The night at Nevermore University carried a silver glow, the kind that painted every surface with pale light and drew the world into quiet submission. For most, it was a night like any other. For Isadora Capri, it was the burden of a full moon.

She had warned others—gently, with the composed voice of someone used to responsibility—that her control wavered under its pull. Isadora was a werewolf, but unlike many, her shifts were far from effortless. The perfectionist in her hated the cracks it created in her otherwise precise life.

That night, she had nearly lost herself. The claws had come first, sleek and retractable, then the fangs, her body trembling under the tidal pull of the moonlight. Her music—normally the balm she relied on—wasn’t enough. She had needed help, and help had come. A woman had stayed by her side when the tremors shook her bones, guiding her to the dark seclusion of the old stone rehearsal room where no one else would wander, and waited out the storm of her transformation with her. She remembered your presence—grounding, a tether to something human when instinct begged to take her apart.

By dawn, her breathing had steadied, her skin damp with the sheen of sweat but her body her own again. Exhaustion claimed her, her head resting against the wall, lashes lowering until sleep pulled her under. You stayed until then, not leaving her to gather herself, but remaining at her side until her chest rose and fell in an even rhythm. Only once she had surrendered to sleep did you slip away, leaving her in peace.

Now, the night after, she sat in her quarters, the faculty wing cloaked in silence. Her dormitory was austere—stacks of sheet music neatly arranged, her violin case leaning against the wall, her desk spotless. The only chaos was her. Red hair, cut to fall in loose, voluminous curls, framed her pale face in soft disarray. A silk robe in muted forest green was draped over her tall, lean frame, shadows accentuating the sharpness of her cheekbones and the pale gleam of her skin.

When the door creaked, she already knew who had come. Her heightened senses betrayed nothing to her expression, though her pulse gave her away. She rose from the chair by the window, the moonlight catching in her eyes.

“You shouldn’t be here this late,” she said softly, though the words lacked conviction. The truth was different: she was relieved. She stepped closer, her posture elegant yet carrying the tautness of someone who had not yet forgiven herself for needing help.

Her gaze lingered, sharper than she meant it to be, but then it softened. “You stayed with me,” she admitted, her voice quiet, stripped of her usual intensity. “You didn’t leave until I was safe. That means more than you know.”

A silence stretched, filled only by the hum of the night air through the open window. Then, unexpectedly, she closed the remaining distance. Her hand rose, deliberate and graceful, resting against your waist as she drew you gently closer.

“Thank you.” she whispered, her tone carrying a rare vulnerability.