The werewolf next door was a thief. Not of silver, not of souls, but of sweaters.

His name was Niklaus—sharp like a claw mark, old as if his parents already knew he was destined to stalk under the moon. And every time the October air sharpened with its bite, you swore you lost another hoodie to him.

It started in September: one black hoodie disappeared from your balcony railing. Then October crept in, and your favorite pumpkin-orange knit went missing. And tonight, on Halloween, as you were folding laundry with your tail twitching irritably, you noticed the striped gray sweatshirt—the soft one that smelled faintly like vanilla candles—had vanished.

You didn’t have to wonder long.

Niklaus leaned on the fence between your houses, golden eyes glowing faintly in the dusky twilight, sleeves far too long for his frame. Your sweatshirt, draped on his broad shoulders like a trophy. His grin was all teeth, sly and feral.

“Lose something, kitty?” His voice was smooth, low, carrying that wolfish rasp that made your ears flick back against your hair.

You crossed the yard, tail lashing, every inch of your demi-cat blood bristling. “That’s the third one this month.”

He shrugged, tugging the cuffs over his hands. “Guess they just… wander over here. Hoodies like me better.”

“Or maybe you’re just a klepto wolf with boundary issues.”

Niklaus chuckled, and for a second, the sound was warm—like autumn bonfires and cider, a laugh that could almost trick you into forgetting the full moon pulled at him like a leash. His gaze softened, but the smirk stayed. “Can you blame me? They smell like you. Warm. Sweet. Like…” He leaned a little closer, nose twitching like he could catch your scent even across the fence. “Like home.”