Bloodmoon – The Green-Eyed Hour

Awakening – Horror Movie Style

I came back to myself in pieces.

Cold stone under my spine. The crackle of fire somewhere to my left. The smell of smoke, wet earth, and… blood? Mine. Mostly mine. I think.

My eyes snapped open.

Cave ceiling. Shadows moving. Too bright. Too close.

I shot upright so fast the world lurched sideways. My heart slammed against my ribs, claws of panic digging in before I could stop them.

Did I turn? Did I lose it? Did I—

I whipped my head around, searching for damage, for bodies, for anything I might’ve done in the blackout—

And then I saw her.

Sloane. Alive. Sitting a few feet away, knees pulled up, watching me with that tight, brittle expression she gets when she’s pretending she’s fine.

My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

How did I get here?

She lifted her chin, trying for casual, failing miserably. “Must’ve been some serious shit you were taking to pass out like that.”

Her voice was steady. Her hands weren’t.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Every muscle in my body locked, waiting for the tell — the flicker in her eyes that meant she’d seen the half‑shift, the teeth, the monster.

But she just sat there. Alive. Unhurt. Looking at me like I was a problem, not a threat.

I exhaled, closing my eyes. Couldn’t help but smile at her snark.

“Oh, and by the way, you are very heavy. Maybe lay off the tenth refill for a while? You’re not getting younger, and before you know it, you’ll wake up with a mean dad‑bod.”

I grinned.
Nope, this was Sloane as she always was. She hadn’t heard or seen anything and suspected less.

Oddly, the insult didn’t anger me. It made me feel better. It answered two burning questions:

1. how I got here — she found me and dragged me up the hill, somehow, and
2. she clearly had no clue what I really was, which meant I hadn’t turned.

I’d come close. Too close. My hands had started shifting into claws, my teeth into fangs, my face cracking and rearranging itself — but I forced it back. Willed it back. And then everything went black.

She must’ve come looking for me. Touching, if you ignore the fact she could’ve gotten herself killed.

I turned my head toward her and managed a smile.

“Thank you.”

She nodded once.

“There was blood. A lot of blood. Vincent… what happened?”

I smelled it too. Looked down. Found the gouges I’d dug into myself — the pain I’d used to anchor myself, to stop the shift, to reverse it. It looked bad.

“I don’t remember,” I lied. “Probably a wild animal thinking I was easy dinner. I’m fine. Looks worse than it is. Just sore.”

She stared at me for a long moment, then crawled over and wrapped her arms around me. I felt the relief in her. And, unexpectedly, in myself.

The Long Limp Home

Eventually it started getting light out. We both agreed we couldn’t stay here. Just firstly, neither of us knew where we might have landed and secondly, I was pretty dinged up.

I braced a hand on the cave wall and tried to stand.

My right leg gave out instantly — a white‑hot bolt of pain shooting up my thigh — and I nearly hit the ground again.

Sloane lunged forward and caught me before I could fall.

One arm around my waist. My arm slung over her shoulders. Her stance braced like she’d done this a hundred times.

“Easy,” she muttered. “You’re not walking out of here on macho alone.”

“I can walk,” I gritted out.

“Sure,” she said. “Shut up and lean. You are a big bad boy and can do everything yourself, we get it. Now get over yourself.”

I hated how right she was. But I let her hold me.

We made it out of the cave slowly — painfully — her shoulder digging into my ribs, my weight dragging on her more than I wanted to admit. The forest was slick from the storm, mud sucking at our boots, branches slapping at us as we pushed through.

Every few steps she glanced up at me. “You good?”

“Define good.”

“Not dying.”

“Then I’m good.”

She snorted. “Liar. You look like shit, Vince.”

“Feel like it too. How’s that for honesty?”

We found a narrow deer trail that wound around the worst of the rocks. It wasn’t easy, but it was better than the way we came. At one point she slipped on wet moss. I caught her by reflex — and nearly went down myself.

She steadied me instead.

“Wow,” she said. “You’re really not okay.”

“Shocking.”

But she didn’t let go until she was sure I had my balance.

We kept going.

Male‑Model Neighborhood Watch

We were maybe halfway back when I heard it — footsteps, low voices, the soft crunch of leaves under careful boots.

Sloane froze. I didn’t.

I knew those voices. My hearing was still peak wolf good.

I was just about to call out when Connell stepped out from between the trees — eyes sharp, water running in streams off his black leather coat, his silvery‑blond hair plastered to his head, expression somewhere between relief and fury. And I had never been happier to see him.

