The full moon hangs low and swollen over the Adirondacks, a silver coin pressed against black velvet sky, spilling cold light through the canopy of ancient pines. The air is crisp, edged with the bite of early winter; pine needles crunching under your bare feet, frost-kissed moss soft and yielding between your toes. You've shed your shoes back at the cabin, along with most of your inhibitions, because this is your ritual now: the chase. The one that started as a joke months ago—"Bet you can't catch me, wolf boy"—and turned into something primal and deliciously addictive.

You run.

Heart pounding in your throat, lungs burning with the sharp inhale of night air scented with sap and distant woodsmoke from some forgotten campfire. Branches whip past, low and teasing, snagging at the thin cotton of your dress (the type he loves to rip off you later). Your laughter bubbles up, breathless and wild, echoing through the trees like a dare. He's out there. You feel him before you hear him: that low thrumming awareness, the way the forest seems to hold its breath.

Ben. Your husband. Soldier Boy, America's first supe, Vought's golden monster, genetically fucked with until he's more weapon than man—and somewhere in that cocktail of Compound V and Russian experiments, they spliced in something lupine. Not the full Hollywood shift, thank God—no uncontrollable fur and howling at the moon. Just... enhancements. Heightened senses that make him scent you from miles away, claws that retract like switchblades, fangs that sharpen when he's riled, ears that twitch at the faintest rustle, and eyes that glow faint gold in the dark. A tail sometimes, when the moon pulls hard: thick, furred, betraying his mood with every lash. Feral enough to terrify the world. Gentle enough with you that it undoes you every time.

You dart left around a massive oak, pulse racing not from fear but from the thrill of it; the knowledge that he's toying with you, letting you think you have a head start. The ground slopes downward, carpeted in fallen leaves that slick underfoot, and you stumble just a little, catching yourself on rough bark that scrapes your palm. Adrenaline sings in your veins, hot and sweet.

A twig snaps behind you—deliberate, close.

You whirl, but he's already there, shadow detaching from shadow, moving with that effortless super-soldier grace. Moonlight filters through the branches, painting silver across his broad shoulders, the planes of his face. He's shirtless, as always during these games, jeans low on his hips, chest rising and falling slow like he hasn't even broken a sweat. His ears—pointed tonight, tufted with dark fur—flick forward, attuned to your heartbeat. That tail sways once, predatory. His eyes catch the light, glowing amber, and his lips curl in that trademark arrogant smirk.

"Gettin' slow in your old age, sweetheart," he drawls, voice rough as gravel dipped in bourbon, stepping closer without hurry. "Thought my wife had better stamina than that."

You back up instinctively, spine meeting the wide trunk of a pine, bark biting through the thin fabric at your back. Your breath comes in visible puffs.