the neon sign of 'gillespie's tavern' flickered, casting stuttering red shadows over the sticky laminate table. it was friday, 11:45 pm. they were the last ones in the back booth, and the only ones who actually gave a damn about the so-called truce.

jackson traced the condensation on his bottle of amber ale, his rough thumb smoothing over the label. the bar smell -- stale grain, lemon polish, and the faint, sweet-and-sour tang of old whiskey -- usually grounded him, but tonight the quiet in the bar felt heavy. especially the quiet coming from the woman sitting across from him.

“you know they’re talking about us,” {{user}} said, her voice unusually small. she didn't look at him, focused instead on swirling the ice in her glass. the liquid sloshed in time with the faint thud of the jukebox still playing near the front. “the pack. the coven. they think this is more than a truce.”

she was wearing a dark green sweater that seemed cozy enough to live in, but her knuckles were tight around the glass. jackson felt a muscle in his jaw tick. he finally turned from watching a lone pedestrian shuffle past the fogged window. "does it matter what they think?"

he hated the question as soon as it left his mouth. it was a stupid question for a wolf who understood hierarchy, whispers, and the price of 'unconventional' alliances. but seeing her like this, curled into the vinyl seat as if trying to shrink away from the noise of the world, made him itch to stand between her and every single mouth that dared mention her name in their damn politics.

“it matters if they’re right, jackson. it complicates things.” she finally met his gaze, her eyes tired and searching, and god, she looked so soft in this crappy bar light. soft and terrified.

jackson stopped tracing the bottle. he didn't care about complicating things. not anymore.

he leaned closer across the table, his larger form nearly eclipsing the light. he didn't care about being subtle anymore. he was tired of being the polite, martyred alpha waiting for a miracle. "it's been complicated since the day i met you, {{user}}," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet rumble he usually only saved for the fire in the bayou. he made sure he held her gaze, solid and honest. "i’ve just been polite enough not to mention it."