“Vincent.” Not a question. Not a greeting. A verdict.

He called back over his shoulder, “I found him. Over here!”

More noise followed — branches shifting, boots hitting wet ground — and then Damon appeared, relief washing over his face like a wave. He whistled through his fingers, loud enough to shake the birds out of the trees.

“OVER HERE!”

Sloane stiffened beside me, still under my arm, still holding me up.

Connell’s gaze flicked to her, then to my leg, then back to me. “You’re hurt.”

He stepped in immediately, relieving a very exhausted‑looking Sloane with a smile that knocked most women off their feet.

“Apologies, Miss. Don’t mind me taking over.” His voice was smooth, elegant, old‑world. “I’m Connell O’Cavanaugh. I assure you I mean you no harm. Vince and I are well acquainted, are we not?”

“Sure are.” I couldn’t exactly tell Sloane he was my maternal grandfather — who looked my age because he was a vampire, and a very dangerous one if you weren’t on his good side. He was also Grandpa Michael’s best friend, and I was sure Michael had called him in for help. Connell was one of the best trackers in the world. Smart. Precise. There was nobody he couldn’t find.

“You’re injured,” he said.

“Probably. I can walk.”

“Clearly,” he replied dryly, watching me sway before steadying me again.

Damon approached Sloane with a gentler expression. “You okay? Are you hurt too? Oh — I’m Damon. A… good friend of Vincent’s.”

Yeah. A really good friend. Also Connell’s son. Also my uncle. Also a Coven Enforcer. No way in hell either of us would go there with Sloane.

She nodded, still processing the fact that a search party had materialized out of the woods like some male‑model neighborhood watch.

And then — more footsteps. Heavy ones. Familiar ones.

The underbrush on the other side of us exploded.

Branches snapped. Ferns flattened. A pair of massive silhouettes barreled through the trees — two wolves in human form, broad‑shouldered, mud‑splattered, moving with the kind of force that made the forest seem too small to contain them.

My dad and Grandpa Mike.

They hit the clearing like a storm front: breath steaming in the cold air, boots sinking into the wet earth, shoulders rising and falling with the kind of controlled fury only wolves could manage. The scent of rain, pine, and adrenaline rolled off them in waves.

Dad’s eyes locked on me instantly — sharp, assessing, Alpha‑focused.

“Vincent.”

Grandpa’s gaze snapped to Sloane. “She hurt?”

Before I could answer, Nathan was already at my side, taking my weight from Connell like it was nothing.

“I’ve got him,” he said, voice low, steady, Alpha‑calm. He lifted me as if I weighed nothing at all — which, I am sure I don’t have to mention, I very much did — but he made it look easy.

Grandpa didn’t hesitate. He stepped up to Sloane, gave her a quick assessing look, then scooped her up bridal‑style before she could protest.

She yelped. “I can walk!”

“Not fast enough,” he muttered. “Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart. I’m a happily married man, and your generation has way too much energy for me anyway.”

Sloane stared at him, stunned. Damon just shrugged. “Just take it. No use arguing with him. You think Vince is stubborn? Guess who he inherited it from.”

Connell looked between all of us. “Let’s get you both home.”

I didn’t argue.

If Sloane weren’t here, the vamps would’ve ported with me, dad and grandpa would have transformed and covered the ground back in no time. But now we had to pretend to be regular normies and walk.

Family Panic Hour

By the time we reached the edge of Moonwood Mill, I was running on fumes. I don’t think I would’ve made it home without them finding us — I hadn’t realized how impaired I really was. Grandpa carried Sloane like she weighed less than a basket of laundry.

Dad set me down. The vampires took a different route — which was code, in front of Sloane, for “we’re porting ahead to alert the others and avoid being sniffed out by wolves who weren’t expecting vampires in town.”

Don’t take our odd little alliance as gospel — normally, wolves and vamps were mortal enemies. They sniffed each other out — literally — and went straight to war.

I walked into town as tall and strong as I could pretend to be. Dad kept pace beside me, ready to catch me if I dropped, but he stepped back as we approached the houses so I could look every bit the strong future Alpha they needed me to be.

I was so happy to see the main house. My family. I was exhausted and don’t think I could’ve made it any farther than through that old familiar front door.

The moment we stepped inside, everything stopped.

