Bloodmoon – The Hartwell Hunger Games

A few days later I woke up in her bed in her tin can of an apartment and felt great.
Simply amazing.
Yes, the situation wasn’t ideal, but from where I sat I was a hell of a lot closer to perfection than ever before.

I had a girl who loved me.
Hands down, no doubt in my mind — and that is worth a million bucks to men like me.

She was going to make me a daddy.
And somehow, I’d never realized how much I wanted all that.
If you look at how and where I grew up, it shouldn’t be a surprise — our Moonwood Mill community is rough and tough, but like one big family. Family comes above all else.
But the revelation itself… that was the surprise.
And I was gonna get all that.
Ahhh.

Just had to get through the cure thing, then find and buy a ring I could actually afford, and ask Sloane to be the next Mrs. Shaw at some point. I mean, I was heading toward thirty‑three, she’d be twenty‑nine before the baby came — it’s not like we were two kids rushing to the altar straight out of school.

Fast?
Yeah, I’ll give you that. It was a bit fast.
That’s why I wanted to get the rest sorted out first before overwhelming her with that part. Plus, I could already hear the wheels turning in her head. The kid would complicate things already — if we got married… I mean, we all know I couldn’t live in the city.
Physically and because of who and what I was. The future Alpha has to stay local. And this future Alpha and future father just couldn’t get to a place where I could afford a decent‑sized home, nor babysitters, so… we’d have to live with my parents.

Big ask. I knew that.

And I knew I was gonna start working on renovating my living situation at home. Sloane had stayed over a few times now and ganged up on me with my mother to get that pig sty I called my room changed into something decent. Well, and then the rest of the family came in and decided my pig sty would be turned over to my mom and dad, and I would get the upstairs which had three bedrooms and a bathroom and more privacy.

If you ask me, they just wanted my huge patio, where I kept my work benches and workout gear. But I wanted Sloane — and more permanently — so… it was probably gonna happen.

I faintly smelled coffee, eggs, and toast — and smiled.
She wasn’t beside me; guessing she’d gotten up to make us breakfast.
I wasn’t even gonna lie — I loved that domestic‑life thing.

I got up slow, dragging on my jeans and fumbling with the buttons as I walked to the window. I stretched, still half asleep, staring out at the rising metropolis below. San Myshuno. Always awake, always loud.

I opened the bedroom door and stepped out, noticing Sloane talking. As I stepped into the hallway, I saw her facing someone with their back to me — some woman.

Sloane was listening to a sleuth of words from her and spotted me, immediately launching into a series of frantic hand gestures I didn’t quite decode. My brain wasn’t fully booted yet, and whatever she was trying to tell me — go back, close the door, disappear — I wasn’t catching it.

The other woman stopped talking and turned, slightly startled at the sight of me.

“Christ Almighty — what just walked out of your bedroom?!”

“Oh yeah, that. That is… Vincent.” Sloane now said and I could read in her reaction she wasn’t ready to introduce me.

“Who is Vincent, please?” the older woman asked, voice pointy.

“My…” Sloane cleared her throat as she stepped past the other woman and came down the small hallway toward me, trying to slide me back into the bedroom but I wasn’t playing along. “…my… boyfriend.”

Yeah, that’s right, lady — the boyfriend.
That’s what walked out of her bedroom.
Even though the middle‑aged woman was giving me a nasty look like I was some inappropriate sex toy she never expected to see walking around on two legs.

“Boyfriend!?” Her tone was pointy. “Sloane Beatrice Hartwell! Since when do you have a boyfriend?!”

I stepped toward her, tried for my best toothpaste ad smile, holding out my hand. “Morning, ma’am. I am Vincent Shaw.”

Her eyes widened like I’d slapped her with a wet fish.

“Ma’am?” she repeated, scandalized. “Ma’am?! Young man, I am not a ma’am. Do I look like some old, dowdy ma’am to you?”

I blinked. Well… I was thinking things, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to answer that.

“MOM!” Sloane hissed, mortified.

And instantly it clicked.
I had just made a horrible first impression on Sloane’s mother.

