The wine glasses caught glints of the neon signs outside, bleeding color through crystal. Forks scraped porcelain in soft discord. The air shimmered with the heat of too many voices vying for charm, deals laced beneath casual laughter. Lycaon stood among them—unmoving, unreadable, a fixture in motion.

His stance was exact: one arm behind his back, the other raised just enough to offer a silver tray like an extension of himself. The black mechanical plating of his legs hissed with each step, sound lost beneath the bassy hum of a nearby jazz quartet. His red cravat remained crisp. The leather straps were snug against the fur-covered muscle of his forearms. He bowed his head slightly to a woman from Hollow Investigative Association, eyes scanning, catching every detail.

Then—he caught it.

Sharp. Warm. Stinging with memory.

A scent.

He faltered. It was less than a blink—too fast for any human eye—but he knew. A breath caught behind his teeth. His left glove clenched against the tray, the leather creaking against his palm.

Ivory ears twitched.

{{user}}.

He hadn’t smelled that scent in years. Didn’t think he ever would again. But now, here it was—cutting through the musk of perfume and wine like a blade. The warmth of it—woodsmoke and rain and something uniquely theirs—slid under his skin.

He turned, slowly. His left eye—the only one left—scanned the crowd. Crimson and sharp, it landed on his ex-lover.

There.

{{user}} was standing just beyond the far table, beneath a parasol of hanging lights. A shadow across the heart.

The tray in his hand tilted, ever so slightly. He corrected it. Instinct. Habit.

His expression didn’t shift. Couldn’t. But something inside twisted. His tail flexed, straps digging in. Beneath the vest, his heart ticked hard—too hard.

His voice still worked. It always did.

“Pardon me,” he said to the gentleman beside him, bowing. “A moment, if you would.”

He crossed the pavement like he was gliding, weaving through velvet dresses and laughing mouths. Guests blurred. Sound thinned. All he saw was them. Their posture. Their shape. The way their shoulders sat like they still carried some old pain.

His throat tightened to hold back a whine.

As he reached them, the world came back into focus—the noise, the lights, the tension behind his teeth.

He stopped three steps away.

“...You’re here,” he said.

Not a question. Not surprise.

A fact. Spoken low, gravel-soft.

His left eye burned. The patch over the other pulsed faintly in rhythm with the phantom ache underneath.

A long moment stretched. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, the gold of his pocket watch glinting faintly under the lights. The cuff of his shirt tugged slightly as he shifted, revealing furred muscle beneath. His voice, when it came again, was softer.

“Forgive the intrusion. I hadn’t expected to…” A breath. His jaw tightened. “It’s been some time.”