My mother gasped. Esmee swore. Someone wrapped a blanket around Sloane and stuck a cup of hot broth in her hands. Someone else grabbed my arm and guided me to a chair. I was so exhausted I can’t give you a proper account of everything. I’m sure you can imagine. Mom started feeding me hot broth too.

Warmth. Hands. Noise. Concern. First‑aid kits, bandages, stinging antiseptic.

It was overwhelming.

Sloane sat in the kitchen, looking like she wasn’t sure she belonged here.

I caught her eye.

She relaxed. Just a little.

Dad crouched in front of me. “What happened?”

I glanced at Sloane. Then at my hands. Then at the floor.

“Nothing,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m fine.”

Dad understood — the old issue of straddling the truth around normies.

My mom swept in, already deciding Sloane would rest in the guest room — which was just my old teen bedroom — and that she absolutely needed a hot shower and a warm bed. She took her upstairs before Sloane could protest.

Esmee started cooking. Wolves don’t deal well with being hungry, and I could use a good meal. Grandpa Mike was talking to Connell near the kitchen, both nursing coffee.

Once Sloane was out of earshot, my dad turned back to me, voice low. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

He snorted. “I didn’t ask for bullshit. You look like hell, son.”

Connell’s gaze flicked to my dad, then back to me. “You’re still bleeding under your clothes. Check the rest of him, Nathan. And he needs a shower.”

“Just a scratch.”

“Several,” Damon added helpfully. “You can’t hide blood from a vampire. Let alone two. Just talk, Vince. We’re trying to help here.”

I sighed. “Okay. We had to go back to a jobsite so she could retake some photos the architect messed up. Got surprised by the weather, fell in the river, got dragged downstream by whitewater. I got injured. We found a cave, but I wasn’t in good shape. Then the full moon started hitting. I made sure she stayed put and went into the woods, fighting the curse. Passed out. She came looking for me — of course, since she can’t listen — and somehow managed to drag me back to the cave. When it got light, we tried to make our way home. Then you guys found us. It was a real shitshow for a while, but crisis was averted. Thank God.”

Dad’s jaw tightened. “Did she… see anything?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“We don’t need you to think, we need you to KNOW, kiddo,” Grandpa Mike grumbled.

“I would agree with Vincent,” Connell said. “Her heartrate was normal. It only increased when she looked at him or touched him. That’s… something else entirely. Definitely not fear. I’m confident she doesn’t know about the curse, or she would be very fearful.”

I felt my face heat. Four supernatural pairs of eyes turned toward me. Five, counting Ezzy.

“What?” I snapped.

Dad crossed his arms. “Increasing heartrate, huh? So what exactly happened out there?”

“And at her apartment all weekend,” Grandpa Mike added.

I closed my eyes. Not this. Not again and not now.

I really didn’t want to go through explaining that absolutely nothing beyond the known drama had happened, so I feigned weakness. I was looked over, then shoved into a hot shower and fed without further interrogation.

Floating (aka My Delusional Victory Lap)

Well, you know how something really bad almost happens, but you walk away without any more than the proverbial scratch, and suddenly you’re in that weird celebratory mood — blessed, invincible, untouchable?

Yeah. I was riding that high.

Connell’s words hadn’t hurt either.

So… she liked me.
Ha.
How about that?

The vampiric mood ring — also known as my grandpa Connell — had said so, and you can’t hide anything from him. Not your pulse, not your fear, not your attraction. He reads people like open books and then judges the font choice.

And honestly? Any man — if he’s being honest — would admit that finding out a cute woman likes you enough for her heartrate to spike when she looks at you is a mood and ego booster.

I was healing fast, as wolves do, and strutting around at a proverbial ten feet tall.

Sloane went right back to her usual charming — ha — ways, but I didn’t care. I knew now that she liked me, and I was absolutely full of myself because of it.

Meanwhile, the usual chaos was unfolding: construction crews arguing, equipment malfunctioning, plans getting screwed up, humans being… well, humans.

And there I was, floating through it all like the universe had personally kissed me on the forehead.

By Friday, I was floating so high I practically levitated over to her trailer — freshly showered, extra deodorant, and even a spritz of that fancy designer fragrance Ezzy gave Grandpa Mike for Christmas years ago. Something‑something pour homme. I’d never heard of it, neither had Grandpa, but I was pretty damn sure Sloane would recognize it at first whiff.

I put on a clean button‑down in a good shade of blue, dark jeans that could almost pass for slacks, shined my black boots, combed my hair, and even groomed my beard because I couldn’t figure out if she liked facial hair or not.

