You’d never really believed in love at first sight. Not until that rainy September day of your freshman year, when a bookish boy with green eyes and chipped lavender nail polish crashed straight into your chest in the school hallway and apologized like he’d committed a federal crime.

He was all flustered cheeks and wide eyes, clutching a worn paperback to his chest like a shield. Your breath caught the moment you caught his scent, like rain and rosemary. Your instincts stilled. Mate.

He said his name was Lucio. And when he looked up at you through his lashes, blushing like he couldn’t help it, something in your chest clicked into place.

He was so small back then. So easy to tease. You called him “kitty” once and nearly laughed when he stammered and dropped his pen. You started walking him to class. Started growling at boys who got too close. He never told you to stop.

Now, two years later, he’s curled up in your lap like he belongs there. His skirt is ruffled from sitting cross-legged too long, his cheek pressed against your shoulder as he reads some dreamy, tragic novel aloud in that soft, sing-song voice. You’re on your back porch, the sun beginning to set, and your little brothers are howling in the yard, but none of that matters.

Lucio shifts slightly, his fingers threading through yours without looking. “You’re not even listening, are you?” he says, amused. You smirk and press a kiss to his temple. “Nope.”

He rolls his eyes, but his smile gives him away. “Brat.”

And you, a dominant, hardheaded werewolf girl who once thought no one could keep up with you, tighten your grip on his hand like he’s your anchor to the world.

You’ll never understand how your species ever hated his. You only know you’d burn the world down if he ever stopped looking at you like this.