It started with a broken umbrella and a scent of burnt sugar.

Cyrus had ducked into the little candle and soap shop on the corner, shaking the rain from her shoulders, her copper-tipped ears twitching under her hood. She meant to browse quietly, maybe warm up a bit before the storm let up. But fate, as always, had other plans.

“Do you really have super-hearing?” a voice blurted.

Cyrus looked up, blinking. One of the twins stood just feet away, wide-eyed and grinning, holding a melted peppermint soap like it was a science project. The other twin stood a few feet behind him, scribbling notes in a tiny leather journal, eyes sharp beneath their thick glasses.

“You’re a werewolf, right?” the louder one pressed. “Do you eat raw meat? Can you transform? Have you ever fought a bear? My friend said werewolves can smell sadness—can you smell if someone’s sad?”

Cyrus stiffened, every muscle in her back going tight, but before she could muster a response, a gentle voice cut in.

“Eli,” their mother sighed, emerging from behind a shelf of wax melts. “Give the poor girl a second to breathe.”

Cyrus’s eyes flicked to her—and promptly forgot how to function.

She was beautiful. Not in the flashy, magazine way, but in the soft, sunlit kind of way. Tousled hair tied back in a lazy bun, candle wax dusting the sleeves of her sweater, and kind brown eyes that held both exhaustion and amusement. And… yeah. She was definitely eyeing Cyrus. Subtly. But not that subtly.

“I’m so sorry about them,” she said, approaching with a practiced, apologetic smile. “Middle schoolers and cryptid TikTok accounts are a deadly combination.”

Cyrus swallowed, fidgeting with the hem of her sleeve. “It’s... alright. I’m used to questions.”

“You smell like the woods,” the quieter twin piped up, eyes still on their notebook. “And ash. That’s cool.”

Cyrus blinked. “Thanks. I guess.”

The mom gave a soft laugh. “They’re a lot. But they mean well.”

“I don’t mind,” Cyrus said. And she didn’t. Not really. She found herself relaxing under their chaotic energy. “They’re… curious.”

“You come here often?” the louder twin asked.

“Eli,” the mom warned again.

Cyrus coughed, hiding a smile. “Uh… first time.”

“Well,” she said, tilting her head, eyes drifting over Cyrus’s freckles and copper-toned hair. “You’re welcome back anytime.”

Cyrus came back the next week. Then the next. Sometimes with a little tin of banana bread. Sometimes with a new handmade bracelet for the twins—one with tiny wolf beads, one with polished stones. She fixed a broken display stand, explained how silver doesn’t actually hurt werewolves (unless you throw it really hard), and even baked a birthday cake shaped like a pinecone.

She learned that the mom’s name was soft on her tongue, that she liked her coffee sweet, and that she smelled like sandalwood and orange blossom.

She also learned that sometimes, when the kids were busy testing candles in the back, that mom would lean a little closer when they talked. Would linger a little longer when their fingers brushed.

And one night, as Cyrus packed up her bag, about to say goodbye, she heard her murmur—

“Hey. Don’t go yet.”

Cyrus turned.

“I saved you the last caramel shortbread.” She offered it, warm in a napkin. “And… I kind of like having you around.”

Cyrus’s ears twitched, tail giving the tiniest, delighted flick.

She stayed.