Then I sauntered over — past the Pack Lodge, where I had to endure the usual hazing men dish out when one of them prissies himself up for a date.
I’d given out plenty of that in my day.
Karma’s a bitch.

I got to her trailer and knocked. It took her forever to open, but when she finally did—

WOW.

My brain short‑circuited so violently I almost forgot how to stand upright.

She looked… different.
She looked incredible.
She looked hot.

I mean, she always dressed up — usually in outfits that made absolutely zero sense for Moonwood Mill’s mud‑and‑pine‑needles aesthetic— but not like this.

Her trailer was raised, so when she opened up, I was eye‑level with the neckline of her little black dress — and my eyes just about bulged at the sight of her tatas trying to stage a jailbreak right there in front of me.

Nope. Nope. Not thinking about that. Not allowed. Brain rebooting.

The dress hugged her figure in a way that made my gray matter pack its bags, leave the country, and send me a postcard saying, “Good luck, buddy.”

So, here is another lesson on wolves, the men in particular. We don’t like ’em skinny and flat. We like a little meat on those bones in all the right places and we love curves. You know, the T&A kind. And Sloane had curves to boot. Especially in that little black dress number she had on.

Every curve, every line — my brain just took the rest of the night off and left me with the intelligence level of a common potato.

She looked…

“Va‑va‑voom!” …fell out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Yes. I said that.
Out loud.
Like a cartoon character whose eyes should’ve been popping out on springs like a cartoon wolf from a 1950s animation.
Mine might have, I couldn’t tell you.

She blinked. I blinked. My dignity quietly excused itself and walked into the woods to jump off a cliff.

I tried to recover. I really did.

“I mean—uh—wow. You look—uh—nice. Really nice. Like… fancy nice. Like… wow nice.”

She raised an eyebrow. I died inside.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“No,” I said honestly.

She blinked, then gave me a once‑over. “Yeah — uh — but back at you. You look… spiffy.”

There was a tiny pause. A micro‑pause. The kind of pause where a person realizes they’ve said something deeply unsexy and immediately regrets their entire vocabulary.

Her eyes widened a fraction, like her brain had just whispered, Spiffy? Really? That’s what we’re going with?
She cleared her throat. Straightened her shoulders. Pretended she hadn’t just called a grown man “spiffy.”
“Are you—uh—going on a date?” she added quickly, waving the word away like she could physically shoo it out of the air.

Umm, I was hoping I might, with you, I thought. But that mental plan looks like it was cancelled.

“Back at ya,” I said instead, like an idiot.

“Yeah, finally date night,” she said, turning away to lean over the sink, bend over like that she was giving me another taste of her curves as she applied lipstick while I tried to stare at her ceiling. “I mean, nothing against your backwoods charm here, and the scenery is gorgeous, but I need some real world for the weekend. I need real life and real people, so yeah — it’s gonna be fricking date night every night this weekend.”

“Oh.” I crashed from my ego‑high straight into a dark, gloomy abyss. “You didn’t mention… that.”

“Did you need anything?” she asked, still focused on her lipstick, like she hadn’t just stabbed me in the chest with a rusty butter knife.

I knew I should reply, but my brain had short‑circuited. Again. Or still.

Whatever happened to her heartrate going up when she looked at me?

She wanted to drive three hours to get some D in the city rather than be a little nicer to me and get it locally sourced?!

I don’t understand women. At all. Not even a little. I’m out here failing every side‑quest. Women are impossible to read. I need subtitles. Or a manual. Or divine intervention.

I couldn’t handle it. I just turned and left, stomping off with long, angry strides.

The Crash Landing

I didn’t stop walking until I hit the treeline.

My boots chewed up gravel, then dirt, then pine needles, and I still kept going, because if I stopped I was going to do something stupid. Like march back to her trailer and demand to know who the hell she was getting all dressed up for. And why the hell that someone wasn’t ME!

A date. Every night this weekend.
Translation: a different dude between the sheets for three nights while I was out here holding my own. WTF!?

My chest felt too tight. My jaw hurt from clenching. My wolf was pacing under my skin, restless, irritated, confused.

She wanted “real people.” “Real life.” “Real world.”

What the hell did she think this was?

Did I look artificial to her?

I kicked a rock hard enough to send it flying.

Stupid. I was stupid.

Connell’s words had gone straight to my head. Her heartbeat had gone straight to my ego. And now here I was, dressed like a damn catalog model for Lumberjack Weekly, Date Night edition, smelling like a department store, ready to ask her out—

And she was leaving.
For dates. Plural.
At least three lucky dudes and none of them was me.

