Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Espiritu never really slept. The city hummed at all hours, air conditioners rattling against brick, streetcars sighing down the line, the steady electric buzz that hid the breathing of things that weren’t quite human.

Evan Kilpatrick stepped out of the subway into the orange glow of a busted streetlight, tugging his jacket tighter. The air smelled faintly of fried food, exhaust, and a dozen different species pretending to be people. Glamours shimmered just out of sight: a woman with too-long hair that twitched in the breeze, a delivery man whose shadow had too many legs. Nobody looked twice. Not in Espiritu.

The small grocery on the corner, Mercado Espiritu, blinked tiredly through its fogged windows. Half the letters on the sign had burned out; the bell above the door stuttered instead of ringing. It was home, in the way that jobs sometimes are when you’ve got nowhere else to go.

Inside, the cool air smelled of detergent and fruit. Fluorescent lights hummed. Emira—Emi, if she liked you—was at the counter, slouched behind a magazine, copper hair pinned up with a pen that had long since lost its cap. The glossy pages were held close enough to hide most of her face, but the flick of one pointed ear beneath her glamour gave her away. Her tails were invisible tonight, tucked neatly under the illusion of jeans, though the air still shimmered faintly around her.

If you’d walked in off the street, you’d think she was just another bored cashier half-asleep on the job. But anyone who’d worked with her knew better. Kitsune glamour was built for deception, and Emi wore hers like a second skin.

“Thought you died,” she said, not looking up.

Evan clocked in with the scanner’s quiet beep. “Train stalled again.”

She flipped a page. “You reading about real people or just the tabloids this time?” he asked, leaning on the counter.

“Why not both?” she said. “You’re up front tonight. Ms. Callas came sniffin’ around, said she’s got a new scarf that brings out her eyes. I told her you’d love to see it.”

Evan exhaled through his nose, a sound halfway between a sigh and a quiet trill. “You’re cruel.”

Ms. Callas was one of their regulars—an older gorgon with a taste for fresh produce and trouble. She claimed she hadn’t turned anyone to stone in years, but every few visits she’d “forget” her sunglasses just long enough to catch some poor customer’s eye. The charm wore off in an hour or so, but the sight of a petrified shopper clutching a basket of grapes was never a fun cleanup.

Emi grinned behind her magazine. “Oh, come on. She likes you best. Says you’ve got a steady hand.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, straightening a row of gum. “Because I don’t panic when she starts fiddling with her glasses.”

Emi’s grin widened, all teeth and smug satisfaction. “You’re just her type. Nervous but polite. I’d watch your back if I were you.”

Evan huffed a small laugh, mostly to cover how his feathers prickled under the glamour at the thought. He told himself it was just static, the store’s dry air getting to him, but it always happened when he thought about eyes—hers, anyone’s—lingering too long on him. The world didn’t see monsters anymore, not if you kept your glamour clean, but sometimes it felt like someone could still smell what he was underneath.

He kept his gaze on the shelf, fingers moving automatically, lining up the gum by color because the pattern soothed him.

Outside, thunder rolled over the city, a low, distant sound that rattled the glass.

Evan let the noise settle in his chest, the way some people might let a song do the same. Espiritu had that effect on him—constant background sound, half comfort, half warning. A living hum. The kind of city where you could disappear without anyone noticing, so long as you pretended to be ordinary.

He’d been here almost four years, long enough to stop wondering if he’d ever meet another shadow hopper. Long enough to understand that Espiritu ran on secrets. Monsters passed for humans, humans turned a blind eye, and everyone pretended it was mutual ignorance instead of fear.

Glamour made it easy to forget what you were. The real trick was remembering not to slip when the quiet hit—when the city’s buzz dipped low and your reflection almost looked honest.

He glanced toward the darkened window. Streetlight glare turned it to a hazy mirror, and for a heartbeat he thought he saw his own eyes flash gold in the glass. Too bright. He blinked hard, once, twice, until the reflection looked human again.

No one noticed. Emi was still leafing through her magazine, tails invisible under the counter, one foot tapping to the rhythm of some half-remembered pop song that played over the store’s speakers.

Evan flexed his hands, trying to shake the restless hum under his skin. Heat week was coming—he could feel it in the way sound seemed sharper, air heavier. Maybe that was why the city felt so loud tonight. Every scent, every flicker of motion, pressed a little closer than usual.

“Hey, birdbrain,” Emi said without looking up. Her voice was light, teasing, but he could feel the focus behind it. “How’s the heat treating you?”

He froze mid-movement, fingers hovering over a stack of chocolate bars. Of course she noticed. Kitsune noses were good for gossip and trouble in equal measure.

“Fine,” he said quickly, too quickly. “Normal.”

She flipped another page, the corner of her mouth twitching. “That so? You smell like someone who’s about to start knocking things off shelves.”

Evan swallowed the instinctive trill rising in his throat and forced a laugh instead. “Don’t start rumors.”

“Oh, please. I live for rumors.” She tilted her magazine down, eyes glinting gold. “You seeing anyone yet, or still pretending you don’t have time for fun?”

He felt the heat creep up his neck before the answer even formed. “Still pretending,” he muttered, lining up the candy again, though it didn’t need lining.

“Mm-hmm.” Emi hummed knowingly. “Suit yourself. But when you start climbing the walls, don’t come cryin’ to me. I’m off the clock.”

He gave her a sidelong look, half amusement, half warning. “You’re never off the clock when it comes to gossip. Or my love life.” 

She grinned, foxlike. “That’s because your love life is gossip.”

Which could’ve been true. Monsters in Espiritu loved to talk—especially the ones who pretended to be human. News traveled faster than scent in this city: who was courting who, who’d broken glamour in public, who’d been seen sneaking out of whose apartment at dawn. Evan had learned that lesson the hard way a few years back. It was why he avoided the hook-up apps popular among the supernatural crowd. Too much headache. Too much potential for everyone to know your business by breakfast.

He stuck to human apps now. Less risk. Less recognition. Fewer questions when he inevitably ghosted after a week.

“Relax,” Emi said, stretching like a cat. “I’m only lookin’ out for you. You get cranky when you go too long without company.”

Evan shot her a tired smile. “You just like the drama.”

“Same thing,” she said cheerfully.

The bell above the door jangled, sharp and bright against the hum of the lights.

Evan looked up from the candy rack, expecting a regular or a delivery guy. Instead, the air shifted.

The man who stepped in from the rain didn’t belong to this neighborhood. Tall, wiry frame, pale skin that caught every bit of fluorescent glare. His hair—white, short, and messy—looked almost luminous against the dark eyepatch over his right eye. A leather guitar case hung off one shoulder, stickers layered thick across its surface.

He carried himself like someone who didn’t mind being seen. Or maybe didn’t realize how much he was being seen.

“Hey,” the guy said, voice easy, the edges softened by a drawl. “You folks got anything sour? I’m craving somethin’ with a kick.”

Evan blinked. That voice… warm, a little rough, like whiskey and laughter.

Emi lowered her magazine just enough to glance over it, smirking. “You’ve come to the right place,” she said, then flicked her eyes toward Evan like she was tossing him a bone.

Evan cleared his throat. “Uh—yeah. Aisle three. Or, um—here.” He gestured to the small candy rack by the register. “These are pretty strong.”

The stranger stepped closer, boots squeaking faintly on the tile. His grin deepened. “Imported, huh? You the expert?”

Evan felt his mouth go dry. “I—work here,” he said finally.

“Good enough for me.”

The man leaned one arm on the counter, studying the candies with absurd concentration, like he actually cared what kind of sugar hit he bought at 10 PM.  Evan could smell rain on him, wet pavement, a trace of tobacco, something sharp underneath that made the feathers along his spine twitch.

“C’mon,” the guy said. “What’s the best one, Candy Guy?”

Evan blinked. “Candy—what?”

“Candy Guy. You look like someone who knows what’s good.”

He almost trilled from sheer nerves. Don’t do that, not now. “Uh. These.” He grabbed a neon-green packet. “They’ll strip the enamel off your teeth. People seem to like that.”

The man laughed, loud and unrestrained, and it hit Evan like a sudden crash of thunder. His feathers flared under glamour, pulse jumping before he could stop it. It wasn’t fear, exactly—just surprise, too much sound in too small a space.

“Sold,” the man said, still grinning. “I like honesty in customer service.”

Evan forced a smile, trying not to stare. The guy’s laugh lingered even after it stopped, warm and messy, echoing in the small store.

“Guess I’ll ring that up,” Evan said, focusing on the register like it was a lifeline.

The man slid a few bills across the counter, their fingers brushing. His hand was warm, calloused. Evan’s instinct was to pull back, but he hesitated, caught off guard by the casualness of the touch.

“Name’s Stacy, by the way.”

“Evan.”

“Evan,” Stacy repeated, slower this time, voice dipping low like he was tasting it. Then, with that same crooked grin, “See you around, Candy Guy.”

He left in a blur of rain and motion, the doorbell jangling behind him.

Evan stood there for a moment, pulse still unsteady. The smell of rain and cigarette smoke clung to the counter, stubborn and familiar in a way that made no sense.

Emi lowered her magazine fully, chin propped on one hand. “Well,” she said. “Guess you’ve got a fan.”

Evan pretended to check the register tape. “It’s just candy,” he muttered, though his chest felt tight with something restless, something that wasn’t quite annoyance.

But the stranger—Stacy, he’d said—had already taken up residence in his mind, uninvited. The sound of that laugh, the ease in his posture, the way he’d said Evan like he meant it. It was the kind of confidence you didn’t see often in Espiritu, where everyone had something to hide.

He told himself it was nothing. Just curiosity. Just the residual buzz from his heat coming on, making everything feel louder, sharper, closer.

Still, the thought itched.

“Hey,” he said after a moment, trying for casual. “That guy.”

Emi didn’t look up from her phone. “What about him?”

“You think he’s… human?”

Her thumbs paused mid-scroll. Then her eyes slid up, fox-bright with interest. “Why, you planning to find out firsthand?”

Evan frowned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.” She smirked, then leaned her chin on her hand. “Hmm. Hard to say. Smelled human enough, but you know how glamours work. Some of the half-breeds are good at masking.”

“Right.” Evan busied himself with straightening the bills in the till. “He just—didn’t seem like the type you see around here much.”

“Mm-hm,” Emi said, still watching him. “Pretty, though.”

Evan trilled softly, involuntary. The sound slipped out before he could swallow it, barely audible, a small vibration at the back of his throat. He froze, mortified.

Great.

Emi’s grin sharpened. “Ohhh, that’s interesting.”

He shot her a look that might’ve wilted lesser coworkers. “It’s not— I didn’t—”

“Sure, sure.” She waved a hand lazily, one of her tails flickering faintly beneath the glamour. The shimmer barely lasted a heartbeat before it vanished, but Evan caught it. She wasn’t even trying to hide her amusement.

He sighed, long-suffering. “You’re gonna make it weird, aren’t you?”

“It was already weird the second you made that noise,” she said, tapping her pen against the magazine. “What was that anyway? A mating call?”

He busied himself with straightening a display of gum that didn’t need straightening. “It wasn’t anything,” he said, quieter this time.

“Didn’t sound like nothing.”

“Drop it, Emi.”

“Alright, alright.” She leaned back, pretending disinterest, though her eyes still glinted gold at the edges. “But if your new candy buddy comes back tomorrow, you better not tweet at him in front of customers.

Evan groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but the laugh that escaped him softened the sting.

The clock above the counter ticked past closing. Emi stretched, yawning wide enough for her canines to show before the glamour smoothed them out again. “You locking up?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll finish restocking and shut the lights.”

“Cool. I’m clocking out before Ms. Callas decides to grace us with a midnight snack run.” She slid off her stool, grabbing her bag. “See you tomorrow, Candy Guy.”

“Don’t start,” he said, but she was already halfway out the door, waving over her shoulder.

The store felt heavier without her. Quieter. Just the hum of the refrigerators and the faint patter of leftover rain outside.

Evan moved through his closing routine, wiping down the counter, locking the back door, turning off the open sign, but his thoughts kept circling back to the man with the white hair. Stacy. The name echoed like a tune he couldn’t place.

He caught himself glancing at the front window more than once, half-expecting to see that grin reflected in the glass. It was ridiculous. People like that didn’t notice people like him. Still, the smell of rain and tobacco hadn’t left the air.

When the last light clicked off, he stood in the dimness a moment longer, fingers tracing the counter where their hands had brushed.

Pretty, Emi had said. He hated that the word stuck.

He sighed, locking up behind him and stepping into the cool night. Espiritu was slick with rain, streetlights bleeding color into the puddles. Somewhere far off, a guitar played a slow, wandering tune. He couldn’t tell if it was a coincidence or his imagination filling in the quiet.

Evan adjusted his jacket and started toward the subway, the city’s hum rising around him—alive, secretive, and full of things he wasn’t supposed to want.

~

Evan’s building smelled like wet tile and someone else’s dinner, garlic, steam, the waxy edge of overboiled rice. The stairwell light flickered the way it always did, buzzing like a mosquito at his ear. He took the steps two at a time anyway, shoulders hunched against the last, fine drizzle needling through the cracked window on the landing.

Evan’s apartment greeted him with the usual dim hum of the fridge and the faint, stale scent of an old pine air freshener. He flicked on the light and squinted against it, rubbing his eyes. The bulb buzzed overhead, tired as everything else in the room.

He kicked off his shoes, hung his jacket on the back of a chair. Rain still clung to his sleeves, cool against skin that felt too warm. The heat was creeping closer; he could tell by the way the air felt crowded, every scent pressing up against him.

The couch was half-made, sheets tangled from that morning. He sat anyway, elbows on knees, letting the quiet stretch.

Just candy, he thought. But the man’s voice had already imprinted itself somewhere deep, that smooth drawl, that unguarded laugh. Stacy.

He’d only known his name a few hours, yet it looped like a song he couldn’t shake.

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. It wasn’t unusual for a stranger to stick in his head. It happened sometimes when he got too close to people, especially this time of year. The scent confusion, the instinctive pull. He’d learned to write it off as that. Biology. Nothing more.

Still… there was something about the guy that didn’t fit. The ease, the way he’d looked directly at him like he had nothing to hide. No edge of fear, no hesitation. Just… open. That wasn’t how this city worked.

Evan stood, pacing once to shake the thought loose. The floorboards creaked softly under his bare feet. He poured himself a glass of water, gulped it down, and leaned against the counter, watching the reflection of the streetlight crawl across the windowpane. His reflection watched back dark curls, eyes too bright, a faint gold flash that vanished when he blinked.

Phone buzzed on the counter.

Emi: sooo did ur candy boyfriend come back for dessert?

He stared at the message, trilled quietly under his breath.

Evan: i don’t have a candy boyfriend.

Emi: you could tho. let the fox help you live a little

He set the phone down without replying, though the smile that crept up was real. Evan pushed off the counter and turned down the lights, trying to let the city’s noise fade with them, the distant sirens, the hum of traffic, someone arguing two floors below.

He lay down on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The sound of rain had thinned to a faint hiss against the window. The apartment smelled faintly of pine and his own heat, sweet and electric.

He turned on his side, pulled the blanket up, and told himself he wasn’t waiting for anything.

It was a small lie.

Because even half-asleep, when the city’s sounds softened and his heartbeat slowed, he could still hear it, the low, rough laugh that had startled him behind the counter. It lingered in the quiet like static.

Sleep came in slow waves. The kind that never fully took him under, only softened the edges of thought until they blurred.

He tried not to picture the stranger again, but his mind replayed it anyway, the white hair, the easy grin, the warmth that lingered long after he’d gone. Every time the image surfaced, his body answered with a small hum under his ribs, that quiet, restless awareness that always came before his heat.

He told himself it didn’t matter. People came and went in Espiritu. Faces passed like trains in the dark.

But the city had a way of bringing the same ones back.

And somewhere down on the wet streets, a pale figure moved through the glow of the shopfronts, cigarette ember burning bright in the rain, a laugh cutting through the static of the night.

Chapter Text

Morning came in a sheet of heat.

Evan surfaced from a dream already breathless, sheets damp, the radiator ticking like a metronome under his skin. Sun pushed through the crooked blinds in pale bars; dust floated in the cut light. The room smelled sweet and bright—his own heat thickening the air with that honeyed, electric note he hated noticing.

He lay there a moment, listening to his pulse in his ears, waiting to cool. He didn’t.

The image had followed him up out of sleep like a hook, white hair in rainlight, the grin that split wide before the laugh hit, the warm press of calloused fingers brushing his at the counter. Stacy. Just a name, but it landed in his chest like a full chord.

Evan rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling crack until it doubled. Heat pooled low and deep; even the fan’s lazy turn felt loud. He dragged a hand down his chest, breath hitching when his palm skimmed lower. His body was already ahead of him—blood hot, nerves tuned, everything down there heavy and needy in a way that made his face burn.

“Jesus,” he muttered, voice rough. He pressed the heel of his hand between his thighs and the relief was immediate, a small, vicious bloom that made him gasp. Not enough.

He pushed the blanket off, set his feet to the floor for a second like he might get up and take a cold shower, then didn’t. The thought of standing felt impossible. The thought of the shower felt worse—water in his face always made him flinch, and right now he needed the opposite of flinching.

He slid his hand into the waistband of his sleep shorts, cautious at first—heat week punished careless touch. The first stroke made him shudder, head tilting, a soft, embarrassed trill catching at the back of his throat. He froze, listening to the quiet like someone might have heard him through the wall. No one had. He exhaled and did it again, slower, finding a rhythm that didn’t tip him too fast.

In his head: that laugh, too loud for the store; the flash of Stacy’s tongue at the corner of his mouth when he’d smiled; the way he’d said Evan like the syllables tasted good. Evan’s hand tightened. He shouldn’t be thinking about a stranger. He knew better. But his body didn’t care about better; it wanted friction and a shape to hang the wanting on. White hair. Rain on leather. Fingers braced around the curve of his hip, holding him still while—

He bit his lip and sped up, pushing into his fist, the couch cushion creaking under his shoulder blades as he chased it. Heat blurred the edge of the room, his pupils ate the light, breath turning messy. He pictured Stacy crowding him back against the counter, voice dropping into that soft southern drawl—Yeah, that it? Keep goin’, Candy Guy. Let me hear you.

A small sound escaped him—hum, trill, half-moan—mortifying and unstoppable. He thumbed the spot that always made his brain go bright and the whole thing snapped tight in an instant, pleasure hitting hard enough that he curled around it, breath punched out of him in a silent oh. He rode it through, hand working him until the ache softened into aftershocks and his muscles stopped trembling.

Silence fell loud as a bell.

He lay there, boneless, forearm over his eyes. The sweet scent in the room thickened by a notch and he winced, half laugh, half groan. “Great,” he told the empty apartment, shame and relief sloshing together in the same glass. “Real dignified, Kilpatrick.”

He wiped his hand on the hem of his t-shirt and sat up slowly. The world eased back into distance, a car door outside, the faint, stale ghost of last night’s rain. The ache in his belly had settled from now to soon. If past years were any sign, he had a day—maybe two—before the cycle peaked and self-control started feeling like a full-time job.

