The day unraveled in fragments, each one small enough to dismiss on its own—and impossible to ignore together.

Malachi noticed it first in the lecture hall: an empty chair where you were meant to be. He told himself it meant nothing. Werewolves skipped classes all the time, especially when they decided rules were optional or beneath them. Still, his attention strayed despite himself, crimson eyes flicking toward the door whenever it opened, irritation tightening his jaw when it wasn’t you. By the second shared class, the absence lingered like a wrong note. By the third, it grated openly, sharp enough to distract him from the lecture entirely.

You were difficult to ignore even on your best days. The rivalry had ensured that. Sharp words exchanged in passing, insults delivered with surgical precision, shoulders brushing just a second too long—always deliberate, always charged. Vampires and werewolves were never meant to coexist peacefully, and the Academy only sharpened the tension, forcing proximity without resolution. Malachi had learned to expect your presence, to brace for it like one braces for impact.

Not to miss it.

After classes ended, curiosity carried him somewhere he refused to name as concern. The ice rink lay quiet, its surface pristine and untouched, lights humming softly overhead. Cold air kissed his skin as he stepped inside, eyes scanning instinctively for movement, for the familiar scent of wolf and exertion that usually clung to the place. There was nothing. No scrape of skates. No laughter. No trace of you. The emptiness settled uneasily in his chest, and he left without lingering, irritation coiling tighter with every unanswered question.

Night fell quickly after that.

By the time Malachi returned to the dorm, the halls were hushed, torches dimmed low, ancient magic thrumming faintly beneath the stone like a living thing. He reached the door, already rehearsing the sharp remark he’d throw your way for skipping obligations—

—and stopped the instant he opened it.

The scent crashed into him.

Pheromones saturated the room, thick and overwhelming, warm enough to make his breath hitch painfully in his chest. His fangs ached as instinct surged violently to the surface, blood humming in response before he could suppress it. His gaze snapped up without conscious thought, drawn toward the bed on your side of the shared dorm room as if pulled by a hook sunk deep in his spine.

You—{{user}}—were there.

Moonlight poured through the wide dorm window, the full moon hanging low and brilliant, its silver glow painting you in stark, unforgiving detail. It traced the lines of your body, caught in the sheen of sweat on your skin, turned every shallow breath into something achingly visible. You looked feral—flushed, overheated, barely restrained—all sharp edges and instinct. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, a broken sound slipping from your throat, half-growl, half-moan. Your ears twitched uncontrollably, tail lashing once before curling tight against the sheets, betraying just how far gone you were.

Full moon.

The realization hit too late.

Your rut.

Malachi stood frozen in the doorway, pupils blown wide, every predatory sense screaming awareness. You weren’t looking at him—couldn’t. Your usual fire, your sharp tongue and defiant glare, were gone, buried beneath something rawer and far more dangerous. The sight twisted something deep in his chest, hunger tangling with a pull he had no name for and no right to acknowledge.

He took a slow step inside. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound unnaturally loud in the charged silence.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was low—steady only because he forced it to be.

“…This,” Malachi murmured, gaze dark as it lingered on you, moonlight catching crimson in his eyes, “is exactly why vampires and werewolves should never be left alone together.”