I scrubbed a hand over my face.

“Get a grip,” I muttered. “You’re acting like a teenager.”

But the truth was uglier:

I didn’t want her going.
Not like that.
Not looking like that.
Not with someone else.
And I wanted to break every single bone in every one of those lucky winners’ bodies.

I hated the thought of her laughing with some guy in the city. I hated the thought of her touching someone else. I hated the thought of her choosing “real people” over me. I couldn’t even finish the thought of another man touching her … and more.

And I hated that I hated it.

I leaned against a tree, breathing hard.

The wolf pushed up again — not violently, not dangerously, but with a low, territorial growl that vibrated through my ribs.

Mine.

I shoved it down.

“No,” I said out loud. “She’s not. She’s not anything.”

But the lie tasted bitter.

I stayed out there until the sun dipped low, until the cold crept in, until I could breathe without wanting to punch something.

By the time I walked back toward the trailers, the lights were off in hers.

She was gone.

I stood there for a long moment, staring at the empty space where her car had been, feeling like an idiot.

Then I turned and headed home.

Tomorrow, I told myself.
Tomorrow I’d be normal again.
Tomorrow I’d stop thinking about her.
Tomorrow I’d stop caring.
Tomorrow I’d—

I don’t know what.

I didn’t get to finish the lie.

Because as I walked past the Pack Lodge, the door swung open and a wall of noise hit me — laughter, clinking glasses, the smell of beer and fried food.

And then:

“Awwww, did she say no to your howls of love, Vinny?” in one of the other guy’s drunken slurring.

“Go fuck a duck, Jason!” I roared back.

Another voice chimed in, “Poor pup got rejected. Should we send flowers to the funeral of your male ego? Ouch!” he roared laughing.

A third: “Maybe try wagging your tail at her next time!”

All of them were laughing now.

Normally, I’d laugh too.
Normally, I’d throw it right back.
Normally, I’d be the one dishing it out.

But not tonight.

Tonight, something in me snapped.

I turned, grabbed the last guy who’d spoken by the front of his shirt, and hauled him up onto his toes. His eyes went wide.

“Say it again,” I growled.

The others lingering outside around the bonfire went dead silent. Just stared.

For a second, I almost hit him. Almost.

Then I shoved him back — hard enough that he stumbled into a group of others, nearly mowing them down like bowling pins. I grabbed a bystander’s six‑pack right out of his hands and stormed off before I did something I’d regret.

My wolf was pacing under my skin, restless, angry, territorial.

I pulled one of the bottles free, opened it with my teeth, and took a long swallow.

I reached my truck, stopped short, and before I could talk myself out of it, I climbed in, set the rest of the beer on the floorboard, slammed the door, and turned the key.

I finished the beer, flung the empty bottle out the window as I drove past the construction trailers where it burst into a million pieces with a satisfying sound.

Next thing I knew, I was on the highway.

San Myshuno Official Meltdown Tour

San Myshuno.
Of course.
How unpredictable I was. Not.

Halfway there, I called my cousin Eirwen.

“Hey,” she answered. “You sound weird. Even by your standards.”

“Meet me in the city,” I said. “Bring Damon.”

“What? I am not our uncle’s keeper. And why?”

“Just do it,” I growled.

She sighed. “Fine. But only because I’m bored and you sound seriously weird.”

“Just get there,” I muttered.

They met me outside a new diner — the old one was still a sore subject after Damon’s Leonie disaster.

Eirwen took one look at me and raised a brow. “You look like you want to punch out half the city.”

Damon sniffed. “And you smell like cologne. Expensive cologne. And you look like you’re going to prom. What is happening?”

“Nothing,” I said.

They both stared.

“Fine,” I snapped. “It’s Sloane. I believed what your dad said and thought I’d ask her out, but no — Miss High‑and‑Mighty prefers to go downtown to get her dose of D, instead of taking advantage of the low-hanging fruit right in front of her.”

I meant to sound casual. I did not succeed.
I sounded furiously jealous.

Eirwen groaned. Damon pinched the bridge of his nose.

I grabbed Damon by the collar. “Help me find her. Use your vampire senses or whatever.”

He plucked my hands off like I was a toddler. “I’m a Coven Enforcer, not a bloodhound for the sexually frustrated. And I’m still learning tracking. I can’t help you with that.”