He stayed there a while, bare feet on the cool floor, waiting for the air to feel like air again. The apartment had gone still, it was just him and the heartbeat in his throat.

This part was always the same, the quiet shame that came after, the small domestic gestures that pulled him back toward normal. Dishes in the sink, the sound of running water, the slide of the window latch when he opened it just enough to let the morning in. Air, finally. Cool and thin.

He poured coffee, black and too strong, and leaned on the counter while it cooled. Espiritu’s skyline glowed weakly beyond the window, the kind of yellow-gray morning that made everything look washed out. From here, it was almost peaceful. Almost human.

When the heat started to thrum again in his skin, he took another long drink and told himself to move. Shower, shave, shirt. Keep busy. Routine worked better than any pill or charm.

By noon, he’d almost managed to forget the dream, or at least file it away somewhere his thoughts wouldn’t keep tripping over it.

Evening slipped up on him faster than he expected. The city was all orange light and the smell of rain again by the time he stepped through the shop’s front door. The bell gave its usual stuttered chime, fluorescent lights humming back to life.

Emi was already behind the counter, head buried in a glossy magazine. She didn’t look up when she said, “You look like hell, birdbrain.”

“Good evening to you too,” Evan said, dropping his bag behind the counter.

“You been flying laps around the city or something?” she asked, smirking over the edge of her pages.

“Just didn’t sleep much. And you know I don’t fly.”

The words came out easy, automatic. Shadow hopper—that was the name people who knew about his kind used, like it was a title instead of a warning. Hulking, owl-faced, panther-bodied things that could slip from one shadow to the next as if doors had been built just for them. Once, the thought of flight had sounded romantic. Freedom, air, distance. But the real thing was nothing like that—too loud in the body, too easy to lose control.

He hadn’t let himself “hop” since moving to the city Espiritu. Too risky. Too many cameras, too many lights. A single mistake could land him on some hunter’s radar, and he was barely keeping ahead of that kind of attention as it was.

Emi flipped another page. “Shame. Bet you’d get to work faster.”

“Or splatter across a billboard,” he said dryly. “No thanks.”

She laughed, tails flickering faintly beneath her glamour. “Suit yourself, birdbrain. Some of us like a little adventure.”

Evan hummed, more to himself than to her, the sound somewhere between a sigh and a trill. Adventure was overrated. Routine kept him alive.

Evan had just started counting his till when the bell above the door chimed.

He didn’t look up right away—habit. Most late customers were regulars grabbing a drink or something sweet for the road. But then a familiar voice cut through the hum of the refrigerators, smooth and warm and just a little too sure of itself.

“Evenin’, Candy Guy!”

Evan’s head lifted before he could stop it. Stacy stood in the doorway, shaking the last of the rain from his jacket. His hair looked even paler under the fluorescent lights, almost silver against. The guitar case was slung over one shoulder again, as if it were part of him.

“Oh. Uh—hi.” Evan straightened a stack of receipt paper that didn’t need straightening. “You’re back.”

“Guess so.” Stacy’s grin came easy, unbothered. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about those sour things you sold me yesterday. Either they’re addictive, or I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“Both are possible,” Evan said.

Emi glanced up from behind the counter, eyes glinting beneath the store’s pale light. “Welcome back,” she said in a tone that meant I’m going to make fun of Evan later.

Stacy nodded to her, then turned back to him. “What’s the recommendation tonight, Candy Guy?”

Evan trilled under his breath, soft and reflexive, but Stacy only smiled wider, like he’d been waiting to hear it again. Evan cleared his throat quickly. “Depends what you’re in the mood for.”

“Somethin’ new. Surprise me.”

Evan thought for a beat, then tipped his chin toward aisle three. “C’mon.”

He stepped out from behind the counter and kept his pace easy, hands tucked in his apron so he wouldn’t fidget. The aisles were mostly empty this late—just the hum of lights and the faint echo of their footsteps. Evan always found this part of the store strangely comforting: the order of it, the colors lined up just so, the predictability.

Stacy followed, boots soft on tile, rain still dampening the shoulders of his jacket. In the narrow aisle he set the guitar case down by his feet with a dull, padded thud that spoke of weight. He rested one palm on the spine of it, casual like he did that a hundred times a day.

Heavier than a guitar, Evan thought. He tried not to linger on the sound.

“You play?” he asked, reaching for the top shelf and pretending not to watch Stacy’s hands as the man rolled his shoulders loose. There was a pause. Barely a second too long, but it caught his ear anyway.

Stacy’s hand stayed on the case handle, fingers flexing once before letting go. “Yeah,” he said finally, his voice a shade quieter. “Been at it since I was a kid.”

Evan hummed, tilting his head as he scanned the labels. “What kind of music?”

Another pause. Then the grin—easy, practiced—slid back into place. “Little bit of everything. Street stuff mostly. Whatever pays for a meal.”

Evan shot him a sideways look, but didn’t press. It wasn’t his business. Still, the way Stacy’s shoulders had stiffened hadn’t escaped him.

He grabbed a few boxes from the shelf, let the conversation shift. “You said you wanted something new, right? These’ll probably kill your taste buds.” He handed over a packet of sour strips, bright red and dusted with sugar.

Stacy leaned closer to read the label, his voice warming again. “Dangerous. I like it.”

He ripped the corner open with his teeth and popped one in, wincing immediately. “Oh, hell.” He started to laugh, half-pained. “You weren’t kidding. That’s brutal.”

Evan’s mouth twitched. “You did say you wanted a surprise.”

“Guess I walked right into that one.” Stacy’s laugh this time was softer, easier. His good eye crinkled when he smiled, and for a brief moment, he looked younger, like the edge he carried most of the time had been filed down.

Evan caught himself watching. Too long. He turned back to the shelves, rearranging a few boxes that didn’t need rearranging. “You want water or something to go with it?”

“Nah,” Stacy said, chewing through the sting. “Builds character.”

Evan snorted. “You say that now. Wait till tomorrow when your tongue gives up.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

He reached down to grab the case again, the leather creaking as he lifted it. This time, Evan didn’t miss the faint metallic scrape inside when it shifted. Something about it didn’t sound like strings.

“See you around, Candy Guy,” Stacy said, straightening.

Evan nodded, keeping his expression even. “Yeah. See you.”

When Stacy left, the bell chimed once and the air seemed to settle back to normal—though the faint scent of rain and tobacco still clung to the aisle.

Evan stood there for a long moment, hand resting on the shelf, head tilted slightly like he could hear something just beneath the city’s hum.

Whatever was inside that case, it hadn’t been a guitar.

Evan didn’t have time to worry about what humans got up to—especially not one-eyed albinos with weird guitars and smiles that stuck like burrs. Between the threat of his heat hanging over him and the usual adult grind—rent, groceries, pretending to sleep—he had enough on his plate.

But heat didn’t care about logic. It made his focus slippery, his instincts loud. And that meant the image of the so-called albino pirate kept looping through his mind whether he wanted it or not: the glint of rain on white hair, the way he’d grinned like he already knew the answer to a joke Evan hadn’t heard yet.

He’d barely locked the front door before he was trilling under his breath, soft and nervous, catching himself and muttering, “Get it together.” The sound of the bolt sliding home grounded him. He flicked the lights off, watched the hum die out of the ceiling fixtures, and listened to the city reclaim the silence.

Outside, Espiritu was slick with night again. Neon bled across the puddles, and the smell of ozone clung to the pavement. Evan zipped his jacket up to his throat, stepping into the rain’s thin mist. He kept his head down on the walk home, feet moving on autopilot, his reflection stretching through the puddles like something half-forgotten.

Every few steps, his thoughts wandered back to the sound the guitar case had made when Stacy set it down—dense, wrong, not the kind of hollow thud a wooden instrument gave. It had a weight to it, like something solid inside. He told himself it was none of his business.

Still, he couldn’t shake the way Stacy’s fingers had tensed when he’d asked what he played.

By the time he reached his building, the thought had soured into a low hum of unease under his ribs, quiet but steady. He climbed the stairs two at a time, letting his body’s tiredness win out over his curiosity.

Forget him, he told himself. Just sleep. You’ll sweat it out. You’ll be fine.

He knew it was a lie before he even got to the couch. Because when he closed his eyes, the city faded away and that grin came back—white hair, rough laugh, and the sound of rain hitting the shop window like applause.

Sleep didn’t come so much as it dragged him under.

The room thinned, the fan’s click slowed, and the city’s noise blurred into a warm, steady pulse. Heat folded over him like a hand. Evan turned once on the couch, sheet pulling low on his hips, and the dream opened with the soft jingle of the store’s bell.

Rain on glass. Fluorescents buzzing.

Stacy stood at the counter like he belonged there, jacket damp, white hair gleaming under the lights. The guitar case leaned against his leg; his thumb worried the strap, slow circles like he was keeping time. He smiled, crooked, shameless, and the sound of that laugh rolled through Evan’s chest before it happened, like thunder lighting the sky from behind.

Evenin’, Candy Guy,” he said, that lazy drawl skimming every word “You look like you could use somethin’ sweet.” 

In the dream, Evan was already warm all over, breath catching the second Stacy looked at him. He meant to answer with something dry, something deflecting, but his mouth didn’t bother. His body moved first.

“C’mere,” Stacy murmured, reaching. A careful hand, calloused, sure, caught Evan by the hip and turned him, pressed his back to the register counter. Not rough. Placed. Like Stacy had thought about this and didn’t intend to waste a second.

Evan’s heart stuttered. He could smell himself—honeyed, electric—and the rain on Stacy’s jacket, and under both, skin. He tilted his head without thinking. Stacy’s grin softened at the sight.

“That's it,” he said, voice dropping. “I’ve got you.”

The closest part of Evan’s brain that could still form sentences tried to be embarrassed about the soft trill that slipped out of him. The rest didn’t care. His hips were already arching into Stacy’s thigh where it slotted between his, the pressure maddening and exactly right. He was hard, needy, heat licking deep and low, and when Stacy’s palm slid under his shirt, up his stomach, over the tight pull of muscle there, Evan’s breath broke.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Stacy said quietly.

“It’s—” Evan swallowed, throat dry. “Good.”

“Yeah?” Stacy rocked him once more, thigh firm, and Evan shivered. “Thought so.”

A huff of laughter caught in Evan’s mouth, turned into a gasp when Stacy’s hand found his cock through his jeans. No teasing. No dithering. Just a firm grip and a slow, testing pull that dragged a curse from him he didn’t use around other people. He pushed into Stacy’s fist helplessly, wet already, heat making everything feel fever-bright.

“Damn,” Stacy breathed, like Evan was a song he’d wanted to play for a while. “That’s it. Look at you.”

Evan did. He couldn’t help it. He met Stacy’s good eye, saw how wide the pupil had gone, how the grin had turned into something focused. It made him dizzier. The counter was steady at his back, Stacy solid in front of him, and the way those long fingers worked him—steady stroke, thumb swiping at the slick head, a little twist on the way down—made thought feel optional.

“Please,” Evan heard himself say, soft and humiliating and true.

“Please what, Candy Guy?”

“More,” he breathed. “Please.”

“Okay.” Stacy’s mouth touched his jaw, then lower, teeth just grazing the tendon at Evan’s throat. He didn’t bite, just held it there, breath warm, until Evan made another small, desperate sound. “Yeah,” Stacy said against his skin, satisfied. “Like that.”

Buttons gave under impatient hands. Evan shoved his jeans halfway down his thighs and Stacy pressed in again, skin against skin now, cock in hand and nowhere to go but forward. The stroke changed—slicker, faster—and Evan’s hips chased it, rhythm hiccuping when Stacy’s other hand slid around to hold him in place by the hip. The pressure of that grip—the claim in it—made Evan’s head tip back against the counter, mouth open on a sound he’d never make awake.

“Listen to you,” Stacy murmured, tone warm and a little awed. “You gonna come for me like that?”

“Yes,” Evan said, uselessly honest. “Yes—please—”

He pictured the case leaning by Stacy’s leg, heavy, forbidden, and the thought flashed and burned out, replaced by the feeling of Stacy everywhere—hand, thigh, mouth, voice. The store smelled like sugar and rain; the lights hummed; the bell jangled when the wind pushed the door and Evan felt it—the tightening bright snap that said now.

“Good boy,” Stacy said, low and filthy-sweet, and that did it. Pleasure hit, hot and blinding, white across black like a bird bursting through a tunnel and into sun. Evan came hard into Stacy’s fist, crying out quietly, hips stuttering as Stacy stroked him through it, gentle when his sensitivity kicked like a live wire.

It didn’t stop clean. Heat never let him off that easy. Aftershocks shook him, small and insistent, and Stacy held him through those too—thumb rubbing circles into his hip, mouth on his jaw like it was something that would keep. “Breathe,” he said softly. “There you go. Breathe.”

Evan breathed. The world returned in pieces: the wet of it on his belly, the smell of both of them together, Stacy’s palm warm on his waist.

“Pretty,” Stacy murmured, and kissed him for the first time in the dream—slow, easy, the opposite of the way he’d touched him. Evan let out a wrecked little hum against his mouth and kissed back, grateful and greedy at once.

He woke on that sound.

Ceiling. Fan. Morning light knifing through the blinds. His own breath loud in his ears. Sweat cooling on his chest and the slick mess in his shorts already turning uncomfortable.

“Fuck,” he said softly, not sure if he meant the curse for the dream or the reality it left behind.

He shoved a hand through his hair, sat up, and winced a little at the sharp edge of post-heat sensitivity. The scent in the room had sweetened; he cracked the window to thin it, breathing in a ribbon of damp air that smelled like last night’s rain and the bus exhaust from the avenue.

The image wouldn’t let go: white hair, warm hands, the weight of a body pinning him steady without making him feel trapped. Evan stared at his palms a second, and then huffed, embarrassed at himself even alone.

He cleaned up in the bathroom with the water turned cool. The faucet squealed, the pipes coughing once before settling into a steady hiss. He kept his eyes off the mirror; the light from the window cut too cleanly across it, catching that faint, betraying shimmer of gold in his pupils when he moved too close. It didn’t take much, just a tilt of his head, a breath too deep and the glamour rippled.

He splashed his face again. Cold water, quick breaths. The kind of grounding routine that meant I’m fine, I’m human, I’m fine.

He could pretend it hadn’t been Stacy in the dream—just anyone, faceless, a blur of warmth and sound—but lying didn’t work in his own skull. Every detail was still there, the grain of that voice, the weight of a hand on his hip, the smell of rain and sugar. His body still believed it, no matter what his head tried to file away.

“Get it together,” he muttered, drying his face with the corner of a towel. The mirror fogged where he leaned too close, sparing him another glimpse of himself.

By the time he walked back into the main room, the light had shifted. The city’s noise had crept in through the half-open window, horns, a burst of laughter, the rumble of a delivery truck on the next street.The city didn’t pause for personal crises, it kept moving, dragging you along whether you were ready or not.

He stood at the window and watched a bus crawl past the corner, its reflection sliding across wet asphalt.

It was just a dream. That was the line he chose to stick to.

Still, when he caught himself glancing at the clock, calculating how many hours until his shift started, the corner of his mouth tugged in something between resignation and quiet dread.

Just a dream, he told himself again, though a part of him was already wondering if the bell above the store door would sound different when that voice came through it tonight.

Evening dragged itself over the city of Espiritu in gray light and drizzle. The rain had thinned to mist by the time Evan flipped the Open sign back on, but the air still smelled like wet concrete and something electric.

He leaned against the counter with one hip, thumb flicking through profiles on his phone. The glow of the screen washed his face in cold light. It was the human app, the safe one—just normal people with normal smiles, no scent cues, no gossip threads waiting to explode the moment he made contact.

He wasn’t even looking for anyone in particular. Just… relief. A reminder that he could still do this the regular way. Find someone who wanted a drink or a night or a face to wake up to, not someone who’d smell the storm under his skin and ask questions he couldn’t answer.

Swipe left. Swipe left. Maybe. Left again.

His reflection in the glass of the display case looked worn; the shadows under his eyes had gone purple, his curls slightly damp from the walk. Heat weeks always did that—made him look fevered. He told himself if he could just make it through the next few days, he’d be fine. One more round of pretending, one more cycle. Then he could shed the worst of it and wake up normal again.

He locked his phone when the bell above the door gave its uneven chime.

“Evenin’, Candy Guy.”

That voice—familiar, easy. Evan looked up, and there he was again, a silhouette against the damp neon outside. Stacy shook a few drops of rain from his jacket, white hair spiking in the light. He had the same guitar case on his shoulder, as if it had grown there.

“Back already?” Evan asked, sliding the phone into his pocket before Stacy could see the screen.

“Couldn’t stay away,” Stacy said, grin wide, unashamed.

But there was something different about him tonight. His grin was there, sure—but the edge was softer, less teasing, like he’d practiced this part on the walk over and still wasn’t sure how it’d land. The guitar case stayed slung across his back, unopened.

He wasn’t here for candy. Not this time.

“So,” Stacy began, scratching the back of his neck, “I was thinkin’—”

“That sounds dangerous,” Evan said, defaulting to dry because it was safer than curious.

“—you ever eat anything other than sugar?”

Evan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I mean food,” Stacy said, laughing under his breath. “Like, an actual meal. Somewhere that’s got chairs and a menu.” He straightened, tone smoothing into something more certain. “You wanna grab dinner? Nothin’ fancy. Just… food.”

Evan stared at him a moment, caught off guard. Stacy didn’t fidget, but his weight shifted, an almost imperceptible movement that said this matters.

“Dinner,” Evan repeated slowly. “Like… a date?”

“If you want it to be,” Stacy said, voice easy again but eye steady. “Could just be two people talkin’ over a meal.”

Evan felt heat crawl up his throat that had nothing to do with biology. He opened his mouth, closed it, then glanced toward Emi, who was pretending not to listen but had lowered her magazine an inch.

He sighed. “You have the worst timing.”

Not just because it was right in front of Emi—but because it was so close to his heat, and he was the very same man he’d dreamt about last night. Every word Stacy said hit a nerve already rubbed raw. The dream had been too vivid to shake, too specific to mistake for coincidence, and now here he was—real, close, smiling like he didn’t have any idea what kind of trouble he was inviting.

Evan swallowed hard, throat dry. “Tomorrow,” he said, the word landing before he could stop it.

“Tomorrow,” Stacy echoed, grin flickering wider, like the deal had already been sealed.

Evan forced a small smile, hoping it passed for casual. “But I have to warn you, I’m not great company.”

“I’ll risk it,” Stacy said, that easy drawl smoothing the edge off the words. “Pick you up here at 7?”

“Yeah. Seven’s fine.”

“Then it’s a date.” He gave the counter a light tap with two fingers and turned for the door. The bell chimed, soft and tired, as he stepped back into the drizzle.

Evan didn’t move for a long moment. His heart thudded slow but heavy, a deep ache sitting under his ribs. The spot where Stacy had been still felt occupied somehow, like the air hadn’t caught up to his leaving.

Emi finally lowered the magazine all the way, elbows braced on the counter. Her expression had softened a little; she wasn’t smirking anymore. “You okay there, birdbrain?”

He blinked at her, the hum of the refrigerators filling the silence between them. “I’m fine,” he said. The words came out quieter than he meant.

