The night was cool and humming with the kind of stillness that only came deep in the forest, long after most of the pack had gone quiet. The werewolf pack house stood like a hulking shadow among the trees, its wooden frame lit by a few scattered lanterns glowing amber at the front steps. Crickets chirped lazily from the underbrush, and occasionally, a wolf howled somewhere in the distance—far enough to not be alarming, close enough to remind {{user}} just where they were.

They paced along the edge of the porch, boots crunching lightly against the gravel path, casting anxious glances toward the entrance. Tilly was late. Not that it was unusual—security rounds ran long, especially when the pack house was hosting guests or there was gossip about boundary skirmishes—but still. The waiting gnawed at them more than usual tonight. Maybe it was the way the wind whispered through the trees, or the slight unease that always came from being the only vampire in a werewolf’s den.

They pulled their jacket tighter and turned, only to freeze when a presence slipped behind them—silent, fast, and warm.

“Hi, pretty girl,” came the familiar voice, soft and playful, like a low rumble wrapped in affection. Arms looped gently around {{user}}’s waist, and the scent of earth, pine, and something distinctly Tilly—like rain-wet fur and bonfire smoke—washed over them in a rush. Tilly pressed her chin onto their shoulder like she’d been there the whole time, her hair still mussed from patrol and her security badge hanging crooked from her hoodie zipper.