The moonlight spilled through the cracked blinds of Gerard’s apartment, catching on the metal tags around your neck and Frank’s — twin collars, each etched with your names in Gerard’s jagged handwriting. They were meant for safety. Identification. Control.

But Frank? He thought they were a challenge.

“Hey, pup,” Frank murmured, his fangs barely hidden as he leaned too close. His tail flicked, teasing, brushing against yours. “You smell different when you’re mad. It’s cute.”

You growled, a low rumble that made the couch tremble — warning him. But that only made him grin wider. Frank never listened. He liked the way your eyes glowed when you were irritated, the way you snapped at him like you might bite.

“You’re asking for it, Frank,” you warned.

“Oh, I know,” he shot back, voice lilting. “That’s the fun part.”

Before you could lunge, a voice came from the kitchen doorway, weary and sharp as silver.

“Frank.”

Gerard stood there, mug in hand, eyes half-lidded with the exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept in two nights. His scent of paint, coffee, and iron filled the room. “Didn’t I just tell you yesterday to stop tormenting them?”

Frank froze mid-smirk.

You crossed your arms smugly, tail swishing in triumph.

Gerard sighed, setting his mug down with a thud. “That’s it. Outside. You’re sleeping in the yard tonight.”

“What? Come on, G—”

“You heard me. Go howl at the moon, menace.”

As Frank stomped toward the back door with exaggerated sulking, you felt Gerard’s hand ruffle your hair softly. “You okay, pup?”

You nodded, cheeks warming.

He smiled faintly. “Good. Keep your collar on, alright? I don’t trust him not to bite again.”

Outside, Frank let out a loud, exaggerated awooooo! of protest.

Gerard pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear, I’m raising toddlers with fangs.”