“Uh-huh.” Her eyes narrowed. “Fine like, ‘Wow, I think I just agreed to a date with the loudest man alive,’ or fine like, ‘Oops, my biology’s about to ruin my week’?”

Evan let out a rough laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Both?”

“Thought so.” She slid off her stool, tail flicking faintly beneath the shimmer of her glamour. “You want advice?”

“No.”

“Good,” she said, looping her bag over one shoulder. “’Cause I’m gonna give it anyway.”

Evan groaned softly. “Of course you are.”

Emi grinned, stepping around the counter with that unhurried sway she always had, part mischief, part confidence. “Rule one,” she said, counting on her fingers, “don’t chicken out. You do that thing where you get quiet and overthink yourself into a corner.”

“Maybe I like corners.”

“You don’t,” she said. “Rule two—don’t stare at his mouth when he talks. You do that too.”

“I do not,” he said, too quickly.

“You did it just now.”

Evan opened his mouth, then closed it. 

“And rule three—if he’s trouble, don’t fall for it. Not unless he’s really worth it.”

“You’re putting too much weight on all this,” Evan leaned back against the counter, letting out a slow breath. He ran a hand through his hair, curls catching on his fingers, and muttered, half to himself, “It’s convenient, that’s all. Someone to hook up with, get it out of my system. Lay the usual dud egg, have it for dinner, and finally stop sweating through my couch cushions.”

Emi made a face so dramatic it could’ve been rehearsed. “Gross,” she said, shuddering for effect, then fixed him with a look that was half disgust, half amusement. “Do you hear yourself sometimes? You’re pretty, but I forget sometimes you’re super gross too.”

He laughed, a low, sheepish sound that crumpled halfway through. “I try to be well-rounded.”

“Well, you’re round somewhere,” she muttered, flicking her fingers toward his face. “Right there. In the head.”

Evan gave her a flat look, but his mouth betrayed him with a small grin. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“I know,” she said, already slipping her bag over her shoulder. “You’d never survive here without me policing your social life and your occasional disgusting diet.”

He rolled his eyes, but the humor helped, cooling the tension that had been building in his chest all evening. Emi grinned, satisfied that she’d cracked it.

“Don’t overthink this, birdbrain,” she said, stepping toward the door. “Go on your little date. Eat human food, not your potential offspring, and maybe try to have fun for once in your life.”

Evan let out a sound that was half laugh, half groan. “You’re never gonna let that go now, are you?”

“Not a chance,” she said, pushing the door open. The bell gave its tired jingle as a draft of cool night air slipped in. “You gift me material like that, I’m set for years.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “You’re evil.”

She pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “Excuse you, I’m a kitsune. It’s in my nature.”

“That supposed to make it better?”

“It’s supposed to make it adorable,” she said, tail flicking faintly beneath the shimmer of her glamour. “You get to be mysterious and broody; I get to be delightfully wicked. We balance each other out.”

Evan huffed, though it came out closer to a laugh. Her energy filled whatever space was left in the store—bright, restless, alive in a way he wasn’t. The contrast made sense; he’d always been drawn to people like her. People who ran hot while he stayed cautious, steady.

It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the teasing—it grounded him, pulled him out of his own head—but tonight it landed differently. The thought of the date, of Stacy’s grin, of how easily his pulse jumped around that man—it all made his stomach coil tight.

Emi caught the flicker in his expression, the way his smile faltered for half a second. Her teasing softened. “Hey,” she said, voice easing down a notch. “Jokes aside—you’ll be fine. Just don’t talk about eating your own eggs, and you might even get a second date.”

That dragged a quiet laugh out of him. “You’re a bastard, Em.”

“See? You’re smiling again.” She tapped the glass door lightly, a little farewell gesture. “Goodnight, birdbrain. Try not to implode before tomorrow.”

The bell jingled one last time as she slipped out into the dark, vanishing into the glow of the streetlights.

Evan stood there for a while after she left, the silence stretching long and familiar. The store felt bigger without her voice bouncing around—just the hum of the lights, the faint rattle of rain against the windows.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. He’d been through heats before, handled them just fine. But this time felt… sharper. Messier. The thought of Stacy lingered like static in the air—unwelcome, unavoidable.

Convenient, he told himself again. Just practical. Just a way to take the edge off.

He turned the lights off, one switch at a time, and watched the store dissolve into shadow.

Emi had agreed to cover his shift under one condition—that he give her “excruciating detail” about how his date went. But now, a few hours before he was supposed to meet Stacy, he regretted every life decision that had led him here.

He stood in front of his closet, towel still looped around his waist, staring at a row of shirts like they’d personally wronged him. Every fiber of his body felt wrong—too hot, too aware, too alive in ways he didn’t want to be. Heat was climbing now, close to its peak. His skin buzzed with it, every sound too sharp, every draft too noticeable. Even the city outside his window seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.

He rubbed his arm, trying to ground himself. Canceling crossed his mind for the third time in as many minutes. It would’ve been easy—one text about feeling sick, maybe, or a halfhearted excuse about work. He could stay home, let the heat burn itself out. 

But then he thought about Stacy’s grin, the scratch of that rough drawl when he said tomorrow, like the word already belonged to him.

Evan swallowed hard, pressing the heel of his hand to his chest like he could push down the heat building there. He couldn’t explain it, but something about the idea of showing up anyway—of seeing Stacy outside the harsh hum of store lights—anchored him in a strange way.

He finally picked a shirt. Plain black, soft from wear. It clung a little too close to his skin, but everything did right now. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, his dark curls still wet, eyes sharp under the dim light. He looked halfway decent. Human enough.

The clock on his stove blinked 6:02.

He’s probably on his way, Evan thought, heartbeat jumping. He pressed his palms to the counter, trying to steady himself. Just hanging out. That’s all it is.

But deep down, he knew it wasn’t that simple. Not with the heat whispering in his blood and the memory of that dream still lurking behind his eyes.

Evan’s job sat at the heart of the city’s old Market district, a patchwork of light and noise that never fully slept. Food stalls crowded the open square, spilling scents of citrus, grilled meat, and sweet bread into the damp evening air. Strings of paper lanterns trembled overhead, their reflections breaking across puddles from the afternoon rain.

Evan paused at the edge of it all, one hand in his jacket pocket, the other tugging absently at the collar of his shirt. The air felt too thick on his skin; every smell came through sharp, distinct. Normally he loved the market for that—its noise, its movement, the anonymity of it. Tonight it all seemed turned up a notch, like the city itself knew what kind of week he was having

He checked his phone: 7:05. Stacy was late. Or maybe he was early. The nervous energy in his chest didn’t care which. He could already feel that low, restless hum building under his ribs again, the one that told him his heat was close to boiling over.

He kept to the edge of the crowd, scanning faces. Every passing human scent blurred together, but that faint trace of smoke and rain—he’d know it anywhere. It hit him a split second before the voice did.

“Candy Guy!”

Evan turned.

Stacy was weaving through the maze of stalls, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar damp from the drizzle. The usual grin was there, but tempered tonight, still bright, just less cocky, like he’d worn the edge off on purpose. Lantern light flickered along the pale sweep of his hair, the black strap of his eyepatch stark against his skin. And slung over one shoulder, of course, was that same beat-up guitar case.

Evan’s brow twitched. The thing had to be heavy, the way Stacy shifted it now and then, the slight care in his movements. It wasn’t for show, but Evan had a feeling it wasn’t really for music either.

He couldn’t help wondering what was really in there.

The crowd parted briefly between them, the smells and sounds of the market swelling around the space like a living pulse. Stacy caught his eye and lifted the corner of his mouth, a silent “sorry I’m late,” before stepping closer, case still slung casually across his back like a habit he couldn’t shake.

Evan let out a slow breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. “You clean up,” he said, aiming for casual.

Stacy laughed, easy and loud enough to startle a couple passing by. “You mean I showered. Thought I’d make an effort.”

“That’s… appreciated,” Evan said, hiding a smile.

Stacy’s eye flicked over him, quick but not impolite. “You look good too. Less grocery store, more—” He made a vague gesture with both hands. “Trouble.”

“Wow,” Evan said dryly, “compliments and incredible accuracy.”

“See? We’re startin’ strong.”

They slipped into the flow of the market, shoulders brushing as they walked. The air around them was full of noise—vendors calling out in Spanish and English, music leaking from someone’s radio, the sizzle of oil. Stacy steered them toward a row of food stalls along the far end, where the smell of charred peppers and garlic curled around the crowd.

“Figured we’d just pick whatever looks good,” Stacy said. “Unless you’re one of those people who needs a table and a candle.”

Evan shook his head, feeling the tension in his chest loosen a little. “Street food’s fine. Feels less like a date that way.”

“Who said I wanted it to feel less like a date?”

The line was smooth, but the way Stacy said it wasn’t. There was a pause afterward, just long enough for it to sound sincere. Evan glanced at him, trying to read if it was a joke or not, but Stacy wasn’t smirking this time. His one visible eye was soft under the market lights, catching the orange glow from the hanging lanterns as they passed beneath them.

Evan looked away first. “You’re supposed to wait until at least the second outing to say things like that.”

“Guess I’m a little impatient,” Stacy said, walking backward for a few steps, his grin returning when Evan frowned at him. “Besides, if you didn’t want it to be a date, you wouldn’t have worn that shirt.”

Evan glanced down automatically. “What’s wrong with this shirt?”

“Nothing.” Stacy’s gaze flicked up, deliberate. “That’s what’s wrong with it.”

Evan blinked, caught off guard by how easily Stacy said it—like he wasn’t even trying to flirt, just stating a fact. The air between them shifted, heavier for a moment, charged with something unspoken that curled low in Evan’s stomach.

He forced a laugh, but it came out a little thinner than he meant. “You’ve got a line for everything, don’t you?”

Stacy’s grin didn’t falter. “Nope! M’just being honest.”

That shouldn’t have landed the way it did. Evan looked away, pretending to study the glow of lanterns strung above the crowd. He could feel his pulse at the base of his throat, too quick, too aware. His heat made everything sharper—the sound of Stacy’s voice, the smell of his cologne, even the scrape of his boots on the wet pavement.

He cleared his throat. “You realize I’m gonna have to start keeping score if you keep this up.”

“I’d expect nothin’ less,” Stacy said, slipping easily back into step beside him. “Just means I’ll have to up my game.”

“You think you’re winning?”

“Not yet,” Stacy said, glancing over with a look that felt like it saw a little too much. “But I like my odds.”

Evan snorted and shook his head, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t often someone matched his pace—kept things light when his brain wanted to spiral. Stacy didn’t push, didn’t crowd, just stayed there beside him like he belonged in the noise and light of the market.

They stopped at a stall that smelled like caramel and toasted corn long enough for Stacy to buy two paper bags of something sweet and fried. He handed one to Evan without asking, the sugar melting warm against his palm.

For a few minutes, they ate in easy silence, the noise of the market washing over them, someone shouting for orders, laughter spilling from a nearby bar, the sizzle of meat on a grill. Evan caught himself relaxing, the sharp edges of his thoughts rounding off.

But the longer he looked at Stacy, the more his gaze snagged on the dark leather strap cutting across his temple. The eyepatch wasn’t new; the edges were worn, the stitching hand-done. It was the only thing about him that didn’t fit the easy, unbothered image he wore.

Evan hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek. Curiosity won anyway.

“So,” he said, keeping his tone light, “am I allowed to ask about the eyepatch, or is that one of those I’d have to kill you afterward kind of stories?”

Stacy snorted. “That depends,” he said, chewing thoughtfully. “You the type to spook easy?”

“Try me.”

For the first time all night, Stacy didn’t answer right away. He looked out over the square instead, thumb worrying a bit of sugar from the edge of the bag. The noise of the crowd swelled and dipped around them.

“Accident,” he said finally. “A few years back. I was workin’—helpin’ somebody I shouldn’t have. Took a bad turn.”

Evan tilted his head slightly. “Work like… music?”

Stacy smiled, but it didn’t reach his eye. “Somethin’ like that.”

The pause that followed wasn’t heavy exactly, but it had weight. Enough that Evan felt it sit between them. He hadn’t expected him to actually answer.

“Sorry,” Evan said quietly. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t,” Stacy said, and this time when he looked at him, the grin was back—smaller, realer. “I like that you asked.”

Evan wasn’t sure what to do with that, so he looked away, biting into his pastry again just to have something to do with his hands. It was too sweet, almost cloying, but it gave him something to focus on besides the warmth creeping up the back of his neck.

He could feel Stacy’s gaze on him though, steady and unreadable, the kind that made the noise of the market fade a little.

“Fair trade,” Stacy said after a beat, voice quieter now. “You ask somethin’, and I’ll do the same.”

Evan blinked. “We’re doing twenty questions now?”

“Sure. Just shorter answers. And if you don’t like one, you get a pass.”

“Alright,” Evan said, intrigued despite himself. “Ask away.”

Stacy hummed thoughtfully, leaning back on his hands as he looked out at the shimmer of lanterns overhead. “Alright,” he said after a pause. “What’s one thing you can’t sleep without?”

Evan hesitated, brow furrowing. “You’re starting with that?”

“Yeah. Gotta set the tone.”

Evan huffed a quiet laugh. “I don’t know. White noise, I guess. Fan, AC, something humming. Silence feels… wrong.”

Stacy’s mouth quirked. “City boy through and through.”

“Your turn.”

“Knife under the pillow,” Stacy said easily, eyes still on the crowd.

Evan blinked, caught between disbelief and humor. “You’re kidding.”

Stacy glanced over, grin tugging at one side of his mouth. “Only when I travel.”

“Sure,” Evan muttered, taking another bite of pastry. “Totally normal.”

“You got your thing,” Stacy said, shrugging. “I got mine.”

The teasing had an undercurrent to it, something sharper that made Evan’s instincts prickle before he could name why. He brushed it off, deciding not to dwell. “My turn then,” he said, tapping a finger against the edge of his cup. “What’s your favorite season?”

“Fall,” Stacy said without hesitation. “When the nights start gettin’ cold again. You?”

Evan thought for a moment, eyes flicking to the string of lanterns swaying overhead. “Early spring. Before everything wakes up, when it’s still quiet.”

“Guess that tracks,” Stacy said, voice dipping just enough to make it sound like he meant something more by it.

Evan felt his pulse skip, caught off guard by the warmth in his tone. “Your turn.”

“Alright,” Stacy said, leaning a little closer. “What’s one thing you’ve never told anyone?”

Evan froze. It wasn’t even the question itself—it was the way Stacy asked it. Quiet. Low. Like the noise of the market had been peeled back just for him. The lanternlight flickered against his collarbone, catching on the edge of his grin, and before Evan could stop himself, a soft trill slipped out of his throat. Instinctual. Barely audible.

The sound hung there, too intimate for the space they were in.

Stacy didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. His head tilted slightly, as though he’d just caught the faintest strain of a song and wasn’t sure if he was meant to hear it. The air seemed to pause between them, the kind of stillness that didn’t feel like silence so much as waiting.

Evan swallowed hard, eyes darting away, a flush rising to his ears. “Sorry. I—uh—it’s a nervous thing.”

“I like it,” Stacy said simply. No teasing. Just that.

That made it worse somehow—the honesty of it. Evan tried to breathe around the sudden tightness in his chest. “You ask questions like that and call me the weird one,” he said, aiming for levity, but his voice came out too thin to convince either of them.

Stacy’s grin returned then, small but real. “I’ll take that as an answer.”

Evan managed a faint laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I didn’t even answer the question.”

“You did,” Stacy said, leaning back on his hands again. “You just didn’t use words.”

Evan didn’t know what to say to that. His pulse thrummed in his throat, matching the hum of the city around them. Somewhere nearby, music drifted from a speaker, low and rhythmic, weaving through the air like it had been waiting for this lull.

He told himself it was the heat making him feel unsteady. The way his senses blurred at the edges, the way every scent and sound seemed amplified. But the truth was simpler—he just liked being looked at like that.

He tore his gaze away and stood, crumpling the pastry bag in his hand. “Come on. Before you ask something that’ll make me short circuit.”

Stacy laughed, pushing up to his feet. “You sure? I’ve got a whole list.”

“I’m sure.”

They slipped back into the flow of the crowd, shoulder to shoulder, the noise rushing up around them again. Still, that quiet moment clung stubbornly between them, the space where the world had gone still for a heartbeat, and Evan had forgotten how to pretend he was just human.

They wandered deeper into the market, weaving through clusters of people and narrow gaps between stalls. The crowd had thickened near the center, a slow-moving tide of tourists and locals shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere above, a busker’s guitar tangled with the sound of sizzling oil and laughter.

Evan was about to comment on how busy it’d gotten when someone bumped into him from behind, hard enough to knock the crumpled pastry bag from his hand.

Stacy moved, one smooth step forward, body turning like water—he reached out, snagged the bag midair between two fingers, and straightened before Evan could even process it. The motion was clean, effortless, precise in a way that didn’t belong to someone who should’ve been clumsy with his height.

He grinned, holding it out. “You drop somethin’, Candy Guy?”

Evan blinked. “That was—” He stopped himself before saying too fast. “—lucky.”

“Yeah?” Stacy said, that lazy drawl curling around the word. “I get lucky a lot.”

He flicked the paper bag into a nearby trash bin without looking. Dead center.

Evan just stared at him for a beat too long. There was grace in the way Stacy moved—too much of it. The casual kind that came from someone who knew their body down to the inch. Not just a musician’s coordination, not just confidence. Something sharper underneath.

The air seemed to buzz around that realization, faint but insistent.

Evan forced a breath, shoulders easing as they slipped back into step beside each other. His mind wouldn’t quit turning it over though. That quickness—how precise it had been—felt off. He’d spent enough time around other monsters to recognize when someone moved like a predator.

The question crawled up before he could stop it.

“You ever meet anyone… weird in this city?” he asked, tone deliberately casual as they passed a stall selling spiced mango slices.

Stacy’s brow lifted. “Weird?”

“Yeah. You know—Espiritu’s full of it. People talk.”

Stacy popped a piece of stolen fruit into his mouth, chewing slow. “Weird like, your run of the mill drunks or weird like, actually weird?”

“Depends,” Evan said, trying to keep his voice light. He pretended to study the jars of chili salt lined up on the counter, though what he really watched was Stacy’s reaction.

Stacy didn’t laugh it off. Didn’t scoff the way most humans did when monsters came up in conversation. He just leaned one shoulder against the stall, that easy grin fading into something more thoughtful.

“I’ve heard stories,” he said after a moment. “But stories don’t mean much.”

“Yeah?” Evan asked, feigning nonchalance. “What if they’re true?”

“World’s always got its fairytales,” Stacy said, gaze sweeping the crowded street. “Doesn’t matter what you call ’em.”

He said it easily enough, but there was something behind it—an edge hidden under the casual tone, like someone who’d spent too long learning what those fairytales cost.

Evan studied him in the flickering lanternlight. The crowd pressed and shifted around them, yet it felt like there was suddenly more space between him and Stacy—like the conversation had built an invisible line neither was sure about crossing.

“Spoken like a skeptic,” Evan said finally.

“Maybe.” Stacy replied, turning one of the small paper lanterns between his fingers where it hung from its string. The light bled through the thin paper, painting the side of his face in gold.

