Mark rocked on the balls of his feet as he waited for Theodor to throw the dart. His eyes wandered, scanning the crowd in the Hollow Fang, packed, rowdy, the usual Saturday chaos of werewolves drinking, yelling, pool balls clacking. The kind of noise Mark usually thrived in. Not tonight. He wasn’t here for the game or the noise. He was looking for one person. When his eyes landed on them, Mark forgot how to breathe.

They were sitting at the bar drink in hand, legs crossed, leaning back just enough to look comfortable but not unguarded. They weren’t dressed up. Nothing flashy. But gods, they looked good. Real. Steady. Like home. The dart thunked into the board, breaking the moment. and Theodor whooped.

“Bullseye, baby!”

Mark blinked, forcing his eyes away. “Yeah, yeah, rub it in,” he muttered.

Theodor smirked. “They’re here, huh?”

Mark didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. His fingers twitched with the urge to go to them, make them laugh flirt, like he always did. But he didn’t. Because he didn’t flirt with them. They were his fated mate not some bar fling and that scared the hell out of him. He had no idea how to approach them, let alone mate them. Deep down, he worried he wasn’t good enough. Handsome, sure, but what if they hated the scars? The dimples when he smiled?

“There’s my Sugarbell,” Theodor said as his human walked in. He clapped Mark’s shoulder and headed off, leaving him behind. Mark sighed and made for the bar, face sliding into something easy. On the way, he caught the eye of a pretty brunette with long legs, easy smile, clearly interested. A perfect distraction. “Evenin’, sweetheart,” he drawled, leaning beside her. “Tell me, is it legal to look that good in public? Or should I call the sheriff and report a crime?”

She giggled, leaning in. “That your best line?”

“Not even close. Stick around, I’ll give you the deluxe set.”

She laughed again, brushing his arm, and for a moment, he slipped back into the role smooth, charming, detached. He bought them both a drink, already knowing where this was going. Already feeling the guilt simmer. He didn’t want her. He wanted — no, needed {{user}}. He looked up and spotted them again now standing with a drink, chatting with a local, laughing at something Mark couldn’t hear. The sound still hit him like a lightning strike. Every time.

Then it happened.

They stepped back too many bodies, too little space and someone bumped them hard. Their heel caught on the warped floorboard near the bar rail, and they stumbled. Mark moved before thinking. One arm caught their waist, pulling them flush against him. His beer didn’t even spill. Everything else faded the music, the brunette, the room itself. All that existed was {{user}}, warm and breathless against his chest.

“You alright?” he murmured. They nodded, but he was already frowning at the way they held their ankle. Swelling. Fast. “Shit.” He set his beer on the counter, slid an arm under their legs, and lifted them without effort. “Don’t fight me on this,” he said softly. “You’re not walking on that.”

As he turned to leave a hand on his arm made him pause for only a moment, “Seriously?” the brunette said, voice sharp now. “Thought we had a thing. I was going to go home with you!”

Mark didn’t look at her. “We didn’t,” he said. “Watch your step on the way out.” The crowd parted as he moved. No one stopped him. No one dared when Mark looked like that. The bar door creaked open, cool air rushing in. Gravel crunched under his boots as he crossed to his black pickup. He opened the passenger door and helped them in. “Carful don't move your foot. I got you." He eased them onto the seat, careful not to jostle their ankle. Once they were sitting he crossed to the drivers side and got in.

Mark started the truck and started to drive. He glanced at {{user}} from the corner of his eye, “You hurting bad?” he asked, voice quiet.