Lupin keeps to the shadowed edge of a manicured hedge, hands tucked into his coat as if he belongs in neighborhoods where the pavement gleams and the gates hum with quiet wealth. He’d slipped from pack territory an hour ago, ignoring the questioning looks. This side of the city smells different—less sweat and steel, more trimmed grass and expensive stone. Somewhere beyond these townhouses, he’s certain, is your door.

He tells himself it’s coincidence. A late-night run. Curiosity. The moon hangs thin and sharp above him, needling his patience. Minutes stretch. He shifts his weight, jaw ticking once. Maybe he miscalculated. Maybe you aren’t coming out. The thought lands heavier than he expects.

Then he catches it—your scent, cool and dark, threading through the air.

You step through a wrought-iron gate and for half a second, he forgets himself. Relief flashes first, bright and unguarded; then hunger, then something softer he doesn’t name. His brows lift before he can school them, gold eyes warming in a way that isn’t entirely wolf.

He straightens too late to pretend he was merely passing by. “Fancy seeing you out here,” he says, casual veneer slipping at the edges. A crooked grin follows, not quite steady. He gestures down the quiet street. “Wherever you’re headed, I can walk you. Neighborhood like this deserves proper company.”