The words sank between them. Not heavy exactly, more like the aftertaste of something that shouldn’t have been said out loud.

Stacy’s grin returned, quick and easy, but his eyes still held that flicker of something unreadable. He turned slightly toward Evan, the crowd thinning just enough that the lanternlight pooled between them instead of over them.

“So what about you, Candy Guy?” he asked, his tone casual but aimed sharp. “You think there’s somethin’ weird goin’ on in this city?”

Evan’s pulse jumped, though he kept his expression neutral. “Define weird.”

“You know what I mean.” Stacy’s voice softened as he said it, but the way he watched Evan didn’t. “All those stories floatin’ around—monsters, spirits, people disappearin’ into alleys and not walkin’ back out. You think any of that’s real?”

Evan could feel the edge of a chill crawl down his arms, though the air was still warm. It wasn’t just the question—it was the way he asked it. Like he wasn’t looking for superstition or rumor. Like he was testing for truth.

He tilted his head, trying to play it off. “If it is real, they’re doing a good job of staying out of sight.”

“That sounds like a maybe,” Stacy said, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Or it sounds like someone who works the night shift and sees too many weirdos.”

That earned a laugh—deep, unrestrained, the kind that made a few nearby heads turn. Evan flinched at the volume, feathers prickling just beneath the skin of his shoulders before he tamped it down again.

Stacy noticed. Not the feathers—thank god—but the way Evan’s posture shifted, the subtle recoil. His voice dropped after that, lower, quieter. “Didn’t mean to spook you.”

“You didn’t,” Evan lied, forcing a small smile. “Just—loud.”

“Yeah,” Stacy said, “I hear that one a lot.”

Evan’s heart was still hammering, though. Something about this conversation felt like walking along the edge of a cliff with his eyes closed. He wanted to change the subject, to say something that would pull them back into safer territory—but part of him wanted to hear how Stacy would answer next.

So he asked, carefully, “You ever want to see something strange? Something that doesn’t fit?”

Stacy’s head tilted, almost mirroring his own habit. “What makes you think I haven’t already?”

The words slid under Evan’s skin like a spark.

Before he could think of a reply, Stacy stepped away, nodding toward a food stall at the far end of the market. “C’mon. You look like you need more sugar. Maybe a sugar high’ll stop you from thinkin’ so hard.”

Evan followed automatically, pulse still tripping. “You’re deflecting.”

“Sure am,” Stacy said, glancing back with that infuriating, disarming grin. “But I’m buyin’, so you gotta let me.”

Evan snorted, shaking his head, but didn’t argue. The night was cooling around them, the air tasting faintly of smoke and spice. He tried to convince himself he’d imagined the shift in Stacy’s tone, that it was just coincidence, the kind that came from too many late nights and too little sleep.

By the time the market began to close, the music had faded into the background hum of vendors packing up for the night. The lanterns were still burning, but the crowd had thinned to scattered couples and late-night stragglers carrying food in paper bags. The noise softened, turning the whole square into something quieter, more intimate.

Stacy glanced up at the clock tower at the end of the street. “Didn’t realize it got this late,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” Evan said. His voice came out quieter than he meant it to. The air had shifted with the hour, cooler now, smelling faintly of rain that had been plaguing the city for a week now.

Stacy looked at him, then at the darkened street beyond the square. “You walkin’ home?”

“It’s not far.”

“Then let me walk you.”

Evan hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” Stacy’s grin returned, smaller this time, but steadier. “I want to.”

Evan should’ve said no. His instincts whispered that he was already breaking too many of his own rules—that getting too close to a human, especially now, was asking for trouble. But Stacy was already starting down the narrow side street that led out of the market, glancing back over his shoulder like he expected Evan to follow.

So he did.

The streetlights along this part of Espiritu buzzed quietly, their glow pooling on the wet pavement. Most of the shops were shuttered, their metal grates reflecting long strips of light. The city felt different here, emptier, more honest somehow.

For a while, they just walked. Stacy’s stride was easy, unhurried, his boots scuffing lightly on the sidewalk. He talked about nothing important—how the market reminded him of home, how he could listen to people haggle for hours and not get bored. Evan found himself answering in short bursts, his voice low, the rhythm between them settling into something almost comfortable.

But beneath the calm, Evan could feel it again—that strange tension that lived under Stacy’s skin. The way he moved, the way his attention shifted too sharply for someone who claimed to be just a musician. He caught himself watching the way Stacy scanned each corner they passed, how his hand brushed near the pocket of his jacket as if by habit.

“You always this jumpy?” Evan asked, trying to sound casual.

Stacy laughed softly. “Just good at stayin’ aware. City like this, you learn to keep your eyes open.”

“Right.”

“You thinkin’ I’m paranoid?”

“I think,” Evan said carefully, “you don’t miss much.”

“Maybe that’s what makes me good company,” Stacy said, smirking faintly.

Evan smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Or dangerous.”

Stacy stopped walking then, just for a moment, turning to look at him. The night hummed quietly around them, the low electrical buzz of the streetlights, the distant rumble of traffic.

“Dangerous,” Stacy repeated, the word sitting heavy in the air. Then, softly: “You’d know if I was.”

Evan’s breath caught. He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know if it was meant as a joke or something else entirely.

Before he could answer, Stacy nodded toward a row of apartments up ahead. “That you?”

“Yeah.” Evan cleared his throat. “Top floor.”

Stacy’s grin returned, the sharp edge smoothed away again. “Then I did my job. Made sure the alleyway monsters didn’t get ya.”

Evan rolled his eyes, but there was no heat behind it. “You’re just a bit ridiculous, you know that?”

“Maybe,” Stacy said. “But I make you laugh, so that's somethin’.”

They stopped at the building’s steps. The rain had started again, soft and fine, glinting in the streetlight. Evan hesitated on the first step, half wanting to say goodnight and half unable to move.

“Thanks,” he said finally, voice quiet. “For walking me.”

“Anytime,” Stacy said, and for once, there was no teasing in it.

Evan turned to go, but Stacy’s voice stopped him.

“Hey,” he said, softer now. “Get some rest, yeah?”

Evan glanced back. “I’ll try.”

Stacy gave him one last smile, gentle, lopsided, the kind that lingered—and then turned away, hands in his pockets, vanishing into the shimmer of rain down the empty street.

Evan stood there until the sound of his footsteps faded.

Hours passed since he and Stacy parted ways. Evan sat on the edge of his bed with the window cracked open, the rain tapping the sill and the hum of the city leaking in. His jacket was still draped over the chair, his shirt clinging damp to his back. He’d meant to shower hours ago, but the thought of hot water only made the heat crawling under his skin worse.

It wasn’t just temperature—it was hunger, restlessness, a low hum in his body that made every breath feel like an ache. The walk home hadn’t helped; neither had replaying every second of the night in his head.

Stacy’s laugh. The way he’d looked under the streetlight. The exact distance between them when he said you’d know if I was dangerous.

Evan dragged a hand down his face. “You’re losing it,” he muttered to himself.

He reached for his phone like it was a lifeline. The human dating app was already open from earlier that week, a graveyard of profiles he’d half-heartedly swiped through before the date. He told himself it was practical—his version of coping. Someone to take the edge off, burn through the heat, pass an unfertilized egg, and get back to pretending to be normal.

He thumbed through faces. Left. Left. Left. Everyone looked the same: soft smiles, over-filtered lighting, normal. None of them smelled like smoke and rain. None of them made his stomach twist the way Stacy had just by leaning too close.

He cursed under his breath. If he’d been thinking straight, he would’ve asked for a number. Something. But he hadn’t, and now he was stuck—half-sick from his own body, half-haunted by a grin he couldn’t stop seeing every time he blinked.

His thumb hovered over the screen. One more swipe.

And there it was.

Stacy, 24

A photo of him sitting on a fire escape, cigarette balanced between his fingers, city lights throwing a faint gold line along his jaw. His smile was the same one from earlier that night, half-cocked, confident, like he was in on some secret. 

A rush of heat went straight to his chest, then lower. His pulse thudded in his throat. It wasn’t even about attraction anymore—it was instinct, sharp and dizzying. The man who’d lingered in his thoughts for days, the one who’d made him forget himself for a few hours, was suddenly on his screen.

For a moment, Evan just stared. “No way,” he whispered.

He hovered his thumb over the heart icon, then hesitated. This was supposed to be safe. Controlled. The whole point was not getting tangled in something complicated.

And Stacy was complicated. Too observant, too at ease, too much.

But the longer he stared at that grin, the more the reasoning slipped. He could smell the phantom trace of tobacco and rain like it was still in his apartment. His body was already reacting, restless and warm, heat pushing against his skin in little waves that made it hard to think.

He tapped the heart.

The app blinked once, then threw up the message:

It’s a match.

Evan’s breath caught, his whole body pulsing with the same quick, dizzy rush he’d felt when Stacy smiled at him across the counter for the first time.

A new message popped up almost immediately.

Stacy: Didn’t expect to find you here, Candy Guy.

Evan stared at it, heart pounding hard enough to make his hands tremble.

The heat spiked again, curling deep in his gut until it was hard to think straight. He set the phone down, stared at it like it might bite him, then picked it back up again.

His pulse fluttered as he started to type.

Evan: Guess Espiritu’s smaller than it looks.

The reply came almost immediately.

Stacy: Good thing. Makes it easier to find sweet things twice.

Evan stared at the screen too long.

Rain still whispered against the glass, the city glowing dull through it, and the ache beneath his skin hadn’t let up, it had only gotten worse. Every second stretched, restless, his body urging him to do something.

He shouldn’t text back. He should turn off the phone, take a cold shower, do anything else.

But he didn’t.

He smiled, small and helpless, and typed another message instead.

Evan: You still out?

The reply came before he could second-guess himself.

Stacy: Yeah. Why, you miss me already?

Evan exhaled through his nose, half a laugh, half a curse. He didn’t have the energy to dance around it.

Evan: Maybe.
Evan: You busy?

A small pause. 

Stacy: Depends what you’ve got in mind, Candy Guy.

Evan swallowed hard. He could almost hear the drawl in it, the way Stacy’s voice dipped when he joked. His fingers moved before the thought could catch up.

Evan: Come by.

Another pause, longer this time. He could picture Stacy reading it, maybe smiling that same slow grin from earlier.

Stacy: That an invitation or an emergency?

Evan hesitated, then sent:

Evan: Both.

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Came back again.

Stacy: Text me the address.

Evan’s stomach flipped. He did. The message sent. Then nothing.

The next few minutes stretched thin. He tried pacing, tried steadying his breathing, but every nerve in him felt tuned to the sound of approaching footsteps, the possibility of a knock. His skin buzzed with heat—too much, too close to breaking.

The phone buzzed again.

Stacy: On my way.

That was it. No follow-up. Just those three words.

Evan set the phone down, stared at it like it might burn through the nightstand, and rubbed a hand over his mouth. He wasn’t sure if this was bravery or stupidity, but the part of him that could tell the difference was buried under the pulse of his own heartbeat now.

He stood, crossing to the mirror by the door. His reflection looked flushed, eyes a little too bright, pupils dilated to hell. He adjusted his shirt, tried to make himself look less like what he was feeling, and failed.

Then the panic hit.

He looked around his apartment and felt his stomach drop. The living room was a disaster — an explosion of laundry, books, and a graveyard of tissues scattered like confetti from his last few days of barely coping. A damp towel draped over the back of the couch. A blanket, definitely not clean, balled up near the TV. And there, glaring at him from the coffee table, the world’s most suspiciously stained sheet he’d been meaning to take to the laundromat for two days.

“Great,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand through his curls. “Real inviting. Perfect setting for... whatever this is supposed to be.”

He moved fast, scooping up the worst of it, shoving laundry into the hallway closet, and praying Stacy wouldn’t notice that the “fresh” blanket on the couch still smelled faintly of detergent and panic. He stuffed the tissues into the trash, winced at the sight of them, and pushed the can under the sink like hiding the evidence could erase it.

The smell in the air was worse — sweet, heavy, too warm. He cracked the window wider, hoping the rain would pull some of it out, though it only seemed to stir the scent more. It clung to him, to the fabric of the couch, to the very air like static. No candle or breeze could mask it.

By the time he stopped, the place looked... passable. Not great, not first time inviting someone over clean, but less like the habitat of a deranged pigeon with an aggressive masturbation problem.

He exhaled, slow and shaky. “He’s just a guy,” he said aloud. “A human guy. With hands and opinions and probably bad taste in music.”

He wiped his palms on his jeans and glanced toward the door, heart hammering just as thunder rolled somewhere far above the city.

Still time to cancel, he thought. You could say you’re sick. Say you fell asleep. Say—

A knock at the door cut through the thought.

 Three short raps. Confident. Familiar.

Evan froze. Too late.

Evan pulled the door open and the hallway light caught in white hair and the thin gleam of an eyepatch. Stacy stood there with rain still beading on his jacket, one pale eye creasing at the corner when it landed on him.

“Evenin’,” he said, drawl soft. “Hope I didn’t make you wait.”

Evan stepped back automatically, the smell of rain and smoke curling around the doorway. “You’re fine. Come in before you start flooding the hall.”

Stacy tipped his head in thanks and stepped past him, the heel of his boot catching on the threshold for half a beat before he crossed it. That was when Evan noticed—again—that same beat-up guitar case hanging from his shoulder, plastered in stickers, edges frayed. It had been there every time he’d seen him, always within reach.

The strap dug into Stacy’s shoulder through his jacket; his posture changed with the weight of it, balanced like a man used to carrying something that mattered.

Evan’s curiosity pricked. He couldn’t help it. “You seriously brought that thing with you?”

Stacy blinked, following his gaze down to the case, then grinned. “What, this old thing?”

“You know what I mean,” Evan said, voice dry but edged with something else. “You carry it everywhere. Thought maybe you had separation anxiety or something.”

That got him a laugh loud enough to echo in the small apartment, then fade into a chuckle. “Nah. Just don’t like leavin’ it where I can’t see it.”

Evan arched a brow. “Right. Because everyone’s dying to steal your guitar.”

Stacy’s grin faltered just a hair—not enough for anyone else to notice, but Evan saw it. The micro-shift in his posture, the way his good eye flicked away before he shrugged.

“Old habit,” Stacy said. “City’s rough. Better safe than sorry.”

Evan hummed noncommittally, stepping aside as Stacy leaned the case carefully against the wall. Carefully—that was the thing. It wasn’t the way you set down an instrument. It was the way you handled something you didn’t want bumped, opened, or questioned.

He tried not to stare, but his brain wouldn’t let it go. It wasn’t shaped right, not really. Too narrow at the top, a little too long overall. And the way it clunked when it hit the floor wasn’t wood-against-wood—it was heavier, duller.

That’s not a guitar, Evan thought, pulse flickering. So what the hell is it?

He caught himself watching Stacy as he straightened, that easy, unbothered grin sliding back into place. Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe it was just weird musician stuff. Or maybe—

“Relax,” Stacy said, teasing, like he’d caught the direction of his thoughts. “M’not gonna start playing for you or anything.”

Evan snorted. “Good. Because that’d be a real mood killer.”

“Oh yeah?” Stacy’s grin grew again, lazy and sure. “I was thinking maybe it’d be romantic.”

Evan rolled his eyes but felt his mouth twitch anyway. “You really brought a mystery box to a booty call.”

“Never know when inspiration’s gonna hit,” Stacy said, “Figure it’s better to have my baby with me.”

That word—baby—made Evan’s brows lift. “You call your guitar that?”

“Sure do,” Stacy said easily, though his gaze flicked to the case again, then back. “She’s been with me through a lot.”

Evan let it slide. Barely. He gestured toward the couch. “You can put your coat there. I mean, as long as your baby doesn’t need a seat too.”

Stacy laughed again, this one quieter, and did as told. But when his hand brushed the case in passing, Evan caught that tiny, instinctive glance toward it—the kind you gave something dangerous or precious.

And for the first time that night, Evan wondered if maybe it was both.

He tore his eyes away, forcing his thoughts somewhere else. He hadn’t invited Stacy over to dwell on that damn case. It didn’t matter what was in it—steel, strings, skeletons. He just wanted to stop thinking for once. The heat building low in his gut was reason enough, the faint pull under his skin urging him toward warmth, toward distraction, toward him.

Evan cleared his throat, moving past Stacy toward the kitchenette. The motion helped to ground himself. “You want a drink or something?” he asked, though his voice came out softer than intended.

Behind him, Stacy’s boots scuffed lightly against the floor. “Sure,” he said. “Surprise me.”

Evan reached for two glasses, his palms warm against the cool surface of the counter. He could feel the other man’s gaze on him again, that heavy awareness that made his chest tighten. The faint sound of rain against the window filled the silence; it was steady, rhythmic, almost too intimate in the quiet space between them.

He focused on the way the faucet hissed, the condensation building on the glass, the sound of his own pulse in his ears. But it didn’t quiet the thought looping through his head: Why bring that thing everywhere? What are you so scared to leave behind?

“Smells good in here,” Stacy said, voice low and casual.

“Candle,” Evan lied automatically, the word catching slightly in his throat.

“Yeah?”

The drawl lingered in the air. Playful, but there was something beneath it, a curiosity that made Evan’s stomach flip.

He turned with the glasses, met Stacy’s gaze for half a second, and immediately regretted it. That single pale eye had a weight to it, steady and knowing, and when their fingers brushed during the handoff, something inside him short-circuited.

The contact was nothing, really—a touch of skin, a brief exchange of warmth—but it made his breath hitch. Everything felt heightened: the hum in the room, the smell of rain, the faint sweetness that he couldn’t hide anymore. His pheromones were bleeding through the glamour, thickening the air, and he knew Stacy had to feel something.

“Thanks,” Stacy said, his voice low, almost rough now.

Evan nodded, pretending not to notice the way his pulse jumped. “Yeah.”

He took a sip of water just to have something to do with his mouth. The glass was cold; the moment wasn’t.

He wanted to say something to fill the silence before it got too heavy, but every thought just looped back to that case by the wall, to the way Stacy had looked at it like it was part of him.

Stop thinking, he told himself again. You didn’t bring him here for questions.

He exhaled slowly, set his glass down, and forced a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So, what, no serenade tonight?”

Stacy grinned, easy, unbothered. “Didn’t think this was that kinda gig.”

Evan’s heart gave a small, traitorous kick. He laughed softly, shaking his head. “I mean, you’re right.”

He meant for it to sound offhand, but it came out quieter than he wanted, the words catching somewhere in his chest. His pulse hadn’t slowed since he’d opened the door; if anything, it was worse now, steady and insistent under his ribs. The apartment felt smaller than usual, too warm, too close, the sound of rain at the window only making it worse.

He could feel it again, that faint electric hum beneath his skin, the one that meant his body was winning out over reason. The sweetness in the air was growing denser, curling around them both.

Stacy tilted his head a little, studying him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Evan said automatically. Then, after a beat, softer: “It’s just been a long week.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was thick, charged, threaded through with something unspoken. Evan could hear his own heartbeat again, could feel the faint tremor in his hands when he crossed his arms.

He didn’t trust himself to look up, not yet. Because he knew the second he did, he wouldn’t look away.