Well, fuck.

“Vince, this is Eleanor Hartwell, my mother. Who apparently forgot how phones work.”

“I know how phones work, how about you?” Eleanor shot back. “And had I called, we would have never found out our daughter is hiding an oversized boyfriend in her bedroom. Where did you find this guy? You are not exactly short, nor am I, yet he nearly scrapes the ceiling! He’s not one of those steroid abusing athletes, is he? So how long have you been sneaking around? Has he got no shirt? I do not approve of your Sodom and Gomorrah here, nor will your father!”

“Gawd, mother. No, Vince is not an athlete, doesn’t need ‘roids, being tall and muscular runs in his family. We are not sneaking around!” Sloane groaned, clearly upset, while fishing for my shirt, carelessly discarded onto the bedroom floor the night prior, slapped it into my bare chest while talking.

While slipping the shirt on, I, however, was thinking something along the lines of speak for yourself, because I very much had been sneaking around with her.

Sloane went through an entire slideshow of grimaces before adding, “It’s 2026, mom. We don’t introduce every man we just met to our family.”

Ouch. I shot her a glare. She closed her eyes and amended quickly, “Not like that is the case here. Vince and I have been very serious… ly… uh… talking… for about four, five months now.”

Talking?! I flagged that as total BS instantly, as did her mother judging by her face.
Talking. Pah! Never heard anyone getting knocked up by … ‘talking’.

“Talking?” Eleanor scoffed. “Sloane, honey, it’s pretty clear you’ve been doing a lot more than talking. For one, he came out of your bedroom, in the morning, in a state of undress. How naive do you think I am? I know what this is. But what I also know is that we don’t do this casual modern half‑baked Snowflake nonsense in our family. If you are serious about him, we all should know him. It’s safer that way too. He could be anybody — some dangerous creep for all we know!”

Both Sloane and I snorted, trying hard not to burst into full‑fledged laughter, because ole Eleanor had no idea how close she’d come to the truth. I was a dangerous creep alright — just not in the way she meant — but the damning glare we got from her cured us of our amusement instantly.

“Oh, you find that funny, do you? Might want to read how many young women fall victim to heinous crimes in this city!”

She straightened her coat like she was preparing for battle.

“Very well, you two are coming for lunch tomorrow. If you can remember where we live, that is. Considering it has been almost three months since we last saw you, I am not sure I shouldn’t send you a map.”

“Mom, I have a job and was just very busy. You know I am on assignment in Moonwood Mill — that is not exactly down the street from here, and there is weekend work involved sometimes. I know I told you and Dad all that. And you can’t just tell Vince what to do. He has plans.”

“Then he needs to clear his schedule, shouldn’t be a problem, if he is serious about dating my daughter. I am sure a decent young man would want to meet his girlfriend’s family. And we do Sunday lunch together, if you remember — you used to grace us with your presence. Even your Uncle Rick and his disaster of a family will be there. You two can manage, I am confident.”

She checked her watch.

“On that note, I have things to do — the roasts at my usual butcher were ridiculous, no way I’d serve that, so I was hoping to find something here. I am meeting your sister at that new butcher shop on 167th and Main. Only the best reviews, and Betsy from the club recommended it.” She gave Sloane a pointed little smile, then flicked her eyes to me. “I’d invite you to come along, Sloane, but it seems you already have… morning commitments.”

With that, she came toward me, creating an awkward moment in the tight space. I had to back into the bedroom to let her pass. The front door was directly across from the bedroom door, so she had a clear view into the rumpled bed and Sloane’s clothes from yesterday scattered across the floor. Front door open, she gave me a punishing look for evidently having desecrated her little girl the night prior before stepping out into the apartment hallway with one last disappointed look at her daughter.

After the door shut behind her, Sloane leaned against it with a groan.

“You don’t have to come. But I really have to show my face back home again. She is right about that part. They miss me and I them.”

“You don’t think I should?” I asked, watching her rub her forehead. “I figured I should meet them sooner or later. And they should meet me. Might help them understand this isn’t some Tinder type swipe‑right situation between us — it’s permanent. Especially now that we’re having a kid.”

