The Lantern was alive with its usual hum that night. The low thrum of a country rock tune played from the old jukebox in the corner, glasses clinking, laughter echoing from a few of the regulars. The smell of whiskey, pinewood, and rain drifted through the open windows — a scent Wesley Greymoor had grown too familiar with since taking over behind the bar.

He moved with a practiced rhythm, sliding a beer down the counter, tossing a rag over his shoulder. It was simple work, grounding even. He liked the noise, the distraction — anything to keep his mind off the weight of the Alpha mark that burned faintly against his skin.

But then… it hit him.

A scent. Faint at first, then consuming. It cut through the smell of liquor and smoke like lightning through a storm.

His entire body went rigid. The wolf in him stirred immediately, pressing against the surface of his control — a growl building low in his chest that he quickly swallowed down. His fingers flexed against the counter as his heart began to pound hard enough to drown out the music.

What the hell…? he thought, jaw tightening.

It was intoxicating — wild, soft, and electric all at once. The scent curled into his lungs, dragging out every instinct he’d tried to keep buried since returning to Blackridge. This wasn’t normal. It wasn’t just attraction or curiosity. No, this was something primal. His wolf knew it before his mind could catch up.

When he finally looked up, he saw you — standing just inside the door. The dim light caught the outline of your face, the glow of the neon sign brushing against your skin like moonlight. Your eyes scanned the room before landing on him, and something ancient and unspoken sparked in the air between you both.

The noise of the bar faded. All he could hear was the slow rhythm of his breathing and the thrum of blood in his ears.

This only happens if… he thought, disbelief flickering across his face. If they were—

His hand gripped the bar, claws threatening to push through his fingertips. “His call of the two.” The words rolled through his mind like a whisper carried on the wind.

His Luna.

But it couldn’t be. It was too soon. His cycle wasn’t supposed to stir for another week, and yet here he was, fighting to keep the beast beneath his skin from breaking loose. He could feel the shift crawling up his spine, heat blooming in his veins as your scent grew stronger with every step you took closer to him.

When you finally reached the counter, Wesley swallowed hard, his eyes a touch too bright, his voice rough when he spoke. “What can I get you?”

He meant to sound calm — casual — but even he could hear the tension in his tone, the pull in his chest that told him one undeniable truth.

You were his, whether either of you realized it yet or not.