You didn’t invite him over for small talk, his brain reminded him, dryly. You knew exactly what this was going to be.

The thought made his throat go dry. He shifted his weight, pretending to straighten a coaster on the coffee table just to have something to do with his hands. It was a useless motion—the thing was already perfectly aligned—but it gave him an excuse not to stare, not to acknowledge the ache twisting low in his stomach.

His pulse wouldn’t quit. It fluttered, fast and uneven, like a trapped bird behind his ribs, wings battering bone. Every movement felt deliberate now: the scrape of his palm against the table’s edge, the inhale he tried to steady, the warmth of Stacy’s presence just a few feet away.

He could feel him there. Not touching, not even close enough for the heat of his body to reach, but present in a way that filled the space. Stacy’s voice had gone quiet, and that silence carried weight, an invitation that wasn’t spoken aloud.

Evan didn’t need to look to know Stacy was watching him. He could sense it, the steady, patient focus of that one pale eye, waiting for him to either break the tension or walk away.

And he couldn’t walk away.

His body was already betraying him, skin prickling, breathing shallow. The sweetness in the air—his sweetness—had deepened to something unmistakable now, rich and magnetic. Stacy had to notice, it was impossible not to. The air felt thick enough to drown in.

Evan forced himself to finally look up, just a glance, but it was enough.

Stacy was already facing him, that half-smile gone. In its place was something quieter, almost reverent, like he was seeing something he didn’t want to startle.

Their eyes caught, and for a heartbeat the rest of the room blurred out of existence.

Evan didn’t overthink it this time. He crossed the room like he’d decided ten minutes ago and was just catching up.

“Come here,” 

Stacy’s mouth tipped. He stepped in, close enough that Evan caught rain and smoke under clean skin. The pheromones were working, Evan could see it—Stacy’s shoulders loosened, his pupil blown wide, that restless scan of the room finally settling on him.

“Kiss me,” Evan said.

“Okay.” No performance, no line. Stacy just leaned down and did it, warm and sure, a little hungry at the edges. Evan’s pulse kicked hard and even; the heat under his skin stopped feeling like a problem and started feeling like gravity.

He fisted a hand in Stacy’s shirt and tugged him closer. “Lose the jacket.”

Stacy shrugged it off, tossed it to the chair without looking. The next kiss was deeper, slower, confidence meeting confidence. Stacy’s hands found his waist and stayed there, like they’d landed in the right place and didn’t need to wander to prove it.

The air went thicker, sweeter, the kind of close that made both of them breathe a little harder.

They bumped the couch. Evan sat first and dragged Stacy down by the front of his shirt. “Here’s good.”

“Here’s great.” Stacy went one knee on the cushion, one foot planted like he had a habit of keeping balance. Evan clocked it and let it go. He tugged until Stacy’s weight settled across him, not crushing, just there, heat on heat. It knocked a quiet sound out of Evan he didn’t bother to swallow.

Hands learned quick, Evan’s sliding into white hair; Stacy’s mapping ribs, hip, the notch just above Evan’s waistband like he was cataloging what made the breath hitch. The pheromones were a tide now. Stacy’s grip tightened, then eased, like his body kept trying to surge and his brain told him to keep it easy.

Evan let himself sink into it. Heat wasn’t a problem to fix tonight, it was the current he was riding. Stacy’s palm slid under his shirt again, rough hand tracking up his chest like he was learning a path and committing it to muscle memory.

“You’re warm,” Stacy said, half-laughing, a little undone already.

“Yeah.” Evan tilted his head, caught the hinge of Stacy’s jaw in his teeth, and felt the breath break against his mouth. Good, he thought, a clean bright click in his skull. Keep him here. Keep him with you.

Kissing turned rhythmic, hips catching that slow grind that soaked the edges of thought. Evan’s brain condensed into a few simple lines of code: closer, more, don’t overthink. His pheromones kept climbing, sweet and electric; he could see the moment they got their hooks in, Stacy’s shoulders loosening, hands gentling even as his body wanted to surge.

“Condom?” Stacy asked, practical, steady.

“I’m clean,” Evan said, voice low. “You?”

“Yeah.”

He popped the drawer on the coffee table, found the small bottle by feel. The cap snapped, Stacy took it, slicked his fingers without losing eye contact, then shifted down between Evan’s thighs. 

The first press was hot and bright. He made a sound he didn’t try to swallow and Stacy paused just enough to read his face before easing deeper, then out, then back in, setting a pace that loosened the knots under Evan’s skin one by one. Two fingers now. The lazy curl, the angle. There. Evan’s hand caught Stacy’s wrist, not to stop him but to steer.

Stacy hummed, amused and focused, staying on it until Evan’s hips started chasing on instinct. The sweetness in the room sharpened, Stacy swore softly like it hit him in the spine and kept his rhythm anyway. “You’re doin’ so good, baby.”

The word shouldn’t have landed so clean. It did. Something warm and simple opened under Evan’s ribs. He hooked fingers in Stacy’s shirt and tugged him up for another kiss—messy, grateful, teeth catching on lip. “C’mon,” Evan said against his mouth, too honest to play coy. “Fuck me.”

Stacy’s answer lived in his hands, the way he slicked himself with a quick, shaky exhale, the way he braced, one knee on the cushion, one foot planted like habit; the way he paused at Evan’s entrance and pressed their foreheads together for a breath.

The first push stretched him wide, then relief that rolled through his whole body like a shiver. Evan’s fingers slid down the line of Stacy’s arm and stayed. Okay. Okay. The second stroke smoothed the burn into want, the third taught his nerves a new shape.

“Move,” Evan said, already meeting him.

Stacy moved. Short, careful strokes lengthened into something sure, a grind that found the spot Evan liked and kept finding it. The couch creaked. Rain threaded the window. Evan let the sounds happen, low, shameless, a trill catching in his throat when Stacy hit just right.

Stacy wrapped him, rough palm working in time with his hips. It turned everything up—heat, scent, the hard drum of pulse in Evan’s ears. His glamour fuzzed at the edges, gold licked through his pupils when he looked up. Stacy swore under his breath like he’d just seen lightning too close.

“Almost,” Evan panted. “Don’t stop.”

“Not stoppin’.” Stacy’s pace tightened, sweat beaded at his temple. He was losing polish. Good. “You feel—fuck—perfect.”

The coil snapped, sharp and bright. Evan came with a strangled noise, clenching hard around Stacy in pulsing aftershocks; the ripple dragged an answering groan from Stacy. He drove deep once, twice, and went with him, shuddering, spilling hot, mouth at Evan’s jaw like he couldn’t think to be anywhere else.

Silence, then, except for the rain. Evan’s heartbeat took its time climbing back down.

He eased out slow, palm smoothing a lazy line down Evan’s thigh like stay with me without saying it. Then he slid to the floor between Evan’s knees, forearms hooked on the cushion, head tipped back to catch the cooler air. Evan’s hand found white hair on instinct, carded through it once, slow. Stacy’s eye closed, a corner-smile tugged up like he couldn’t help it.

Heat hummed lower now, satisfied and low-voltage. Evan let his spine sink into the couch and watched the room reassemble around them. The sweetness in the air thinned from urgent to warm. He could think again—dangerous. The sticker-scarred case leaned where Stacy had parked it, wrong-shaped in the periphery. A thought rose—ask—and he batted it back down. Not yet. He’d ruin the soft for a truth he wasn’t ready to hold.

Stacy opened his eye, looked up at him from the floor like he was trying not to stare. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Evan’s voice came out rough and honest. “You?”

Stacy blew a breath through his nose, somewhere between a laugh and relief. “Feelin’ like coming over was the right call.”

“Mm.” Evan’s mouth curved. 

Stacy pushed up slow, palms on his thighs, then on the cushion beside Evan. The hands talked as he stood, quick little shapes in the air, like they had to burn off leftover current. “You want water?”

“Please.” Evan let his head fall back against the couch while Stacy crossed to the sink. The faucet coughed once before the steady rush of water filled the quiet. Evan watched him in the half-light,  the slope of his back, the careful set of his shoulders, the way he stood just so, body angled so the case stayed behind him but always in his sight. It wasn’t conscious, not really. It was the kind of muscle memory that came from years of habit, the sort you didn’t notice until someone else did.

There it is again, Evan thought. He didn’t know what was in that case, but it wasn’t a guitar. No one guarded an instrument like that.

He told himself to stop thinking about it. He didn’t invite him over to audit his secrets.

Stacy turned, glass in hand, the tension in his shoulders gone like it had never been there. He passed the drink over and lingered close while Evan took it, close enough for Evan to feel the heat radiating off him, to smell the faint mix of smoke and rain still clinging to his skin. 

The first sip hit cool and sharp, clean enough to slice through the haze that still clung to him. The water steadied his hands, but not his pulse. He tilted his head back, swallowed, and felt Stacy’s gaze settle like a hand on the back of his neck.

When he looked up again, Stacy was watching him. Not the way he had earlier, not with that keyed-up hunger that came with the rush of bodies and scent and heat, but quieter. Softer. Like the edge had been sanded down. The pheromones did that sometimes, it wasn’t hypnosis, but it was close enough. They took all that swagger, that manic brightness, and melted it down into something calmer, more open.

Evan had seen the effect before, even if he’d never meant to use it like that. With Stacy, though, it hit different. There was no glassiness in his eyes, no slackness in his jaw—just a strange ease, like the storm inside him had found a rhythm.

Evan felt it too. The air between them wasn’t sharp anymore; it hummed. Low. Steady. Intimate in a way that made his throat go tight.

The silence between them stretched, comfortable and full. He didn’t look away this time. The rain kept talking against the window, soft and constant, filling the small spaces where words might’ve gone.

“Do you wanna stay the night?” he asked, voice soft but sure. “I won’t just sleep with you and then kick you out into the rain.”

For a heartbeat, Stacy only watched him, that easy half-smile pulling at his mouth again. Then he gave a short, quiet laugh. “You sure? I snore.”

Evan’s mouth curved. “I can deal.”

“Then yeah,” Stacy said, stepping in close enough that their knees brushed. “I’ll stay.”

Evan stood, the movement slow and instinctive. The air between them felt different now—heavy, but not with want. More like a truce. A quiet understanding neither needed to name. He reached to switch off the lamp; the room slipped into the soft blue of rainlight, everything hushed but the steady patter against the window.

He led the way down the short hall, the faint glow from the living room catching on the curve of the case still propped against the wall—silent, waiting. He didn’t look at it this time.

The bedroom light flicked on, warm and quiet. Stacy shrugged out of his shirt without ceremony, laid it over the chair. Evan climbed into bed, sheets cool against his skin, pulse finally settling into something soft. When Stacy joined him, the mattress dipped, a small shift of weight that somehow made the whole room feel steadier.

No more talk, just the rustle of fabric, the rain, the occasional sigh. Evan rolled onto his side, half-expecting the awkward gap that always came after, but Stacy’s hand found the space between them—resting easy on the edge of the blanket. Not demanding. Just there.

Evan’s eyes drifted closed. “Night,” he murmured.

“Night, Candy Guy,” came the reply, low and almost fond.

Outside, Espiritu breathed—the city lights blurring against the wet glass, the sound of distant traffic softened by the storm. Inside, two strangers slept in the same rhythm, the air sweet and still, and the wrong-shaped case by the wall keeping its quiet watch.

Chapter Text

Evan woke to the quiet.

That heavy, middle-of-the-night kind where the city itself seems to be holding its breath. The rain had stopped hours ago, leaving the windows fogged and the air cool enough to raise goosebumps along his arms. The sheets were warm where Stacy slept beside him.

He could feel Stacy’s breath at his back, steady, even. The kind of deep sleep that said he wasn’t pretending.

Evan lay there a moment, eyes on the dark ceiling. He should’ve gone back to sleep, let his body rest, but his brain wouldn’t stop whispering about the case in the living room. The image of it sitting against the wall kept flashing behind his eyelids, the way Stacy had set it down, careful, deliberate, like it was something alive.

He told himself to leave it alone. He wasn’t the snooping type. But curiosity had teeth, and it had been gnawing at him since the first time he’d seen Stacy with that damn thing.

He turned his head just enough to look at him. Stacy was sprawled half off the pillow, mouth parted slightly, hair a mess of white curls against the dark blanket. He looked younger asleep, softer. Unthreatening.

Evan’s chest tightened. Don’t ruin it, a small part of him warned. Let it be.

He slid out of bed anyway.

The floorboards underfoot were cold and faintly sticky where humidity clung. He moved quiet, practiced, his body remembering what it was to hunt shadows long before dawn. The apartment smelled like rain and sweat, the faint sweetness of his own pheromones dulled but not gone.

The case sat where Stacy left it near the couch, leaning against the wall, black and scuffed and covered in band stickers that made it look harmless. Evan crouched beside it, fingertips hovering over the latch.

He hesitated. Then exhaled slowly and flipped it open. The hinges gave a soft creak, too loud in the quiet.

No guitar. No strings. Just an arsenal.

Rows of polished tools glinting under the faint light from the window. Knives, compact and silver-edged. A small firearm with strange etching along the barrel. Vials filled with thick, dark liquid he didn’t want to identify. Stakes carved from some pale wood that smelled faintly of resin and ash. Everything organized with surgical precision—oiled, wrapped, labeled.

His stomach dropped.

There was no question what this was. No misinterpretation to cling to. Hunters carried kits like this. The ones who came into Espiritu under the pretense of work or wandering, sniffing out monsters in hiding.

He’s one of them.

The thought landed like ice water down his spine. He reached out before he could stop himself, fingers ghosting over the grip of a knife. Cold. Smooth. Very real.

He shut the case quickly, as quietly as he could. His heartbeat was too loud.

Evan sat back on his heels, staring at the closed box like it might start breathing. A sharp sound escaped him, half laugh, half disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whispered to the dark.

Behind him, a small noise—Stacy shifting in bed, the creak of the mattress. Evan froze, heart slamming against his ribs. He waited, every sense sharpened, until the apartment went still again.

When he finally let himself move, he stood too fast, breath coming tight and uneven.

He’d been stupid. Careless. He’d let a hunter into his bed. The thought burned through the last of his drowsiness.

He pressed the latch down firmly, sealing the case again, and stood there staring at it one more second before turning away. His hands were shaking, just enough to feel it.

Back in the bedroom, Stacy was still asleep, one arm thrown over the pillow where Evan’s head had been.

Evan watched him from the doorway. For a moment, all he could think about was the way that same hand had rested on his hip hours ago, soft and careful. How it had felt safe. 

He slid back under the sheets but stayed on his side, eyes open until dawn began to seep through the blinds.

Evan lay still, staring at the ceiling while the first hints of daylight crept across the blinds, cutting pale bars of light across the room. He could hear Stacy breathing—slow, deep, oblivious.

Every inhale from the other side of the bed made his stomach turn tighter.

He’d let a hunter inside his home. Inside him.

The realization felt like a slow, spreading burn under his skin. His pulse hadn’t calmed since he’d shut that case, and now it thudded dully in his chest, each beat reminding him of what he’d seen. The weapons. The vials. The quiet, deliberate way Stacy had handled himself all along—it hadn’t been charm or habit. It had been training.

He’d slept beside someone who probably carried the scent of blood and silver on his hands. He’d kissed that same mouth, trusted it against his throat.

Evan pressed a palm over his eyes, forcing a shaky breath out through his teeth. What the hell were you thinking?

He could feel the leftover warmth of Stacy’s body beside him, could smell that faint trace of smoke and rain that had seemed so harmless hours ago. Now it made his stomach twist.

He knows where I live. The thought came like a crack of thunder. And where I work.

That part scared him more than the case. More than the idea of silver knives tucked under stickers. Because hunters didn’t just stumble into the city, they came with intent. And if Stacy had been sent here, then he’d already done his research.

Evan’s mind spun uselessly, running circles around itself. Maybe it wasn’t like that. Maybe the weapons were old, relics, a leftover life he hadn’t put down yet. But then he pictured the way everything had been arranged—clean, efficient, cared for. The case hadn’t been neglected. It had been maintained.

He’d been careful all these years—his glamour steady, his name clean, his routine ordinary. He’d built a human life from the ground up, and in one careless week, he’d invited a hunter right into the middle of it.

The ceiling blurred. His chest ached with that sick, rising panic that didn’t know where to go. He swallowed it down, trying to focus, to think past the fear.

What was he supposed to do when Stacy woke up?

Kick him out? Pretend nothing was wrong? Try to ghost him and hope that was enough? Hunters didn’t just forget their targets.

He turned his head slightly. Stacy was still asleep, hair a mess, one arm sprawled toward the empty space where Evan had been lying. He looked peaceful. Harmless. 

Evan’s throat tightened. His body wanted to move—to run, to hide—but logic told him that any sudden shift would only draw suspicion. Hunters noticed patterns.

Act normal. Stay calm.

He’d send him on his way when he woke. Play it casual. No drama, no questions, no reason to linger. Then he’d figure out what to do next. But that thought didn’t ease the sick tension in his gut.

Evan lay there, counting Stacy’s slow breaths until the light crept high enough to wash the walls gold. He had no plan. No certainty. Just a hunter sleeping soundly beside him, a secret he couldn’t unlearn, and the quiet horror of knowing the line between prey and lover had already blurred too far to see.

The sound that finally broke the silence was small—just the rustle of sheets, the scrape of fabric against skin. Stacy shifted beside him, exhaled through his nose, and the easy rhythm of his breathing changed. 

Evan didn’t move.

He could feel Stacy waking in real time, muscles stretching, breath deepening. The mattress dipped as he rolled onto his side.

“Mornin’,” Stacy murmured, voice still thick with sleep.

Evan forced himself to look, to meet that single pale eye blinking open. “Hey,” he said, soft, easy. The word tasted strange on his tongue, but his voice held. “You sleep okay?”

“Like a rock.” Stacy smiled, the kind that creased his face slow and lazy. “You?”

Evan’s heart kicked against his ribs. Lie. “Yeah. Fine.”

“Good.” Stacy scrubbed a hand through his hair, making it worse somehow, and stretched. His bare shoulders caught the light. “Feels late.”

“It’s early.” Evan shifted onto his back, reaching for his phone just to have something to do. “Like six-ish.”

“Damn.” Stacy groaned, collapsing back against the pillow. “Guess I’ll hang out till the trains start runnin’ again.”

Evan nodded, pretending to scroll. The room felt too bright, too close. His skin prickled. He could feel every breath Stacy took, each one a reminder that there were weapons in the next room designed to kill people like him.

He glanced toward the doorway, half expecting to see the case sitting there, lid cracked open, light spilling over metal.

“You got work today?” Stacy asked, voice still lazy, oblivious.

“Yeah. Morning shift.”

“Want me gone before then?”

Evan’s fingers tightened around his phone. “You don’t have to rush,” he said automatically, then regretted it immediately. “I mean—I’ll be out soon anyway.”

“Cool.” Stacy smiled faintly, eyes half-shut again. “You got coffee?”

Evan swallowed. “Yeah. Kitchen.”

“Mind if I—?”

“Go ahead.”

Stacy got up, bare feet soft against the floor, body moving with that same easy grace Evan had found so attractive before. Now it made his stomach twist.