Eirwen snorted. “HA! Bloodhound – Vampire. That’s actually funny.”

Damon glared. “Only if you’re ten.”

“Or have a sense of humor,” she shot back.

They bickered, but they agreed to help — mostly because they knew I’d be unbearable otherwise.

We walked the usual spots — the plaza, the bars, the rooftop lounges. The dives that were suddenly the new It‑places.

And then, at the edge of the Arts Quarter, we saw them.

Jealousy, Cocktails, and Bad Decisions

Sloane. Kaley. A group of friends. And one guy with his arm casually draped around Sloane’s shoulders, like he had any right — some polished city boy in a designer jacket and shoes that had never seen a puddle. My inner wolf took one look at him and mentally filed him under prey… even though the way he kept staring down Sloane’s tits made him look like a predator in the worst way.

The rest of the group matched him: glossy hair, curated outfits, the kind of people who took pictures of their food and said things like vibes unironically. They looked like an ad for nightlife. I looked like I’d chopped wood on the way here.

My vision tunneled.

Kaley spotted me first.

“Oh my gosh — Sloane, look who it is! Your hot construction guy! Yummy!”

Sloane looked over, eyes widening for a split second before she masked it.

I tried not to look like I was fuming. I probably failed.

They came over, Kaley leading the charge, and she immediately launched into enthusiastic conversation. Then straight into flirting. Oh, she was coming onto me like I was the last man on earth. I let her. The moment she realized I wasn’t shutting her down, she doubled down — animated, friendly, leaning in. Hands all over me.

And I saw it — that flicker in Sloane’s eyes.
Oh yes, she was jealous.
Good!
With a satisfied grin, I wrapped one arm around Kaley’s waist.

We all ended up moving as a group — to another lounge, ordering fancy cocktails, everyone talking over each other. Kaley stayed close, chatting and laughing, practically glued to my side. Every time I shifted, she shifted with me. Every time I lifted my arm, she grabbed it like she was checking the stitching on a jacket she wanted to buy.

At one point she squeezed my bicep with both hands and announced — loudly — “Oh my gosh, Vince, do you lift trees for fun? This is ridiculous.”

I tried to laugh it off, but she kept doing it. Poking my shoulder. Patting my chest. Tugging on my sleeve like she was testing the fabric. She was practically orbiting me.

I wasn’t particularly invested in any of that, but I was invested in the way Sloane kept glancing over.

And by glancing, I mean glaring.

My ego, still bruised from earlier, wasn’t about to ignore that. No man takes well to getting shut down the way I had been, so if Kaley wanted to hover like a cheerful hummingbird hopped up on espresso, I wasn’t going to push her away. If Sloane had “better things to do,” then fine — her friend’s attention was a decent consolation prize. At the end of the night, if things hadn’t changed and Kaley insisted on scratching my itch, I wouldn’t say no. Which man in his right mind would?

But the truth?

I wasn’t thinking about Kaley. I was thinking about the way Sloane’s jaw tightened every time Kaley touched me. About the way her eyes narrowed whenever Kaley laughed too loudly at something I said. About the way she kept pretending she wasn’t watching me. Same way I was pretending not to notice that that dude sat way too close to her, and how I pretended I didn’t want to punch his perfect teeth into the back of his skull when he leaned in and whispered some probably sappy shit in Sloane’s ear. If that’s what she was into … fine. Men like me didn’t do sappy.

Sloane and my eyes kept meeting. Good. Let her feel it.

Two of the women kept trying with Damon, but he had a way of shutting things down politely. Eirwen left with one of the guys — no surprise there. She was young, single, he looked pretty decent and witches – or mages – were known to be pretty insatiable if you catch my drift. I couldn’t confirm or deny it, but that was the word on the street.

Eventually the night wound down. Couples split off. Singles drifted away.

And somehow it ended with just four of us: Sloane and her date, and Kaley and me.

I watched Sloane get into the bro’s douche-mobile, a Tesla. Of course. Complete with doors that opened automatically.
It upset me more than I wanted it to. Her getting into it – with him, I mean.

I unlocked my truck for Kaley and pulled the passenger door open.
Guess that was really happening. Oh well, why not. She was pretty and well-padded in all the right places. And nobody could tell me whom to think about when things went down a certain route.

But before Kaley could climb in, I heard fast footsteps — heels on pavement — and turned just in time to see Sloane rushing toward me.