Her head snapped back to me.

“Vince, whatever you do, do NOT bring that up!”

“I wasn’t. But unless your entire family is legally blind, I’m pretty sure the secret has an expiration date.”

“I will cross that bridge when the time comes. You know how you and your family feel about your curse? Yeah, that is me with this baby. You breathe a word of it and I will have to kill you. Coffee?”

She rose up and went to the kitchen.

Keeping Up with the Joneses Hartwells

Alrighty then.

What followed was not the easy morning I had hoped for.
Sloane was very tense and gave me full lists of instructions — about what to wear, when to pick her up, where and how to park, how to greet everyone. At some point she handed me a plate of breakfast, directed me to sit at her tiny table in the tiny corner of her tiny living room/kitchen area in her tiny apartment, put a fresh cup of coffee in front of me, then joined me with her own.

“Okay,” she said, bracing herself like she was about to deliver a medical diagnosis. “If you’re going to survive Sunday lunch with my family, you need… context.”

I glanced over, chewing. “That bad?”

She made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Not bad per se. Just … intense. You just met the worst of them. The rest is just… beige.”

“Beige?”

“My parents’ marriage and how they treat us. Emotionally beige,” she clarified. “Like a waiting room. Or a dentist’s office. Or a hotel lobby that’s trying too hard to look expensive.”

I snorted. “That’s wildly specific.”

“You’ll see.”

She shifted in her seat, pulling her hair over one shoulder — her “I’m about to overshare” tell.

“Okay, so. My parents. Eleanor — whom you just had the pleasure with — and Paul Hartwell. Mom is all in your face and Dad melts into the background to a point that you almost forget he’s there. They’re still together, and… functional. In the way a printer is functional. It works, but nobody feels anything about it. No passion. I can never remember ever seeing them kiss, let alone any hint of passion. Like… roommates.”

I bit back a smile. “Got it.”

“Mom is… polished. Very polished. She’s the kind of woman who irons dish towels — and I wish I were joking. She loves me, I guess, but she doesn’t really get me. She gets Blair.”

“Blair?”

“My older sister. The golden child. Perfect husband, perfect kids, perfect house, perfect hair. She’s basically a walking Pinterest board and Insta feed.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Oh, she’s nice,” Sloane said quickly. “She’s not a villain. She’s just… aggressively competent. And she has this way of talking to me like I’m a slightly malfunctioning appliance she’s trying to troubleshoot. Like my parents got it right the first time and I was so disappointing that they quit trying for more kids.”

I laughed. “That logic leaves much room for interpretation about me being an only child then. How much are you going to tell them about us—”

“The basics,” Sloane cut in. “Like, bare minimum. That lunch is strictly ‘meet my boyfriend, here, this is him, you can admire him, ask a few not too personal questions, but please don’t embarrass me.’ No in‑depth details or analysis.”

“Understood.”

She took a breath. “Then there’s Uncle Rick. My dad’s brother. And that’s where things get interesting.”

“Sounds like a steaming bowl of foreshadowing.”

“Yeah. He’s… the opposite of my parents. He’s messy. But he’s real. High school dropout turned bartender, divorced twice, lives in a tiny apartment with his son and grandson. He’s the only adult who ever treated me like a person instead of a résumé.”

I nodded. “I like him already.”

“You will. Everyone does. He’s chaos, but he’s lovable chaos.”

“And the cousin?”

“Jace,” she said, smiling despite herself. “He’s twenty‑seven, like me, also a bartender, also a disaster just like his dad. None of us ever met his mom, but he’s a good dad. He and Uncle Rick raise Milo together.”

“Milo.”

“Six years old. Mother MIA, and that’s probably a good thing, she was a total dumpster fire. Jace had a thing with a stripper and she ended up pregnant. After she had Milo she couldn’t handle it and fell off the bandwagon. Last we heard she went into rehab and then she just vanished. Might be in prison for all we know. Jace is over her, Milo’s fine, both better off without her. Milo’s pretty cool, calls me Auntie Lo. He’s the only child I’ve ever been close enough to to even offer to babysit him. I never once watched my sister’s brood but do play with them when we all meet at my parents’ place. As you heard, usually that was every week on Sunday.”