He listened to the sounds: the fridge door opening, the tap running, the clink of a mug on the counter. Ordinary sounds. They shouldn’t have felt threatening, but they did.

Evan sat there, staring at the sheets. His heart hadn’t stopped pounding since the moment he’d opened that case.

He needed to get a grip—play this right. If Stacy noticed he was off, if he sensed anything—

When Stacy came back, he had two mugs in hand. He passed one over, fingers brushing Evan’s. Warm. Human. So painfully normal.

“Thanks,” Evan said. He didn’t drink.

They sat for a minute in the small silence that followed, city noise just beginning to creep in through the window—the hum of traffic, a siren in the distance, the first murmur of Espiritu waking up.

Evan tried to look calm, but every sense in him was still tuned sharp. The smell of coffee mixed with the faint metal tang of the weapons still haunting his memory.

Stacy leaned back, sipping from his mug, watching him over the rim with that easy, unreadable expression. “You’re quiet this morning,” he said finally.

Evan looked down at his own cup. “Just tired.”

“You sure that’s all?”

“Yeah.” He forced a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

It worked—at least enough to make Stacy’s grin return, small and satisfied. “Alright, Candy Guy. I’ll take your word for it.”

The nickname hit different now. Evan managed to keep his face neutral.

They sat a little longer, the conversation light, domestic, hollow. Eventually, Stacy said he should head out, and Evan didn’t argue.

When the door finally closed behind him, Evan stood in the middle of the room, mug still in hand, staring at the space he’d left.

The quiet pressed in.

The moment Stacy’s steps disappeared down the hall, he let out the breath he’d been holding since dawn.

~~~~

By the time Evan clocked in, the store lights felt too bright, the air too clean. His head still rang from the morning — the case, the smile, the quiet way Stacy had said Candy Guy before leaving. He’d showered, dressed, taken the train like nothing had happened, but his body hadn’t gotten the memo. His nerves still hummed under his skin.

Emi was already behind the counter when he came in, perched on her stool with a coffee the color of tar and a stack of receipts she wasn’t pretending to work on. Her tails were hidden, but the faint shimmer at her edges gave her away. She was in a mood.

The second she spotted him, her grin widened. “Well, well, well. Look who survived date night.”

Evan groaned and brushed past her toward the back room, dropping his bag in the locker. “Please don’t start.”

“Oh, I’m starting,” she said, spinning her stool to follow him. “You owe me details. All I got last night was a text that said, ‘He’s here.’ You can’t leave me hangin’ like that.”

He busied himself tying his apron, hoping the physical motion might buy him a second of calm. “It was fine,” he said finally. “Dinner, conversation, that’s all.”

Emi made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Fine? You’re glowing, liar. Either that or your pheromones haven’t cooled off yet.”

He shot her a look. “Can you not say that so loud?”

“There’s no one here yet,” she said, leaning on the counter. “And come on—‘fine’? You’re not a teenager sneaking back from prom. You’re an adult. You can give me more than fine.”

He sighed, running a hand through his curls. “It was… good,” he admitted. “He’s funny. Nice. It was—easy.”

“Easy good or easy boring?”

“Easy,” Evan said, too quickly. “Just—easy.”

Emi squinted at him, reading the tone beneath the words like she always did. “That’s the least convincing ‘easy’ I’ve ever heard.”

“Maybe I’m just tired,” he said, grabbing a clipboard from the shelf. “Long night.”

“Uh-huh.” She propped her chin on her hand. “You didn’t answer my actual question, though.”

“What question?”

“The important one. Did he stay over?”

Evan’s throat went dry. “Emi.”

Her grin widened like she’d hit a nerve. “He did. Oh my god, he did, didn’t he?”

He turned away, pretending to count the till. “I’m not talking about this with you.”

“You never talk about anything fun with me.” She huffed, dramatically flipping through her magazine. “At least tell me if he’s human or not.”

Evan’s heart tripped. “Human,” he said, careful.

“Really?” She peered at him over the edge of her page. “I was sure he had a little something extra. Humans don’t usually smell like that.”

He stiffened before he could stop himself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” she said with a shrug, but her eyes stayed on him. “You’re acting weird. Like, weirder than usual. Did something happen?”

He kept his eyes on the register, willing his voice to stay level. “No. Nothing happened.”

“Liar,” she sang, leaning closer. “Your feathers are showing, birdbrain.”

He glanced down at himself instinctively, then realized what she meant. His glamour hadn’t slipped—she was teasing. Still, the jab hit closer than she knew.

“Drop it, Emi,” he said quietly.

The tone made her pause. For a second, the fox in her blinked through the human mask—eyes sharpening, curiosity pricking. Then she backed off, raising her hands. “Okay, okay. Geez. No need to bite.”

Evan sighed. “Sorry.”

“You’re fine,” she said softly, tilting her head. “Just—whatever it is, I hope it was worth it.”

He didn’t answer.

Because how could he tell her that what she thought was a fling had turned into something dangerous? That he’d invited a hunter into his bed and now couldn’t stop smelling the metal and oil from that case every time he closed his eyes?

He gave her the smallest smile he could manage. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

The hours crawled by, each one louder than it should’ve been.
The hum of the fridges. The rhythmic beep of the scanner. The scrape of a shopping cart wheel that needed oil.

Evan kept busy with small tasks, straightening shelves that didn’t need it, restocking gum, pretending the normalcy could stitch his thoughts back into place.

He was scanning a bag of rice when it happened—just movement in his peripheral vision, the bell over the door chiming its usual tired jingle.

Then he saw it. A shock of white hair.

His stomach dropped. The barcode scanner froze in his hand. For one nauseating second, he was sure it was Stacy—same color, same careless mess of curls—and every muscle in his body went tight.

He didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Then the man turned his head, and the illusion broke. Not Stacy. Just another glamoured supernatural—his glamour flickered faintly at the edges, feathers faintly visible under human skin. Probably one of the harpies that came through every few weeks.

Evan’s breath left him in a slow, quiet exhale. He forced his body to unclench, made himself finish scanning. “Paper or plastic?” he managed.

The customer gave him a tired smile. “Paper, please.”

“Right.” His voice came out thin. “Of course.”

He went through the motions, handed over the change, watched the customer go. His pulse didn’t settle until the door shut behind them.

“Okay,” Emi said from behind the counter, her tone deceptively casual. “You gonna tell me what that was about, or should I just start guessing?”

Evan blinked, pretending not to hear her. “What?”

She arched an eyebrow. “You just went statue mode for a full thirty seconds. If I didn’t know better, I’d think someone waved a basilisk at you.”

He tried to smirk, but it came out crooked. “Just—thought I recognized someone.”

Emi didn’t buy it, not for a second. “Someone, or the someone?”

He scanned another barcode a little too forcefully. “You’re exhausting.”

“You’re deflecting.” She folded her arms, studying him. “And for the record? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Didn’t,” he said, sharper than he meant to. Then, quieter: “Just jumped at nothing.”

Emi leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. “You sure you’re okay, Ev? You’ve been twitchy all morning.”

He hesitated, thumb tracing the corner of the counter. “Didn’t sleep much,” he said.

“You never do,” she said, but softer now. “Whatever this guy did, I’ll bite him next time he walks in.”

That earned her a faint, genuine laugh. “He’s human,” Evan said. “You’d get arrested.”

“Don’t care,” she said easily. “You don’t mess with my coworker-slash-entertainment-source.”

He smiled, but it didn’t stick. The quiet that followed pressed against his ears.

Emi watched him for another beat, eyes flicking over his face. Then, in a rare act of restraint, she just nodded and turned back to her magazine.

Evan didn’t say thank you, but he felt it anyway.

He spent the rest of his shift pretending to be fine, but the image of that white hair—the gut-deep panic that had flared before logic could catch up—stayed with him. He couldn’t stop thinking about what would happen if it had been Stacy. If the hunter walked through that door with that lazy smile, pretending nothing had changed.

What would Evan do then? Smile back? Play along until he could disappear for good?

He didn’t know. By the time the shift ended, his hands ached from how tightly he’d gripped the scanner all afternoon.

~~~~

By the next day, Evan had almost convinced himself he could hold it together. Almost.

The store smelled like cleaner and fruit again, the air cool, humming with the same fluorescent buzz as always. He’d been there since opening, running on too little sleep and too much caffeine. His body felt hollowed out, light in the wrong way, nerves buzzing under his skin.

Emi had picked up on it right away, she always did, but after yesterday’s warning tone in his voice, she’d decided to keep her commentary to a minimum. 

By the time the afternoon lull rolled around, the store had settled into its usual rhythm: the low chatter of customers, the beep of scanners, the shuffle of carts. Normal. Safe.

Evan was restocking a shelf of canned peaches when the bell over the door chimed.

He didn’t even look up at first. It was automatic—the door opened a hundred times a day. Then he caught a flash of motion in the corner of his vision.

White hair. He froze.

It wasn’t the fleeting panic of yesterday. This time he knew. The shape of the shoulders. The cut of the jacket. The quiet confidence in the way he crossed the threshold like he belonged there.

Stacy.

For a heartbeat, Evan’s brain went blank. Every instinct screamed at him to move, to hide, to do something, but his body wouldn’t cooperate. His palms had gone slick, his pulse heavy and visible at his throat.

He forced himself to turn, to play it cool.

Stacy spotted him instantly, that crooked grin blooming like nothing had changed. “Hey, Candy Guy,” he called, voice warm and easy, like they were just picking up a conversation from last night.

Evan’s throat closed. He cleared it, too late. “Hey,” he managed.

Stacy leaned an elbow on the counter, casual as ever. “You been hidin’ from me? I came by yesterday. Forgot you had an early start than usual.” 

Evan’s chest tightened. He hadn’t realized Stacy had actually come by.

Stacy’s grin softened into something smaller, more real. “Thought maybe I scared you off.” 

You did, Evan thought, but smiled instead, a weak attempt at normal. “You didn’t.” 

“Good.” Stacy tapped the counter lightly, a nervous little rhythm that didn’t quite fit the calm on his face. “Was kinda hopin’ to see you again.”

Evan’s stomach knotted. The sound of that—hopin’ to see you again—hit somewhere low in his chest, twisted with guilt and something warmer he didn’t want to name.

He shifted his weight, pretending to straighten a candy display just to have something to look at that wasn’t Stacy’s face. The sugar smell hit sharp and sweet; it mixed with the faint trace of smoke that always clung to Stacy’s clothes. The combination made him dizzy.

He shouldn’t have felt that way. Not now. Not after what he’d seen sitting in that guitar case.

“Yeah, well,” he said, aiming for casual and missing by a mile. “Guess you found me.”

“Guess I did.”

Stacy’s voice was easy, but his eye flicked over Evan’s face like he was looking for something—some small tell. Evan could feel the scrutiny, the way hunters probably looked at everything: reading breath, posture, heartbeat. It made the skin at the back of his neck prickle.

“Looked like you’d seen a ghost just now,” Stacy said lightly. “That ’cause of me?”

Evan forced a short laugh, all air, no humor. “You’re not that scary.”

“Not tryin’ to be.” Stacy leaned in slightly, lowering his voice without losing the drawl. “But I can take a hint if you want me gone.”

Evan’s pulse jumped. Yes. He wanted to say yes. Wanted to tell him to take the case and disappear, to never come near this store—or him—again. But the words stuck. There was something in the way Stacy said it that didn’t sound like a threat. More like a quiet offer.

He swallowed. “No. It’s fine. I just… wasn’t expecting you.”

“That’s fair,” Stacy said again, softer now. He straightened, that restless energy easing back into his limbs. “Didn’t mean to throw you off. Just figured I’d grab somethin’ sweet and say hey.”

He held up a pack of candy from the rack—sour strips, one of Evan’s earlier recommendations. “Still trust your taste, Candy Guy.”

Evan’s mouth went dry. The nickname made his chest ache in a way he couldn’t explain. He nodded, pushing the scanner toward him with a shaky hand. “They’re on sale.”

“Lucky me.”

Their fingers brushed as Stacy passed the candy over, and Evan swore the static jump between them was real.

Stacy didn’t pull away. “You sure we’re good?” he asked quietly. “You feel a little… off today.”

Evan forced a smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes. “Just tired. Long week.”

“Yeah,” Stacy said, watching him a beat longer before slipping the candy into his jacket pocket. “Well, get some rest, huh? Don’t burn yourself out.”

Evan nodded, grateful for the out.

But then Stacy hesitated at the door, one hand on the frame, and glanced back. His grin was small again, almost uncertain. “See you around?”

Evan met his gaze for a second too long before saying, “Yeah. Sure.”

The door chimed, then closed, leaving the air strangely heavy.

He stood there until the hum of the lights filled the silence again, his hands trembling just slightly over the register keys.

From behind the counter, Emi’s quiet voice broke the stillness. “You’re so full of it.”

Evan blinked, snapping his head up. “What?”

She didn’t even look up from her magazine. “You like him. That’s what’s killing you.”

He opened his mouth, ready to deny it, but the words tangled before they reached his tongue. Because she wasn’t wrong. He just couldn’t afford to admit it.

The bell above the door gave one last tired jingle before the lock clicked into place. Emi flipped the sign to CLOSED and stretched.

The store was quiet now, just the low hum of refrigeration units and the distant city outside. Evan stood at the register, counting bills that didn’t need to be counted. His movements were too careful, too deliberate.

Emi watched him for a moment before saying, “You’re terrible at pretending nothing’s wrong.”

“I’m fine,” he said without looking up.

“Sure you are.” She hopped onto the counter and crossed her legs. “You’ve been wound tight since loverboy walked in. Don’t bother lying, I could hear your feathers rattling from here.”

He let out a breath through his nose, tired. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I have exactly an idea,” she said, pointing at him with one sharp nail. “You hooked up, it got weird, and now you’re doing that thing where you clam up and pretend feelings don’t exist.”

Evan gave her a flat look. “You’re dangerously confident for someone who read celebrity gossip all shift.”

Emi grinned, undeterred. “And I’m always right, aren’t I? What happened? He ghost you, or you ghost him?”

He hesitated, barely a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Her expression shifted, curiosity sharpening like a fox catching a scent.

“Ohhh,” she said, dragging out the sound. “You’re the one doing the running.”

“Emi—”

“Don’t Emi me. You’ve been off since your little date, Ev. You jump at every sound, and now he shows up and you look like someone stuck a gun to your head.”

He flinched before he could hide it.

Her smile faltered. “Hey. I was kidding.”

“I know.”

They both went quiet. The hum of the coolers filled the space between them.

Emi’s voice softened. “Did he do something?”

Evan’s fingers stilled on the cash drawer. He thought about the case, the glint of metal, the smell of oil and ash. About Stacy’s grin, the steady warmth of his hands, the way he’d said See you around like it was nothing.

“No,” he said finally, low. “Nothing like that.”

“But something’s wrong.”

“Yeah.”

Emi studied him for a long moment, the joking gone. “You don’t have to tell me. But if you need help—”

“I’ll handle it,” he cut in, maybe too fast. He closed the register with a snap. “Really.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing, but didn’t push. “You’re bad at lying,” she said quietly.

He tried for a smirk. “I’m bad at a lot of things.”

“Not the ones that count,” she said, hopping off the counter. “I’ll finish up. You… go breathe or whatever it is bird people do when they’re having an existential crisis.”

Evan managed a laugh, soft and uneven. “Thanks.”

When she disappeared into the stockroom, the quiet fell heavy again.

He leaned against the counter, hands braced, staring at the reflection of the empty aisles in the glass door. The city lights outside smeared across it, sharp white and amber. His reflection looked tired, older somehow.

He exhaled, slow. He’d handled close calls before. He could handle this. He had to. He just wished it didn’t feel like running from someone who’d actually looked at him, really looked, and hadn’t flinched.

The walk home was short, but it felt longer than usual tonight.

Espiritu after dark was a strange, breathing thing—neon bleeding into puddles, the scent of rain still fresh on the pavement. Every sound echoed sharper when he was alone: the low hum of a streetcar wire, the distant clatter of dishes from an all-night café, the faint beat of wings overhead that weren’t pigeons.

Usually, this hour felt peaceful. The city’s glamour shimmered just enough to make the hidden world feel alive, the way only monsters could tell. But tonight, everything seemed off-kilter. The streetlights buzzed too loud, and every passing face looked like it might turn toward him with a knowing smile.

Evan shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, walking faster. His mind kept circling back to Stacy’s grin, the quiet drawl of You sure we’re good? and the heavy click of that case when he closed it. The sound had burned itself into his memory.

Hunters weren’t rare in Espiritu. They just usually stayed out of the metro districts—there were too many eyes, too many rules. The city had its own fragile balance, and for the most part, the hunters knew better than to draw attention here. But Stacy wasn’t from here. He was new. Outsiders didn’t follow unspoken laws.

And yet, he didn’t feel like a threat. That was the part that kept eating at Evan.

He’d been in danger before. He knew what it felt like when someone looked at him and saw a monster. It was sharp and cold and unmistakable. But Stacy’s gaze had never been that. He’d looked at him like—

Evan stopped walking. His reflection stared back from a shop window, fractured in the glare of an open sign. He didn’t finish the thought.

He just wanted to be home.

The apartment was dark when he got in. Still smelled faintly of the two of them. It should’ve been comforting. Instead, it made his skin crawl with a weird ache that had nothing to do with fear.

He stripped out of his jacket, kicked off his shoes, and sank onto the couch. His whole body felt restless but heavy, that drained feeling that came when his heat cycle started to ebb. The air around him hummed with that faint sweetness that always came right before the end—soft, almost floral.

“Finally,” he muttered, pressing a palm to his stomach. The ache there was familiar, the last signal that it was over.

It wasn’t unusual for him to feel a pull to the bathroom when it happened—the instinct to nest, to prepare. It was stupid, embarrassing, but he always made space anyway. 

He fetched a towel, set it on the counter, then went to the sink to splash his face. Cool water steadied him.

But when he looked up again, the ache had sharpened. A twinge low in his gut. Pressure. Not painful, just present. He knew that feeling, too.

 He grabbed another towel, breathing slow through the small waves of discomfort. It was routine. It was fine. His body just needed to finish what it had started.

Evan braced a hand on the counter, letting his head hang for a moment while he rode out the familiar rhythm of it, pressure, release, the small tremor that followed. His breathing evened out once the ache ebbed, and the tension behind his eyes finally started to ease.

He reached for the towel automatically, the motion practiced, almost thoughtless after years of pretending it didn’t bother him. It was part of the cycle, a quiet, private thing that began and ended in the safety of his own bathroom. No one else needed to know.

Except this time, when he lifted the towel to check, something inside him went still.

The egg was wrong.

It lay nestled in the folds of fabric, warm and faintly glowing in the dim light. He blinked once, thinking maybe the heat haze was playing tricks on him. But when he leaned closer, the light didn’t fade, it pulsed softly, gold at the edges instead of the muted gray he was used to.

Evan’s pulse skipped. His stomach tightened.

He crouched, elbows on his knees, and studied it like distance might make it make sense. It was bigger—easily twice the size of the last one. The shell looked thicker, patterned faintly like feather veins across its surface. It was beautiful in a way that made his throat hurt.

“Shit,” he whispered, barely audible.