She grabbed me by the front of my shirt, shoved me back against the side of my truck, and kissed me — sudden, fierce, emotional, like she’d been holding something in all night and it finally broke loose.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t soft. It was a collision — frustration, confusion, jealousy, everything she hadn’t said.

“Hey, wait a minute …” I heard her male companion’s voice, but he was smart enough to not come closer, cos I would have sent him flying if he tried now.

Kaley yelped in surprise, trying to pull us apart, but Sloane stepped back first, breathing hard, eyes locked on mine.

Then she turned to her friend.

“I’m sorry,” she said, steady but firm. “Change of plans.”

She gently moved Kaley aside, climbed into the passenger seat of my truck, and looked at me with a challenge in her eyes.

“You coming?” her usual command tone as she slammed the door shut, while Kaley gasped like a goldfish out of water.

“Hell yeah,” I grinned, already moving.

Under the Stars, Finally

We didn’t talk on the drive.

Not because it was tense — though it was — but because neither of us knew what to say after… that. I mean, it was pretty obvious now, but neither of us was ready to put it into actual words.
The city lights faded behind us, the road narrowed, and eventually I pulled off onto an old logging turnout I used to sneak off to as a teenager.

Quiet. Dark. Stars like someone had spilled diamonds across the sky.

I killed the engine.

Sloane hopped out first, arms folded against the chill, looking around like she’d stepped into another world.

I grabbed the remainder of the six‑pack I had relieved the other guy of earlier that night from the floorboard, climbed into the bed of the truck, and patted the spot beside me.

She hesitated — then climbed in too.

We lay back against the cool metal, shoulders not touching but close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off her. I handed her a bottle. She clinked it lightly against mine.

For a while, we just stared up, sipping our beers.

The stars were ridiculous tonight — bright, sharp, endless.

Sloane pointed upward. “That one looks like a two-headed chicken.”

I squinted. “That’s a bear. Tilt your head. See?”

“No, that’s a bear,” she said, pointing somewhere completely different. “An aroused one.”

I laughed. “You’re seeing things. Concerning things.”

“Oh, and that one?” She pointed again. “That’s definitely a guy doing jazz hands. With an erection.”

I tilted my head. “…Okay, there is something seriously wrong with you, woman!”

She grinned, pleased with herself. “Typical you, blaming me when the skies are horny tonight.”

“You are something else.” I laughed.

We kept pointing out shapes — every one of them with a seriously concerning sexual undertone — until we were both laughing tears, the kind of laughter that sneaks up on you and shakes something loose inside your chest.

Then the laughter faded.

The night settled around us again — soft, quiet, almost too still.

Sloane exhaled, long and slow.

“So beautiful,” she murmured, stretching out comfortably.

She meant the sky. The trees. The quiet.

“Very,” I said.

But I wasn’t looking at the sky.

She turned her head toward me — slowly — our eyes met, and she realized what I meant.

Her eyes softened. Just a little.

“Why didn’t you ask me out?” she asked quietly.

I swallowed, looked back up at the sky, took a drink of my beer. “You had better plans.”

She frowned. “How do you know they were better?”

“You didn’t seem interested.”

“How would you know? You didn’t even try.”

I sat up a little. “You literally told me you were going on dates all weekend.”

She sat up too. “I was giving you a hint! Since you never seemed to read ANY of my signals before. How much more obvious could I have been? And you literally walked away without saying anything!”

“What signals?! How is walking in on you dressed to kill, boobies busting out and that tiny dress clinging to your ass for dear life, busy putting on lipstick for someone else a hint for me to ask you out?! Makes no damn sense!”

“Well, if you didn’t want me to go out with someone else, why didn’t YOU ask me?!”

“Who asks out a woman who is clearly dressing up for another guy?!”

We were facing each other now, both frustrated, both talking over each other, both too stubborn to back down.

“You always just assume things,” she snapped.

“You never say anything you actually mean!” I shot back.

“You should know what I want! It’s obvious!”

“You don’t even know what you want!” I roared back.

Silence.

A charged, electric silence.

Her breathing was uneven. Mine wasn’t much better.

And then — she moved in.

Fast. Certain. Like she’d made up her mind mid‑argument.

Her hand found the front of my shirt, pulling me toward her. She swung a leg over mine, settling across my lap as she kissed me — first angry and dramatic, then just… honest. A moment of clarity in the middle of all our noise.

I froze for half a heartbeat — then wrapped my arms around her, pulled her as close as I could, and kissed her back with the same fierce honesty.