Something warm tugged in my chest. “So, you’re good with kids.”

She shot me a look. “Don’t get sentimental. I’m warning you about them, not auditioning for Mother of the Year. I don’t know how I am with kids. My sister and brother-in-law’s kids are trained monkeys and Rick, Jace, and Milo have no other family except for us, so they show up to the family things for Milo. Rick and my mom don’t really like each other. Complicated.”

I smirked. “Got it. Hartwell compendium of beige ’burbs drama.”

She groaned. “Vince, I’m serious. My family is… normal. Painfully normal. They do brunch. They do matching pajamas at Christmas – again, I wish I were joking but you will see the photos on Sunday. They do polite small talk and passive‑aggressive compliments. They do beige.”

“And you think I can’t handle beige?”

“I think you’re a six‑foot‑four werewolf in human form with a voice that sounds like a thunderstorm,” she said flatly. “Beige might… panic.”

I barked a laugh. “I’ll behave.”

“You better,” she muttered. “Because if my mother senses even a whiff of weirdness, she’ll put me in a prayer circle or something. And probably you as well.”

I reached over and took her hand. “Sloane. I’ll be normal. Everything will be fine. We’re a couple. We’re supposed to meet each other’s families. You met mine — not exactly average. They love you. You don’t think I can get your folks to at least… tolerate me and my six‑foot‑four self?”

She stared at me like she wasn’t convinced that was physically possible.

So I added a joke. “I promise I won’t tell your uncle I could bench‑press his car… Beatrice.”

I couldn’t resist using the middle name I’d only just learned.

She flipped me off, but she was smiling.

The Lions Den aka Meet The Family
A Drama in Four Acts

Act One — Sloane’s Pre‑Game Panic

By late morning the next day, I didn’t even get to go up to her apartment. I was early, rang the downstairs doorbell and she barked through the intercom:

“I’ll be right down!”

…Okay then.

Guess no hugs and snuggles for the big bad wolf this morning. Sad face.

The moment she stepped through the door, she slammed a paper‑wrapped bouquet of flowers into my chest hard enough to make me grunt.

“You shouldn’t have,” I joked, trying to lighten her tension.

She didn’t even look at me. Too busy straightening my collar like I was a toddler she was sending to picture day — then immediately yanking off the tie I had painstakingly put on.

“I didn’t,” she snapped. “They’re not for you. They’re for my mom, and you will hand them to her, pretending YOU bought them. And no tie. It’s a family lunch. Lose the sports coat too.”

She started tugging at my jacket, then paused, staring at the acres of white shirt stretched across my chest like a sail.

“…Actually, keep the jacket. Too much of you otherwise. They’d be intimidated.”

I looked down at the tie now dangling from her hand — the same tie it had taken me, my dad, and my grandpa a solid ten minutes to wrestle onto my neck that morning. Three giant werewolf‑sized men trying to knot a strip of fabric like it was a fabric riddle none of us were qualified to solve.

“So what am I gonna say when they ask about my career?”

“The truth. You’re a lumberjack and day laborer.” She froze. “No. Wait. Yikes. You are an independent contractor. Part of the family business. Shaw LLC. That’s what.”

I opened the truck door for her, but she shook her head so violently her hair slapped her cheek.

“No. No way we could take that rustbin. We’re taking my car. You drive. They’re conservative and when a couple goes somewhere, the man drives. Don’t ask. It’s cringe. I don’t want to ripple the waters.”

She slammed her keys in my midsection and headed towards her parking spot.
Trust me — it went on like that for the entire drive.

Act Two — The Descent Into Suburban Hell

The arrival was worse.

We got there, parked, I gallantly made it over to the passenger side before Sloane had finished reapplying her lipstick for no good reason at all, I mean, we drove barely 45 minutes of busy San Myshuno downtown streets, highway and then through the usual suburban cookie cutter neighborhood, not like we stopped at every drive-thru or made out like crazy on the way.