He touched the shell, just once. It was warm. Not room temperature—warm.

Evan jerked his hand back like he’d touched a live wire. His chest felt too small for the breath that hitched there.

“No,” he said again, softer this time. “That’s not—”

But the evidence sat there, gleaming quietly under the bathroom light, refusing to be ignored.

He took a shaky step back, one hand braced against the wall, mind racing. The odds. The impossibility. He’d been careful—always careful. He knew the rhythm of his body, the rules of his kind. His heats were supposed to end clean and uneventful, a private ritual, a cycle closing neatly on itself. Nothing lingering. Nothing living.

But now, staring at the faint glow bleeding through the towel, Evan felt the shape of an entirely different truth pressing in.

It wasn’t possible. Couldn’t be. Shadow Hoppers didn’t crossbreed. Couldn’t. Their biology wasn’t built for it. Theirs was a solitary kind, an evolutionary accident barely clinging to myth. Even among the supernatural, they were something strange—rare, recessive, wrong.

No record of hybrids. No shared DNA with anything else.

And yet there it was, warm, breathing faintly under his hand.

The egg pulsed again, subtle but rhythmic, like it had a heartbeat of its own. Evan yanked his hand back as if it had burned him.

“No,” he whispered, voice cracking in the small space. “No, you can’t—”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence. His stomach turned over, the room spinning in slow, uneven waves. He pressed his back against the cold tile, eyes locked on the towel-draped shape on the counter. The impossible had weight now, heat, light.

His throat went tight. The thought hit harder this time, meaner.

You let a hunter touch you.

He swallowed, breath catching somewhere between panic and denial. It didn’t make sense. It shouldn’t have been possible. The biology didn’t line up. But his instincts weren’t wrong. He could feel it, that thread of connection forming where there shouldn’t be one.

He dragged both hands through his hair, pacing the small room once, twice, trying to pull air into his lungs. The bathroom light buzzed overhead. Every detail felt too sharp—water still dripping from the faucet, the faint hum of the fridge through the wall, the low electric pulse from the thing sitting on his counter.

Evan’s hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped his phone twice before finally pressing call. It rang longer than usual—long enough that he started to regret it—before Emi’s groggy voice crackled through the speaker.

“If this isn’t a life-or-death situation, birdboy, I’m taking twenty bucks out of your paycheck.”

“It might be,” Evan said, and that was all it took.

Twenty minutes later, she was at his door—hair piled up in a messy bun, hoodie, and big, fluffy monster foot slippers on her feet. The hallway light made her squint as she brushed past him into the apartment.

“You realize it’s two in the morning?” she grumbled, pushing up her sleeves. “You better not have called me for another spider.”

Evan didn’t answer. He just motioned toward the bathroom.

Emi followed, muttering under her breath, and then she stopped dead.

The egg sat where he’d left it, nestled in a towel, the faint golden light pulsing gently through the fabric like a heartbeat.

Her mouth parted in a small, slow whistle. “That’s gonna be a big-ass omelette, Kilpatrick. You didn’t need to call me over here to show off—I would’ve believed you.”

Evan shot her a look that didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed. “I’m serious.”

“I am too. That thing’s huge.” She crouched beside the counter, peering at it from different angles. “You sure you didn’t swallow a lightbulb last week and forget?”

“Emi.”

She finally looked up at him, catching the edge in his voice. The joke faltered. “Okay,” she said carefully. “What’s going on?”

He exhaled, leaning against the wall, arms folded tight over his chest. “I don’t think it’s a dud.”

Her eyes flicked back to the towel. “Meaning…?”

“Meaning I think it’s alive.”

The silence that followed stretched, heavy and thick. The only sound was the slow drip from the faucet and the hum of the city outside. Emi stared at him for a long beat, then let out a short, incredulous laugh.

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish.”

She blinked, the humor fading entirely now. “That’s not possible. You told me your kind—”

“I know,” Evan cut in, voice cracking under the weight of it. “We don’t. We can’t. It’s never—” He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair, pacing the small space again. “But I can feel it, Emi. There’s something in there. It’s not just heat residue or nerves. It’s—” He gestured helplessly toward the counter.

Emi stood slowly, arms crossing, her tails flickering faintly under the glamour. She studied the egg, then Evan, her sharp eyes softening with something close to concern. “You’re sure?”

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

She exhaled. “Okay. That’s… wow.” Her voice dropped, almost to a whisper. “You didn’t—uh, you didn’t do anything risky, right? Like, during—”

“Emi.”

“Right. Right. Sorry.” She rubbed at her temple. “I just—Evan, that’s… that’s huge. You sure you wanna be telling me about it? Because if word gets out—”

“It’s not getting out,” he said quickly. “I just—I needed someone else to see it before I started losing my mind.”

“Well,” she said, eyeing the faint pulse of light again. “Congratulations, you’re definitely not imagining it. That thing’s humming.”

Evan pressed his palms to his eyes. “Great.”

“You gonna… keep it?”

He looked up at her, startled. “What?”

“Well, I mean, it’s alive, right?” she said, voice lighter but not joking this time. “You’re kinda a mom now, featherbrain.”

“Emi, don’t—”

“—and before you say it,” she added quickly, hands raised, “I know it’s serious. But you should also know I’m freaking out internally, so this is how I cope.”

Then, before he could stop her, she stepped forward.

“Emi—”

She crouched near the counter, head tilted like she was examining a piece of modern art. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders, and the shimmer of her glamour flickered faintly at the edges as one of her tails twitched in curiosity. “Huh,” she murmured. “It’s kinda pretty, actually.”

“Emi.”

“I’m just looking!” she said, holding up both hands, but the grin creeping across her face betrayed her. “I mean, maybe it’s just—”

And then she reached out and tapped on the shell. A light, casual knuckle tap, like she was checking a melon for ripeness.

“Emi!”

The sound that tore out of him was halfway between a word and a hoot, the sharp, involuntary kind that came from somewhere deeper than embarrassment. His feathers prickled invisibly under the glamour, a reflexive pulse of alarm.

“Don’t knock on it!”

Emi flinched, then blinked up at him, guilty but still unrepentant. “What? I wasn’t gonna crack it open or anything! Just wanted to see if anyone was home.”

“Emi, this isn’t—” Evan’s voice broke on frustration, his breath shuddering. “You can’t just poke it!”

She straightened slowly, brushing her hands on her hoodie like that would erase the moment. “Okay, okay, no knocking. Got it.” A beat passed. “Although… if something knocked back, that would be kinda cute—”

“Emi.”

“Right! Not helping. Sorry.”

The silence that followed was thick. The faint hum from the egg seemed louder now, or maybe that was just his heartbeat syncing with it. Evan’s shoulders stayed tense, the air around him charged. He hadn’t realized until now how fiercely protective the instinct felt—like someone had wired it into his bones.

Emi’s expression softened when she saw his hands trembling. “Hey,” she said gently, reaching out to rest a palm on his arm. “Sorry, Ev. I wasn’t thinking.”

He exhaled, jaw tight. “Yeah. I know.”

She hesitated, then glanced back at the towel-covered shape. “Guess it really is alive, huh?”

Evan didn’t answer, but the look in his eyes was enough.

Emi rubbed the back of her neck, finally dropping her voice. “Alright, then we treat it like it’s fragile. No jokes, no tapping, no telling anyone else.”

Evan nodded once, grateful and exhausted all at once.

She gave a small, wry smile. “You’re in deep, featherbrain.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly, looking down at the faint glow seeping through the towel. “I think I am.”

Emi crossed her arms, leaning her hip against the counter, eyes darting between Evan and the egg. The bathroom light flickered again, catching the gold sheen that pulsed faintly beneath the fabric.

“Well,” she said after a long silence, “you can’t just leave little Omelette on your counter forever.”

“Don’t call it that.”

“Why? It’s perfect!” She was smirking again, the same way she always did when she found a joke that stuck. “So, what’s the plan, Daddy Bird? You gonna sit on it? Brood? Knit a tiny sweater?”

“Emi.” His voice came out sharper than intended.

She blinked, then raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. No jokes.” Her expression softened, just a little. “Seriously, though—what are you gonna do? Because if that thing hatches—”

“It’s not gonna hatch,” he cut in, too quickly.

“Ev.”

He didn’t answer. His eyes stayed fixed on the counter.

“Alright,” she said carefully. “Then let’s say it does. Or even if it doesn’t—you can’t hide it forever. Eventually someone’s gonna notice something weird. And that guy—Stacy? The albino pirate?”

“Don’t call him that either.”

“Fine. Mr. McOne-Eye.”

He shot her a look, but she didn’t back down.

“You gonna tell him about this?” she asked. “He’s, uh, kinda part of the equation, isn’t he?”

Evan’s stomach twisted. He turned away, rubbing the back of his neck. “There’s no way I can tell him.”

Emi’s ears flickered faintly under her glamour. “You’re sure? I mean, maybe he deserves to—”

“No.” The word came out tight. “He doesn’t.”

She frowned. “You’re that certain?”

“Yes.,” he said, and for a moment it sounded final enough to end the conversation. But the silence that followed was heavy, and Emi’s sharp gaze lingered on him.

“You’re not just saying that because it’s complicated, are you?” she asked, quieter now. “Because you’re scared?”

Evan didn’t look up. His throat worked once before he spoke. “He’s a hunter.”

The air seemed to thin out between them.

Emi stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“I wish.”

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again, like her brain was short-circuiting through six reactions at once. “You—” She gestured wildly toward the bathroom. “You slept with a hunter?”

“I didn’t know,” he snapped, then lowered his voice. “Not until after.”

“Holy—Evan.” She scrubbed a hand down her face. “You really can’t do anything the easy way, can you?”

“I didn’t plan this!” he hissed. “He didn’t feel like a hunter. He didn’t act like one. He—” He cut himself off, jaw tight, the words refusing to come. Because saying the rest out loud meant admitting that part of him still didn’t want to believe it.

Emi studied him for a long moment, expression torn somewhere between disbelief and pity. “Okay,” she said finally. “So we’re dealing with an impossible egg, possible interspecies miracle baby, and a guy who might gut you if he finds out what you really are. Sound about right?”

“Yeah.”

“Great,” she muttered. “Love that for you.”

Evan leaned against the doorway, eyes closed, exhaustion dragging through his bones. “I just… I can’t tell him, Emi. I can’t even risk him suspecting.”

She sighed. “Then you’d better start thinking about how you’re gonna hide this. Because if it really is alive, it’s gonna get harder to keep secret.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

She glanced once more at the egg bundled in the towel, then back at him. “You sure you don’t want me to stick around tonight?”

He shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah,” he admitted softly.

Emi lingered in the doorway for another few seconds, then nodded. “Alright, then. Call me if anything—moves.”

When she left, the apartment felt too quiet again. Evan leaned against the counter, staring at the towel. The faint golden light pulsed in time with his heartbeat.

“I can’t tell him,” he whispered to no one, his voice breaking on the truth of it. But the part of him that still remembered the warmth of Stacy’s hands wasn’t so sure.

Chapter Text

Evan didn’t even bother pretending he’d sleep.

After Emi left, the silence returned— too big, too aware. The faint hum of the city filtered in through the cracked window, but all he could really hear was the low, steady thrum coming from the bathroom. He’d left the door cracked, the light off. From the couch, he could still see the faintest sliver of gold spilling across the hallway tile, like a candle guttering behind a half-closed door.

He’d tried to distract himself, made tea he didn’t drink, scrolled through his phone until the glow blurred his vision, but every few minutes, his eyes slid back to that light. It tugged at him, quiet and insistent, the same way a heartbeat did when you tried too hard not to listen to it.

By 2 AM, he gave up and pulled a blanket around his shoulders, padding barefoot to the bathroom. He crouched in the doorway first, not wanting to crowd it. The towel was still where he’d left it, the curve of the shell visible beneath the folds.

Evan sat down on the floor, back against the opposite wall. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Movement? Sound? Maybe just proof that he hadn’t imagined it. But he stayed there anyway, chin resting on his knees.

He told himself it was just instinct— a biological quirk, a nesting reflex. But the longer he sat, the more the room seemed to settle around him, and the more that low, steady hum in the air started syncing with his own pulse.

When he finally reached out, his hand hovered for a moment before brushing the towel aside. The shell caught the dim light and shimmered faintly, as if aware of the touch. Warm. Still impossibly warm. Evan’s throat tightened. “You shouldn’t even exist,” he whispered.

It was stupid to talk to it, but silence felt worse. “You shouldn’t…” He trailed off, unable to finish. The words came out raw, somewhere between fear and awe.

His reflection stared back at him faintly from the mirror, the glamour flickering at its edges, hints of feathers at his temples, the faint gleam of avian pupils catching the light. He turned back to the egg. “You’re gonna make everything harder, you know that?”

It pulsed again, faint but deliberate, and he almost laughed. “Great,” he muttered. “I’m talking to an egg. Fantastic.” 

But he didn’t move away. Not for hours. At some point, he drew the towel more tightly around the shell, careful not to smother it. The warmth radiated through the fabric, gentle and constant. By the time dawn started bleeding into the windows, pale light turning the gold sheen into a soft amber. Evan’s head had dropped against the wall. His eyelids were heavy, but he stayed half-awake, listening to that hum and the faint city sounds beyond it.

He didn’t know what he’d do when Stacy inevitably showed up again. Didn’t know what to do with the fragile, glowing secret sitting on his counter. All he knew was that for now, it was alive. And that was somehow enough to keep him from running.

~~~~

By the time his shift started, Evan felt like he’d been awake for three days straight.
The hum of the store’s lights pressed at the edges of his skull, and the rhythmic beep of the register felt too sharp, like the world had turned its volume up just a little too high.

He scanned a barcode, handed over change, mumbled thanks. Routine. Keep moving, keep your head down. But the moment the lull hit between customers, his brain went right back to the egg sitting in the dark of his apartment.

Was it still warm? Was the glow dimming? Did it need anything? Could it need anything?

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to shake the thought. Every instinct he had said to stay close, to guard, to listen. But the human part of his life demanded he show up here, count till drawers, and pretend his world hadn’t just cracked open.

A baby’s soft noise tugged his attention down the aisle. A woman stood in the frozen aisle, one hip jutting out, an infant balanced against it. The little thing was bundled up in pink fleece, a tiny fist reaching toward the frosty glass, fascinated by her reflection. The mother smiled faintly, murmuring something he couldn’t hear, her voice soft enough to melt into the hum of the store.

Evan froze, scanner in his hand, pulse crawling up the back of his neck. It wasn’t jealousy, exactly—it was something quieter, stranger. Something that felt like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing the ground was a little less solid than it had been yesterday.

He could still see the glow under the towel, the faint pulse of light that had matched his heartbeat until dawn. The thought came unbidden, what if it’s real? What if it hatches? and then another, worse one followed: what if it doesn’t?

He didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing until the customer cleared their throat. “Uh, total?”

Evan blinked. “Right. Sorry.” He gave change, forced a smile, mumbled a thank-you. The motions came back, muscle memory taking over, but the air still felt too thin.

“Hey,” came Emi’s voice from behind him. She slid into view, holding a box of cookies she definitely hadn’t paid for. “You’re doing that thing again.”

He frowned, not looking up. “What thing?”

“The one where your eyes go all glassy and you forget we exist,” she said, propping her elbows on the counter. The foil of the cookie box crinkled under her fingers as she drummed them lightly. “Pretty sure the customers think you’re communing with the dead.”

Evan’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I am.”

“Mm. They paying your rent too?”

He sighed through his nose. “What do you want, Emi?”

She leaned in a little, voice dropping to something softer than her grin suggested. “You were somewhere else just now. You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands kept moving, straightening bills, pretending to check a receipt. But the rhythm felt wrong. The inside of his chest felt wrong. “Yeah,” he said finally. 

“That’s a lie,” she said. “You got that same look you had before your big ‘I swear it’s alive’ speech last night.”

He looked up at her then, startled by how steady her tone was.

“I’m just saying you look like you left your heart in your apartment.” she said, shoulders lifting in a half-shrug.

The register drawer slid shut with a soft clang. He caught his reflection in the plastic countertop: tired eyes, dark curls a little out of place. “Maybe I did,” he muttered.

She studied him a beat longer, the teasing edge gone from her expression. “You’ve been thinking about Omelette all morning, huh?”

Evan flinched at the name, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to deny it but didn’t have the energy. “Don’t call it that,” he muttered.

Emi tilted her head, the faint shimmer of her glamour catching in the store’s fluorescent lights. “What else am I supposed to call it? ‘The Mysterious Entity in Evan’s Bathroom’ sounds like a B-horror flick.” 

He huffed out a tired laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You can just call it ‘The Egg.’”

Emi wrinkled her nose. “Boring. ‘The Egg’ sounds like something you’d find in a fridge, not your—” she lowered her voice, leaning on the counter—“potential child-slash-cryptid.”

“Emi.” Evan’s tone carried a warning, but his shoulders sagged halfway through saying it. He didn’t even have the energy to glare properly.

“Fine, fine. The egg.” She said it with exaggerated reverence, hands spread like she was unveiling some sacred relic. Then, quieter, “You really can’t stop thinking about it, huh?”

He exhaled, eyes on the scuffed tile behind the counter. “It’s like trying not to think about breathing. Every time I stop, it’s there again.”

There was a pause long enough for the hum of the lights to fill it.

Emi’s voice softened. “That’s not normal, Ev. It’s—” she searched for a word—“louder than instinct. You ever feel anything like that before?”

He shook his head. “No. It’s new. And it’s… constant. I can tell when it shifts, when it gets warmer or quieter. Like it’s aware of me.”

She studied him, the humor completely gone now. “You think it knows you?”

I don’t know.” His voice dropped, quieter than the sound of the register’s fan. “But it feels like it does.” 

Emi’s expression flickered, caught between worry and awe. “That’s either really beautiful or really terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Evan murmured. “I haven’t decided which yet.” 

Emi leaned her hip against the counter, studying him in that way she did when she was trying to read a customer’s aura and not quite liking what she saw. “You’re scaring me a little, y’know,” she said finally. “You’re talking like it’s… bonded to you.”

Evan stared down at his hands. His knuckles were pale, the faint hum of the scanner light painting his skin red, then gone, then red again. “Maybe it is,” he said. The words felt dangerous the moment they left his mouth. “I mean, we’re supposed to have instincts for a reason. Maybe it’s not that different from a fox feeling its kits move, or a bird knowing when an egg’s gone cold.”

Emi’s face softened, but not in the comforting way—more like someone realizing the ground beneath them might not be solid. “Evan,” she said slowly, like she was testing the sound of his name against the air. “You hear yourself, right? You’re not talking like a guy who’s freaked out about a weird biological fluke. You’re talking like—”

“Like what?” he asked, voice too sharp.

“Like a parent,” she said simply.

That landed harder than he wanted it to. Something in his chest went still. He swallowed once, the motion tight, his throat dry. “It’s not—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t have an answer.

The silence stretched, filled with the store’s artificial hum. Someone coughed near the produce section; the air conditioner kicked on. He could feel every flicker of movement, every sound, too close and too loud, like the world was pressing in. His instincts had been wrong before, but never like this—never this certain. There was something breathing on the other side of that connection. Quiet. Familiar. Alive. And if he let himself really think about it, he could feel that faint warmth pressing back against his thoughts like a pulse shared between them.

Emi sighed, rubbing at her temple. “Okay. Let’s say you’re right. Let’s say this thing is… tied to you somehow. What happens when it hatches?” 

“Then I guess I’d just be a dad”

Emi froze like he’d just said something in another language. “You’d what?”

Evan shrugged, the movement small, almost defensive. “I’m just saying—if it hatches, I can’t exactly put it back, can I?”

“That’s not—Evan, you can’t just—” She broke off, running both hands down her face, muttering something under her breath in Japanese before switching back to English. “You’d just be a dad? Like it’s that simple?”

“I mean…” he said, eyes fixed on the countertop, “it’s not like I’ve got a lot of options here.”

“Options include freaking out properly, maybe calling someone who knows what to do when you accidentally incubate a miracle,” she said, exasperation bleeding into worry.

He laughed under his breath. It came out tired and thin. “Who would I even call, Emi? There’s no hotline for ‘help, I laid something impossible.’”

She stared at him for a moment, and the disbelief started to melt into something heavier. “You really mean it,” she said quietly.

Evan didn’t answer. His gaze dropped to his hands again—calloused fingertips, faint traces of sugar dusted into his skin from stacking candy displays. He flexed them once, like the movement might shake the tension loose. “It’s alive,” he said finally, barely a whisper. “I can feel it. If it’s gonna hatch, I have to make sure it’s safe. That’s all there is to it.”

“And Stacy?”

The question hit him harder than it should’ve. Evan’s shoulders went rigid before he even looked up.“What about him?”

Emi didn’t flinch, though her tone stayed gentle. “You gonna tell him? About… all of this?”

He barked a quiet laugh— short, humorless. “Yeah, sure. ‘Hey, remember that one-night stand we had? Yeah I laid an egg and, oh! Also I’m a bird demon.’”

“Evan.”

He dragged a hand through his hair, the motion jerky, restless. “He’s a hunter, Emi. I can’t—there’s no universe where I tell him.”

Emi went still. Her fingers tightened around the cookie box she was still holding, the crinkle of plastic loud in the quiet between them. “You’re sure?” she asked carefully, like saying it out loud might break something fragile in the air.

Evan nodded once, the motion clipped. “I saw the case. Full of weapons. Silver, stakes, charms—stuff you don’t carry unless you know what you’re looking for.”

She exhaled sharply, the sound more fox than human. “Shit, Evan…”

“Yeah.” His laugh was small and bitter. “Guess I really know how to pick ’em.”

“Does he know what you are?”

“No,” Evan said quickly, too quickly. “At least—I don’t think he does. He never looked at me like he knew.”

Emi’s brows drew together. “And if he did?”

He hesitated, jaw flexing once before he muttered, “Then I wouldn’t still be breathing, probably.”

“Hey,” she said softly, stepping closer. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, quieter now. “Hunters don’t hesitate. You know that.”

“I also know you don’t, either—not when it comes to surviving.”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers picked at the edge of the counter, restless. The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “It’s just… he didn’t feel like a hunter. You know? He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t—he didn’t have that thing in his eyes. He laughed easy, he—”

“Evan,” Emi interrupted gently, and he stopped.

Her gaze softened, but there was no humor left in it. “You’re trying to rewrite him in your head. I get it. You liked him. But that doesn’t change what he is.”

“Yeah.” The word came out small. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes unfocused. “I just wish I’d figured it out before…”

“Before the egg?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

Emi’s shoulders sagged, some of her sharpness gone. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”

Evan gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Guess not.”

They stood there for a while, surrounded by the hum of refrigerators and the low buzz of fluorescents. Somewhere down an aisle, a kid was begging for cereal. The sound felt like it came from another world entirely.

Finally, Emi said, “Then we keep quiet. You, me, and the omelette. No one else.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re still calling it that?”

“Until you give it a better name.”

He sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just enough to breathe again. “Deal.” But even as he said it, the weight of what came next pressed heavy behind his ribs. Because deep down, he knew something was already shifting—and Stacy wouldn’t stay in the dark forever.