The stars kept burning overhead.
And two lovers who’d spent far too long misunderstanding each other burned hot beneath them.

Floating Again (Warranted This Time)

The next morning I was on my second helping of breakfast when visitors arrived.

Damon and Eirwen.

Highly unusual. We were the closest thing any of us had to friends and saw each other often, sure — but not first thing in the morning on a weekday. That was suspicious behavior. That was intervention behavior.

After they went through the usual small talk with my parents and grandparents, it was my turn. They stood beside me, staring like two judgmental gargoyles.

“What?” I mumbled around a mouthful of eggs, washing it down with coffee.

They didn’t blink.

I glanced at the rest of the family — already deep in conversation about the day’s business — then back at the two idiots burning holes into my skull.

“What!?” I repeated, more annoyed. I leaned back and finished my coffee. “You gotta glare louder. I’m not a mind reader.”

Eirwen leaned in. “Well, how did it go with the… thing.”

“What thing.” Too early for me to be fluent in Eirwen‑hints.

“The thing,” she insisted, stealing a piece of bacon off my plate.

My mom looked over. “Honey, what thing is Eirwen talking about? Are you kids getting in trouble?”

“We’re grown adults, Mom, and no,” I shot back.

Eirwen added quickly, “Yeah, Auntie Jaymie, just picking up that thing Vince‑y said he’d make for me. You know, Vince — the… THING. Can we maybe go get it? I think you said it’s in your room.”

“Yeah. I’m here to help carry the thing — out of your room,” Damon added, deadpan.

Even my dumb ass had caught on by now that they wanted to talk privately in my room with the door closed.

It also dawned on me that they weren’t going to let it go and were about to get me busted. I wasn’t ready to go public with my private moments with Sloane just yet. Too premature. It was a great night; I felt great — but I wasn’t sure if that was a one‑time lapse of judgment on her end or if her fancy heart actually liked me more permanently.

I slid my chair back and jerked my head toward the hallway.

“Yeah, sure. Let’s get it from my room.”

We went there. I shut the door and whisper‑yelled, “Are you nuts?!”

“Are we?” Eirwen shot back. “Are you kidding me here?! Back at you! You call us like your manparts are on fire because you struck out with some chick, Damon and I rush in like the romance A‑Team to help a guy out, then no text, no call, you don’t answer my texts or calls. We want the tea, Vince. You dragged us into this — you owe us the details.”

“Really? Do I ask you how things went with your date last night?”

“No, but if you did, I’d give you a full report. What do you want to know, Vince? Positions? Size of his—”

Damon slapped a hand over her mouth so fast it was almost a blur.

“Nobody wants to hear about that. I am still your uncle and I do not want to know any of that. Vince, you know she’s a witch and they are not shy about biology and anatomy lessons!”

“MAGE!” Eirwen barked after peeling his hand off, offended.

“Fine, she’s a mage, and they are not shy about any of that. You ask, she’ll tell you every little detail, and I want none of it. But you do owe us something. Come on, spit it out.” Damon crossed his arms.

“Fine,” I sighed. “What do you want to know?”

Eirwen wandered around my room like she was inspecting a crime scene — picking up this, turning over that — then found a half‑eaten bag of chips, sniffed it, and started eating.

I walked over and snatched it from her. “Ever heard of asking politely?”

“Ever heard that mages can light you on fire?” she countered.

“GUYS,” Damon groaned.

I shoved the bag back into her hands. She resumed eating with a big, daring grin like nothing happened.

“So,” she said through a mouthful of chips, “how did it go with… what was her name? Kaley?”

I decided to play it cool.

“Well, didn’t go at all with Kaley.”

Eirwen’s mouth dropped open like I’d just confessed to murder. “WHAT?! She was all over you! How did you not manage to land that?!”

Damon raised a brow. “Yeah, I have to agree. How’d you choke on that sure thing?”

I couldn’t help the smirk. “Someone made me a better offer. One I couldn’t refuse.”

Two identical question marks appeared over their heads.

And I loved it.

I grinned big — then told them the story.

They were so surprised and engulfed in my crazy tale that both sat down on my bed, staring at me like I was Moses reciting the stone tablets. Damon even reached into the chip bag and started munching — then recoiled and shook like he’d licked a battery. Vampires can eat, but don’t have to, and being the snobs they are, if they do eat human food, it’s only the best of the best. Not several‑day‑old stale chips with an undertone of bachelor werewolf pad.

By the time I finished, both sat there with big smiles, shaking their heads.