I opened the car door for her and helped her out, she gave me a sweet kiss then instantly went into rearranging my collar, my sports coat, even retucked my shirt into my pants which any man will tell you isn’t something you want your girl to do before meeting her entire family. Just something about your woman’s hands anywhere near the goods will usually be enough to have you sweating it.

Then she pointed at the backseat.

“Vince, the flowers!” in a tone that made them sound like a key to a secret entrance.

I grabbed them and turned to walk towards the house when Sloane pulled me back, giving me THAT look again.

“What?!” I grumbled as I had zero clue what now.

“Are you not gonna take the paper off! Seriously!”

Huh?

But okay, so I unwrapped the paper, balled it up and stomped over to the trashcans in a white picket enclosure matching the house’s siding and tossed it in.

“VINCE! Quit acting like the first man on earth!” Sloane hissed, shoved me aside, dumpster-dived for the paper and slammed it into the OTHER trashcan with a glare that could skin a rabbit.
Then she grabbed my hand and dragged me along like a misbehaving toddler in a store.
We were still three steps from the porch when the front door swung open. Sloane’s mom and a middle‑aged man who looked like he’d been an accountant since age twelve stood there.

And then a small white ball of fur launched itself out the door, yapping like it had been fired from a cannon.

Sloane greeted it. It froze mid‑wag — one of those cartoon “WHOA” moments — then forgot she existed and locked onto me. Barking. Growling. Attempting to lunge.

A ridiculous little creature. A trembling cotton ball of rage. A dog I could eat like a chicken nugget if I weren’t trying to make a good impression.

I fought my every instinct to kick that white ball of fluff clear across the street, as nonsensical as tiny yappers like this one were to me, this one was clearly beloved. And I needed to behave.

So I bent down to pet it.

The little bastard lunged, teeth bared, and nearly took my thumb off.

“Oh my stars! Pip – my sweet Pip. He never does that!” Eleonor grabbed him and snuggled him as if he had just escaped the Grim Reaper himself – then shot me an icy glare “It’s your size. You must have scared him! Come on my sweet baby, yes, you are, mommy will get you a little treat-y treat and you don’t have to be near that big bad man again. Did he scare you, did he now?” she mumbled disappearing inside.

“Eleonor loves that dog. Oh, please, come on in. Everyone is already in the dining room.” Paul now said with an embarrassed look and tone.

“Use the doormat!” came Eleonor’s voice from somewhere out of view.

Oh boy. I stepped back out and wiped so hard I almost lost both shoesoles, then stepped inside and closed the door.

Instantly I smell the artifical scent of pine and something warm from an airfreshener, along with intense amounts of cleaners.

The mother returned and I finally managed to give her the flowers. She lit up like I’d just proposed marriage to her. Well, at least she finally smiled at me and was happy about something I did, even though I hadn’t.

“Oh, look at this Paul. At least he has good manners. Your parents raised you right, Vincent. These are darling!” she swooped off to what I saw through the cracked door was the kitchen and Sloane smiled up at me, winking.

“Come on, meet the rest of us.”

Gulp. But okay.

Act Three — The Interrogation Chamber

I followed her to a medium sized dining room, and I recognized everyone on sight from Sloane’s description. Their reations were instant and the same, but only who had to be Jace’s son Milo said out loud what everyone else was probably thinking.

“Whoa – he is HUGE! Are you like a wrestler?”

“Uh, no. You must be Milo? Heard a lot about you.”

He gave me a suspicious look. “From who?”

I pointed at Sloane and he smirked. “Ah, okay, yeah, then it’s probably true.” he shrugged and turned his attention to his beeping toy.

Next I made the rounds, shaking hands, nodding. I was stared at. Analyzed. Measured up visually like a suspicious package.

In between introductions, I was almost forced to try the finger food being passed around — among them raw oysters. I’d never had those before, and after trying them I can honestly say I never will again.

If Sloane’s mother didn’t read as aggressively conservative, I would’ve sworn she was trying to prank me.