~~~

Evan clocked out early, muttering something about feeling off, which wasn’t even a lie. His pulse had been fluttering unevenly all day, an invisible string tugging him back toward home. By the time he stepped out into the cool dusk air, he’d already decided he couldn’t wait until the end of his shift.

The city’s evening rush moved around him in a blur of headlights and chatter, but he barely registered any of it. His feet carried him down familiar streets on autopilot, quick, quiet, head down. The closer he got to his apartment, the sharper that pull became—like a low thrum in his chest syncing with another heartbeat just a few blocks away.

He told himself he was being ridiculous. It wasn’t like the thing could move. Eggs didn’t just roll off counters. It was fine. He just needed to see it—to confirm it was still warm, still glowing, still his.

By the time he reached his building, his palms were slick with sweat despite the chill. He jogged up the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator, keys clattering in his hand. The door clicked open, and immediately, he felt it. The air inside was different—thicker somehow, carrying a faint trace of ozone and something sweeter underneath. The hairs on his arms lifted.

“Hey,” he called quietly, as if the egg could hear him. “I’m home.”

He didn’t even bother dropping his bag before crossing to the bathroom. The towel was still there on the counter, undisturbed. Relief came fast and messy, leaving him lightheaded. Evan exhaled and crouched beside it, carefully pulling the towel aside. The glow met him first—soft, warm, golden as morning light through honey. The shell looked the same, smooth and whole. A breath left him he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Still warm,” he murmured, brushing a thumb over the curve of it. The surface thrummed faintly beneath his skin, like a purr too deep to hear.

He turned it carefully between his palms, letting instinct guide him. His hands knew the motion before his brain did — slow, deliberate, just enough to keep the warmth even. He adjusted it until the glow evened out, then tucked the towel back over it, sealing in the heat.

Evan rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the lump beneath the towel, and tried not to think about how natural it had felt to do that. His mother used to say that when you were born from an egg, you didn’t just hatch— you were kept. You were turned and watched and warmed until the world decided you were ready. He’d only been told that once, when he was little— one of those rare stories that slipped through her careful silences. His siblings used to tease him about how seriously he’d listened, eyes wide, like she was giving him some secret piece of history.

He’d forgotten the sound of her voice since then. But now, sitting in the glow of the half-lit bathroom, it came back to him in pieces— her talons, dangerous but gentle, her low trill. Maybe she’d done the same thing he was doing now. Sat on a den floor, praying the light didn’t go out. Maybe she’d been just as scared.

Evan exhaled slowly, letting his head rest against the cool tile. “Guess I get it now,” he said under his breath. The words came out softer than he meant them to—barely more than a sigh, carried into the dim by the steady hum of the city outside.

He stared at the towel-covered shape on the counter, the faint pulse of gold leaking through the fabric. That light reminded him of stories his mother never quite finished telling, those half-remembered nights when she’d hum to them before sleep, voice low enough to make the walls feel safe.

He hadn’t thought about that sound in years. Now he could almost hear it again, that slow, even trill that wasn’t just music but reassurance: you’re still here, you’re still warm, you’re still mine.

Evan’s chest ached. He’d spent so long pretending none of that mattered, that those instincts were outdated, vestigial things his kind had outgrown. But here he was, on the bathroom floor with shaking hands, realizing that what he felt wasn’t fear anymore. It was recognition. Continuity. He reached out and rested his palm lightly on the towel. The heat radiating through it felt steadier than his own pulse. For a fleeting second, he imagined what she must’ve felt—relief, pride, terror all braided together—and wondered if that was what was happening to him now.

He stayed like that for a long time, palm against the towel, listening to the quiet rhythm of the thing breathing beneath. When he finally rose, the bathroom felt smaller, safer, like a den after all.

Evan didn’t remember falling asleep. One minute he’d been sitting against the bathroom wall, the towel warm beneath his palm, the city noise a distant hum, and the next, his eyes snapped open to a sharp, insistent pounding at the door.

“Ev? You home?”

Stacy’s voice, unmistakable—too loud for the hour, too casual for the way Evan’s heart immediately slammed into his throat.

He jolted upright, disoriented, the tile cold against his back. For a second he didn’t know where he was, why his chest hurt, why the air smelled like ozone and heat. Then it all came rushing back: the egg, the glow, the secret sitting in plain sight.

Another knock. Louder this time. “Come on, man, I saw your light on!”

Evan’s pulse spiked. Shit.

He stumbled to his feet, nearly tripping on the bathmat, and shot a glance at the counter. The towel was still there, but the glow underneath had brightened—subtle, but visible even in daylight bleeding through the cracked window.

Don’t panic. Just cover it. Just— He grabbed another towel from under the sink, tossed it over the first, layering fabric until the light dimmed to a faint glimmer. The warmth pulsed through, but maybe—hopefully—it wouldn’t be obvious.

A third knock, faster. “You alive in there?”

“Yeah!” Evan’s voice cracked halfway through the word. He cleared his throat, tried again. “Yeah, I’m—uh—give me a second!”

His reflection in the mirror looked wrecked—hair a mess and heavy eyes gold where the glamour hadn’t caught up yet. He splashed cold water on his face, forcing the illusion to settle. Human. Harmless. Fine.

When he opened the door, Stacy was leaning in the frame, grinning like he’d been there all along.

“Mornin’, sunshine,” he drawled. “You look like death warmed over.”

Evan blinked at him, momentarily speechless. He smelled like coffee and smoke—familiar in a way that made Evan’s stomach knot. “What’re you doing here?” Evan asked, keeping his voice steady.

 “You didn’t answer your messages, so I figured I’d swing by.” Stacy said easily, stepping inside before he was technically invited.

Evan shut the door quickly, heart hammering. “You shouldn’t just—show up like this.”

“What, you got company?” Stacy’s grin tilted, teasing. 

Evan froze, his back instinctively pressing to the wall that separated the living room from the bathroom. “No, I—just—”

He stopped, caught in that one-eyed stare that always seemed to pin him in place. Stacy’s grin softened a little, confusion flickering under it. “Hey,” he said, quieter now. “I’m just messin’. You okay?”

Evan forced himself to nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

“Mm. I can see that.” Stacy’s gaze drifted around the apartment—the couch, the cluttered table, the closed bathroom door. He moved with that easy, deliberate grace again. “Smells weird in here.”

Evan hesitated, mind racing. Every second Stacy was here was another second too close to the secret still humming behind that closed bathroom door. He forced a small, polite smile and crossed the room, praying the glow wouldn’t leak through the cracks.

“You sure everything’s fine?” Stacy asked, tone lighter than the look in his eye.

“Yeah,” Evan lied, his voice steadying only at the end. The hum from behind the bathroom door pulsed again—just once, but strong enough that it vibrated faintly through the floorboards. He could feel it—it was impossible to ignore. A low, rhythmic pulse, almost like breathing. His instincts prickled. You have to check.

 “You okay? You keep lookin’ at that hallway like it owes you money.”

Evan startled a little. “What? No—just spaced out.”

“You sure? ‘Cause I could swear I felt something shake just now.” Stacy grinned, easy and unbothered, but his eye flicked briefly toward the bathroom. “You got pipes rattling or somethin’?”

Evan’s pulse spiked. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Old building. Happens all the time.”

Stacy hummed, eye still half on the hallway. “You want me to take a look? I’m decent with fixing stuff.”

“No!” The word came out too fast, too sharp. Evan swallowed hard. “I mean, it’s fine. Really. Landlord’s been meaning to replace the pipes.”

That earned him a raised brow, but Stacy let it drop. “Alright, alright. Don’t bite my head off.”

Evans palms were damp at this point, heartbeat syncing with the quiet vibration beneath the floor. Calm down. He can’t hear it. He can’t know.

“So,” Stacy said after a moment, breaking the silence. “You got plans today, or am I keepin’ you from somethin’?”

Evan’s mind scrambled for an answer, but before he could speak, the hum from the bathroom pulsed again—louder this time, like the sound of a slow heartbeat under water. It was faint, but unmistakable.

Stacy straightened slightly, head tilting. “…You hear that?”

Evan’s blood ran cold, his  pulse thudded in his ears, every muscle in his body locking tight. “Hey—wait, don’t—”

Too late.

Stacy crossed the space in three long strides, the sound of his boots heavy against the old floorboards. He muttered something half to himself—“that’s a weird-ass sound for pipes”—and before Evan could reach him, his hand was already on the bathroom door.

The hinge squealed. The light flicked on. Evan’s stomach dropped. From where he stood, the world seemed to tilt, everything narrowing to that small square of light spilling onto the hallway floor. He could see Stacy’s silhouette in the doorway, the slope of his shoulders as he leaned in, head tilted.

The towels were still there on the counter, layered over the egg—too obviously now, stacked in a way that made it look like he was trying to hide something rather than protect it.

Stacy took a slow step inside, his voice casual but edged with curiosity. “What the hell…?”

“—Ostrich egg,” Evan blurted, the words snapping out too fast, too bright in the quiet. “It’s an ostrich egg.”

Stacy blinked at him. “A what now?”

Evan was already moving, slipping past him into the cramped space and scooping up the towels before Stacy could get another look. The warmth hit his palms immediately, stronger than he remembered—like holding something alive. He folded it close to his chest, pretending to fuss with the layers like he was worried about breaking it.

“Yeah. You know, uh—decorative? For cooking? I was trying something new. It’s… really fragile.”

He could feel Stacy’s stare on the back of his neck. 

“You’re cookin’ ostrich eggs in your bathroom?”

Evan winced. “Well, I didn’t plan it that way. The kitchen counter’s cluttered, and, uh—temperature control, I guess.” He forced a laugh, one that sounded so fake even to his own ears it made him wince again. “You know how it is.”

“I really don’t,” Stacy said slowly, his tone caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “You sure it’s not a pet rock that hums?”

Evan clutched the bundle tighter, instinctively stepping back into the living room. The towel’s glow was faint, mercifully dim under the thick layers, but every few seconds he swore he could feel it—like the heartbeat synced with his own.

“Okay, look,” he said, trying to sound casual, normal, anything but panicked. “You showed up unannounced, and I wasn’t expecting company, and now you’re judging my… experimental brunch choices, so maybe you should just let me handle this.”

Stacy tilted his head, that lazy grin tugging back at the corner of his mouth. “You’re somethin’ else, Kilpatrick.”

Evan shot him a tight smile. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

He turned, heading toward the bedroom before Stacy could see the way his hands shook.

Behind him, Stacy said lightly, “Hey, just don’t let it hatch and imprint on you or somethin’. I don’t got room for a six-foot bird in my life.”

Evan forced a laugh over his shoulder, not daring to look back. “Trust me,” he said, “neither do I.” But the warmth against his chest begged to differ—steady and alive, like it was listening.

“Ostrich egg,” Stacy repeated slowly, like he was tasting the lie on his tongue. His good eye narrowed a little, studying Evan’s face with the kind of focus that made his stomach drop.

Evan forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, shifting the bundle in his arms like that might make it sound more convincing. “They’re hard to get around here, but I, uh… found one.”

“You found it,” Stacy echoed, deadpan.

Evan’s pulse was hammering in his throat now. “Online,” he added quickly. “Farm thing. Specialty grocery. You’d be surprised what you can order with two-day shipping.”

Stacy’s mouth quirked up—not quite a grin, not yet—but his tone stayed soft, too careful. “That so?”

“Yeah,” Evan said again, a little too sharp. “Look, man, it’s fragile, and if it cracks I’m gonna be pissed, so can we not—”

“Hey, relax,” Stacy cut in, both palms raised, voice easy again. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

He stayed where he was leaned against the doorframe, watching Evan with that half-lidded curiosity that always made him hard to read. There was amusement there, sure—but underneath it, something else. A quiet awareness.

Evan hated that look. It was the same one Stacy got when he’d been about to take a shot at something. Measuring distance. Weight. Risk. He stepped back another inch, cradling the bundle tighter. “I just—yeah. You kinda startled me, that’s all.”

“Guess I did.” Stacy’s drawl softened, one corner of his mouth twitching up. “Didn’t mean to,” Stacy added, quieter now, and something in his voice almost sounded genuine. Almost.

Evan nodded once, trying to match the easy rhythm, but his pulse was still too loud in his ears. He could feel every beat press against the bundle in his arms. It was like the thing inside was listening—matching him breath for breath, heartbeat for heartbeat. He forced a shrug, aiming for casual. “Yeah, well. Maybe knock next time before you go snooping.”

Stacy’s grin came back slow, like he couldn’t help it. “You really are terrible at lying, you know that?”

Evan froze.

Stacy chuckled, holding up both hands in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m jokin’. Mostly. You just—got that look. The kind that says you’re hiding somethin’ harmless, not… dangerous.”

That word hit harder than it should have. Dangerous. Evan bit the inside of his cheek to keep his face neutral. “Right. Nothing dangerous. Just an egg.”

“Mmhm.” Stacy leaned his shoulder into the doorframe again, watching him too closely. “You’re a weird guy, Kilpatrick.”

“Yeah,” Evan said softly, “I’ve been told.”

The quiet stretched between them, neither quite looking away. Stacy’s grin lingered, but the warmth behind it didn’t quite reach his eye.

“Alright,” Stacy said finally, breaking the tension with a sigh. “I’ll quit buggin’ you. Let the man incubate his mystery omelette in peace.” He stepped aside, giving Evan room to pass, though his gaze flicked to the bundle once more before he did. “Maybe next time you can show me how to cook one.”

Evan managed a small, hollow laugh. “Yeah. Next time.”

Stacy nodded once, the faintest hint of suspicion—or maybe disappointment—ghosting across his face before he turned toward the door. “Later, sunshine.”

When the door clicked shut, Evan stood there for a long time, the silence settling heavy in the room. He let out a slow breath, every muscle shaking now that the adrenaline had room to catch up. The towel was still warm against his chest, almost feverish.

“Harmless,” he murmured, voice thin. “Right.”

He moved back toward the bathroom, every sense tuned to that faint hum. When he lifted one corner of the towel, the glow had deepened—brighter, steadier, alive.

Evan’s hand trembled as he brushed his thumb along the curve of the shell. “You couldn’t wait to pick today, huh?” The warmth pulsed once in answer, steady as a heartbeat.

Evan stood in the quiet for a long time, the soft hum of the egg filling the air like the echo of a secret. His pulse was finally beginning to slow, his breathing evening out. The towel’s warmth seeped through his arms, steady and alive, grounding him in the silence Stacy had left behind.

He exhaled, closing his eyes. “It’s fine,” he muttered. “He’s gone. You’re fine.” But as the words left him, another thought surfaced—small at first, then sharp enough to cut through the fog.

He called me Kilpatrick.

His eyes opened. He replayed the moment in his head—the tone, the ease, the certainty. Stacy had said it like he’d always known. Like it was nothing. Only Evan had never told him his last name. Not once. Not at the store, not on their date, not even in passing.

The air in the apartment suddenly felt colder. He looked down at the glowing towel in his arms, fingers tightening around the fabric as if to reassure himself that something here still made sense. But it didn’t.

Evan swallowed hard, the weight of that realization settling like a stone in his chest.

He never told Stacy his last name.