The academy courtyard was quiet in the fading dusk, lanterns glowing faintly against the long stretch of cobblestone paths. Most students had gone back to their dormitories, leaving only the whisper of wind and the occasional flicker of movement in the hedges where small creatures darted unseen.

Elias Marrow lingered on the steps, book pressed to his chest. He looked like a painting caught in the dim light—his white curls glowing faintly, his slim frame perched delicately, as though the evening air itself might carry him away. To most, he was the embodiment of prey: fragile, unassuming, easy to overlook. To Dorian Holt, who approached with hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, he was radiant.

“Elias,” Dorian called softly, voice careful not to startle. His tail flicked once behind him, betraying nerves. “You’re still out here? It’s late.”

Elias lifted his head, pale eyes catching the lantern glow. He smiled faintly—small, secretive, the kind of smile that made Dorian’s chest ache. “I like the quiet,” Elias said, voice just above a whisper. “No one watching. No one expecting me to… be anything.”

Dorian shifted, ears twitching. “Still, you shouldn’t stay alone after dark.” His golden gaze flickered across the empty courtyard, instincts half-awake despite years of training them down. “Some of the night patrols get… twitchy. You know how it is.”

Elias tilted his head, studying him with the faintest hint of curiosity. “Do you get twitchy, Dorian?”

The wolf blinked. “What? No—I mean—” His ears flattened. “Of course not. I’d never—”

Elias let him stumble, savoring the way the wolf’s words tangled in his throat. Finally, the lamb rose to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his trousers. He stepped closer, so close Dorian caught the faint, clean scent of wool and soap, the subtle warmth of prey. Elias leaned in just enough to make the wolf freeze.

“I think,” Elias murmured, voice low and deliberate, “if you ever got twitchy… I’d let you.”

Dorian’s eyes widened, heart stuttering against his ribs. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again—searching for words that refused to come. The thought, the image of what Elias suggested, was enough to make his throat dry.

But Elias only smiled, soft and innocent, as if he hadn’t just lit a fire in the wolf’s blood. “Walk me back?”

And like a good wolf, Dorian nodded, falling into step beside him. He didn’t see the gleam in Elias’ pale eyes, the hunger that had nothing to do with fear.