Aren’t oysters supposed to… do things to men?
Why would she feed me something rumored to turn a guy’s nether region into a disaster zone when it was clear we weren’t getting out of here anytime soon?

The whole thing felt like a test.

Maybe she wanted to see if I was as wild as I looked the first time we met.
Maybe she wanted to see if I could control myself.
Maybe she wanted to see if I’d combust on the spot and desecrate her little girl on the dining room table with the barely‑there brain cell she seemed to think I was operating with.

All those jokes about evil mothers‑in‑law? Yeah. They were starting to feel less like jokes and more like cautionary tales passed down through generations.

I heard Sloane’s mother and sister whisper-worry about whether the dining room chair could “support my mass.”
Wow.
All my life I had been larger than most, but not once had anyone worried it’d be too much for a regular chair.

Sloane’s sister, her brother‑in‑law, and their kids were exactly as she’d described — so perfect it made my brain hurt. The youngest, Raegan, was too little, and the boy, Brian, too polite, but mom and dad conducted a polite inquisition with the efficiency of a corporate HR panel.

Sloane’s mother interrogated me like she was auditioning for a detective show, then pivoted to scolding Uncle Rick, who honestly was the only normal one there. I actually knew him — not personally, but he bartended at one of the places I used to go before meeting Sloane. He tried to rescue me, bless him, and ended up on the receiving end of the drama. I didn’t have to ask who the designated black sheep in this family was. They all made it very clear. Poor Rick.

Jace mostly stayed quiet, I get it bro, keeping your head down, smart move, and I had to grin watching him trading secret eyerolls with Milo whenever no one was looking.

At some point I needed a break. My brain was screaming, my ears ringing, and my eyes glazing over from the relentless polite interrogation, so I excused myself to the restroom.

Crescendo — Shit-Stained Disaster with a side of 'Diarrhea of the Mouth'

“Sure, babe — out the door, first on the left.” Sloane smiled up at me and planted a delicate kiss on my jaw.

I took one step.

“Umm — Sloane…”

Eleanor materialized out of thin air like a judgmental ghost.

She looked at me, then at Sloane, then back at me again — slowly, as if she doubted my ability to process more than one sentence.

“I don’t think Vincent should be using that one.” Turned to me. “It is rather small.” Back to Sloane: “Have him use your and Blair’s old bathroom, honey.”

And she vanished.

Sloane gave me an apologetic look. “Okay. Up the stairs, slight right. You’re a trooper. I love you.”

So I trotted out of the dining room, following the directions, passing a framed photo I had to double back for. The entire Hartwell–Langford clan in matching Christmas outfits, grinning like a cult. Bottom left: “Merriest of Christmases 2025.”

Oh, Jesus Almighty.

I continued up the stairs and found the bathroom — passing what felt like a gazillion doilies on every surface imaginable. Doilies on tables. Doilies on shelves. Doilies on top of other doilies.

This house was a doily graveyard.

I stepped inside the bathroom.

Originally, I didn’t even need to go. But the moment I closed the door, my stomach made a sound so violent it startled me.

Suddenly I barely had time to tear down my pants and plant myself before the fireworks started.

I prayed — to every deity, spirit, ancestor, and forest god — that nobody could hear me.

Then came the moment every man fears.

I reached for the toilet paper.

Two squares.

Two.

Then: empty roll.

That wasn’t going to cut it. Not even close.

Panic set in.

I opened cabinets. Drawers. Decorative baskets. A wicker thing shaped like a swan. Nothing.

Sweat poured down my back. My inner wolf kept flaring — the primal, ancient instinct of a creature who knows he is trapped.

I suppressed it just as someone knocked.

“YEAH!” I barked — way too loud.

“Hey bro, it’s Rick.” Bless him. “You okay in there? Starting to get worried about you. I get it, trust me. But ole Eleanor is starting to get suspicious. Better head back into the lion’s den or she’ll come knocking next.”

“Yeah, I’ll be right out.” Then desperation hit. “Hey, Rick… can you organize me a roll of TP? We’re fresh out in here.”

He chuckled — the laugh of a man who had survived this exact battlefield.

