a little invisible circle in the air with his finger, as if trying to make her vision tangible. “And jokes as armor? Relatable. You ever meet someone who laughs too loudly at your deflections and it makes your skin crawl, like they know you’re hiding something and they’re clapping anyway? That’s the worst. But you—” he grins, sudden and sincere, “—you deserve snort-laughs. The kind that derail conversations and fog up glasses. Full body joy.”

Then, gentler, with a little shrug of his shoulders that almost looks like vulnerability dressed in a hoodie: “I think my version used to be ‘don’t leave.’ Just that. Real simple. But now… now it’s more like, ‘don’t leave me behind while I’m still figuring out who I am.’ Y’know? Stay through the weird phases. The costume changes. The self-rewrites.”

He pauses, brows lifting slightly. “So tell me—if love is breathing room, what’s something it’s never allowed to ask you to give up?”

Jasper smiles, slow and soft, like her words unzip something in him he hadn’t meant to open tonight but isn’t sorry to have shared. “And that was beyond emotionally vulnerable,” he says, voice warm as a hearth. “That was the kind of honest people spend whole lifetimes trying to name and still fall short. You didn’t just earn another glitter wolf—you earned a whole damn pack. One’s got eyeliner smudged like it’s been crying in a bathroom at a house party. One’s holding a tiny cassette player blasting sad indie girl ballads. And the alpha?” He taps his temple, like it’s already fully designed in his mind. “The alpha’s wearing a crown made of old diary entries and spite. Her name is Romy. She runs the forest now.”

She did not.

Now, apparently, hurricanes are something they get. Alongside brunch spots that only take reservations and ethically sourced necromancers.

They are not prepared. Not even a little. At 8:42 PM, Jasper stands in the middle of their living room, arms flung out like they’re about to take flight, whispering “okay, okay, okay” under their breath like a mantra. They’ve packed, unpacked, and repacked a canvas bag three separate times. It’s supposed to be for essentials. “Essentials” have rapidly devolved into the following: one flashlight with dying batteries, a dented thermos of cold chamomile tea, a pair of Remi’s socks they definitely stole last month, and four—no, five—books.

The books are the problem.

“I can’t just choose,” they mutter, holding up a copy of The Left Hand of Darkness like it’s a child they’re being forced to abandon. “This is emotional masterpiece.”

They compromise by taking the five books they’d already set aside and adding one more—their annotated copy of Leaves of Grass, dog-eared and water-stained, its margins crawling with years of feelings they’ve never said out loud. The rest they gently place on the couch and cover with a raincoat like the books might get cold. Then they spend fifteen full minutes apologizing to them, whispering, “I’ll be back for you. You are loved. Do not turn on each other.”

By 9:00 PM, the wind shrieks like a kettle left too long on the stove. Jasper slips the key from their necklace and heads to Remi’s, hood up, bag bumping awkwardly against their hip.

The apartment is dim when they arrive, power already flickering in and out like stage lights trying to set the mood. They let themself in, whistling softly as a warning for the furry roommate. “Rusty?” they call. “Don’t smite me, I brought snacks.”

The tortoiseshell blinks at them from the couch like a disappointed aunt. They’re nestled on a blanket Remi must’ve left out, and Jasper takes that as permission to make themself at home. They crouch down, whisper something heartfelt about the dignity of all creatures, and offer Rusty a piece of freeze-dried salmon from their pocket. It’s received with regal disinterest. Which, you know, is basically a declaration of love.

Jasper settles cross-legged on the couch, Rusty tucked beside them like a wary little furnace, but their eyes keep drifting to the window—even though the curtains are drawn tight and the glass has started to shudder with each new gust. They check their phone again. Still nothing. No text from Remi. No call. The last message came over an hour ago: Heading out. Be safe. That was it. No emoji. No joke. No update on where they’re going or when they’ll be back.

Jasper knows Remi—knows the way they run toward danger like it owes them rent—but something about the silence gnaws at them tonight. Maybe it’s the storm. Maybe it’s the static in the air, the unnatural quiet of a city holding its breath. They glance at the door, half expecting it to swing open and reveal Remi dripping wet, grinning at them. But it stays shut.

“You better not be out there playing lifeguard to falling power lines,” they mutter, then scratch behind Rusty’s ear like it might keep both their nerves from fraying.

And that’s the evening, for the most part. They’re mid-candle-lighting (using the emergency tin marked “Cookies, DO NOT TRUST”) when the door slams open like a scene from a telenovela.

Jasper screams. Quietly. Very dignified. Like a Victorian ghost spotting another Victorian ghost wearing the same outfit.

A shadow bursts in—soaked, stumbling, hair whipping like a horror movie bride.

Jasper’s heart leaps into their throat. They immediately raise both hands, candle still in one, voice steady but panicked: “Okay. Listen. You can take whatever you want. Please don’t hurt the cat. Or me. Mostly the cat.”

They back up slowly, trying to assess the intruder. Velvet coat. Designer boots. A bag of what might be groceries. Oh no. They’re being robbed by someone stylish. That’s a metaphor for something.

Then the woman speaks.

Not the voice of a murderer. Dramatic? Yes. Possibly British? Jury’s out on whether that’s real or just something Jasper’s embellishing. Hard to tell through the rain. Definitely not Remi. Definitely not a thief.