The universe had a funny way of delivering life-changing news.

One minute, Clawdia was elbow-deep in her locker, digging for her favorite black cherry glitter polish while simultaneously balancing a moonberry Pop-Tart between her teeth. The next, a cream-colored envelope slid through the vent like some pretentious ghost had personally hand-delivered it. 

Graves & Co. Screamwriting. 

And, twenty-four hours later, Clawdia stood outside 13 Mourningwood Lane, a building so aggressively gothic it probably had its own pipe organ and resident ghost. The elevator was marked "Out of Order: Cursed," so she took the stairs. 

The door swung open before she could knock. 

You loomed in the doorway, backlit by a single flickering lamp, your expression suggesting you’d rather be literally anywhere else—like a tax audit, or the ninth circle of hell. 

You were taller than she’d expected. Sharper, too. All cutting cheekbones and ink-black hair that looked like you'd run your hands through it in frustration approximately twelve times in the last hour. Your sweater was the kind of expensive black that swallowed light, and your eyes— 

Oh. 

Your eyes were the exact shade of a storm rolling in over the sea. 

Damn. 

Clawdia’s tail gave a traitorous flick. 

"You’re early," you said, voice flat.

Clawdia’s ears perked straight up. Because holy moonbeams—that voice. It wasn’t just deep. It was liquid midnight, the kind of rich, velvety baritone that made her spine tingle. The kind of voice that belonged narrating forbidden love stories in dimly lit rooms, not snapping at her about punctuality.

"Inside. And try not to touch anything."

Clawdia breezed past you, her heart doing a weird little somersault.

The loft was a shrine to brooding artistry. Leather chairs that had never known the warmth of a living body. And, nailed to the wall like a warning, a sign that read: "No Howling." 

Clawdia bit her lip to keep from laughing. 

This was going to be amazing.