“Check that ugly ass crochet thing on the toilet tank. I’ve been where you are. Learned the hard way.”

He tapped the door and left.

I pivoted.

There it was.

The crochet abomination.

A toilet paper roll disguised as a Victorian debutante. Seriously now?

I grabbed it, turned it over — and lo and behold.

“Ha!” Sweet, sweet salvation.

I rose to finish my business, trying to pull the roll free from the crocheted dress.

And then — in a moment of pure butterfingers — the roll slipped I caught it but dropped the crochet thing.

It hit the toilet bowl with a wet, horrifying BLURP and sank into the accumulated mess like a doomed ship.

“FUCK!” I roared, then instant regret.

Panic surged.

I tried to clean myself. Tried to unclog the toilet — yes, that happened too. Tried to clean the crochet thing — impossible. Every nook and cranny fought me like it was possessed.

Sweating, frantic, out of options, I cranked open the window and YEETED that wet blob of nonsense into the yard.

Then I scrubbed myself like I was prepping for surgery.

And headed back downstairs.

I pushed the bathroom trauma out of my mind and remingled.

On the upside the lunch itself later on turned out shockingly… good.

Three courses.
Three.
Followed by a cheese platter and a “digestive,” which turned out to be alcohol. (Why not just call it alcohol?)

I downed mine. Then noticed Sloane lifting hers to her lips.

I grabbed it from her.

She shot me death glares, narrowing her eyes at me like she was trying to set me on fire. I shot them right back, refusing to blink first.

“Who do you think you are, Vince? My mother?” she hissed, her voice razor‑thin.

“No,” I muttered, keeping my tone low and steady, “but you know why.”

“I need that,” she whispered sharply, reaching for the glass again, her fingers twitching with irritation.

“I get it,” I whispered back, leaning in, “but think of the baby.”

I tried to whisper that — really did — but two things worked against me:

Everyone suddenly went silent, staring at our lovers’ quarrel like it was live theater at their lunch table. And my voice carries even when I’m trying to whisper.

Yeah.

I will never in my life forget those stares.
Nor the way Sloane looked at me.
And what I felt like was an interrogation before was now ten times worse.

So yeah … that cat was out of the bag now.

Final Act — The Crochet Corpse Reveal

When it was FINALLY time to leave, we all stood clustered in the open front doorway, still making polite small talk — the kind where everyone is pretending the day went great and no one is emotionally bleeding out.

And then Pip the Pomeranian trotted past us.

Trotted. Tail high. Proud. Carrying something roughly his own size in his tiny, furious jaws.

“Oh, puppy, what have you found now? No, no no no, Mister — give it here…”

Sloane’s mom bent down to wrestle the object from him.

Then she screamed.

Not a normal scream. A scream that froze my blood, rattled my spine, and made me instinctively brace for a dead raccoon, a severed limb, or a demon manifesting in the entryway.

Everyone came running back.

We all stared at the thing at her feet.

And then I saw it.

Not a dead animal. Not a toy. Not a random yard casualty.

No.

Pip — that tiny, trembling, chicken‑nugget‑sized menace — had found the shit‑stained crochet toilet roll holder I had yeeted out the bathroom window and dragged it triumphantly back inside like he’d retrieved the Holy Grail.

Sloane’s mom looked like she was about to have a heart attack.

“My late mother’s fine needlework… the family heirloom.”

Her voice cracked on heirloom.

I tried to look inconspicuous. Invisible. Like maybe if I stood very still, I’d blend into the wallpaper.

But eventually — inevitably — every pair of eyes turned to me.

Yeah.

How’s that for busted.

Epilogue - We'll Talk Later

By the time we were in her car, Sloane was quiet. Too quiet.
I gave her space. Until we hit the on‑ramp back to San Myshuno.

Then it unleashed.
SHE unleashed.

By the time we pulled into her parking garage, we were full‑on yelling at each other — the kind of yelling where both people are right and both people are wrong and neither person is breathing.

Before you worry — yeah, we made up.

All night, upstairs in her bedroom.

We’re fine.