Enid Sinclair's POV
Date & Time: Sunday, August 29, 2021, 4:05 PM
Enid was trying, and failing, to unpack her last box of sweaters.
It seemed like a simple task. Take sweater from box, put in drawer. But her hands felt heavy, her brain fuzzy, and every colorful knit reminded her of the pack's cold, dismissive stares. 'Desperation. And glitter.'
A low, mournful growl echoed from her stomach, loud in the pre-evening quiet.
'Ugh. Seriously?'
She dropped a pink cardigan half-in, half-out of a drawer and flopped onto her rainbow quilt with a dramatic groan. The adrenaline from the Weathervane confrontation was long gone, leaving her feeling boneless, hollowed out, and, as her stomach vocally reminded her, starving.
Across the room, Yoko was a study in contrasts. She sat at her obsessively neat, dark desk, spine straight. The only thing moving was her thumb, scrolling with sharp, focused intensity on her phone. She wasn't just browsing; she was hunting.
Enid's stomach growled again, a loud, pathetic rumble that filled the silence like an accusation.
"I'm going to waste away," Enid announced to the ceiling, her voice carrying the full weight of her dramatic suffering. "My stomach is actively trying to digest my lungs. This is the end. They'll find me here, a tragic pile of glitter and unfulfilled snack dreams."
Yoko's thumb stopped scrolling. She didn't look up. "That explains the sound effects. I thought a small, very dramatic bear had gotten trapped in your bedding."
"It's not funny! The commissary is closed, and that muffin from this morning feels like a distant, beautiful dream." Enid rolled onto her side, glaring at her half-unpacked box. *'And I'm way too drained to even think about going back to Jericho.'* The memory of those cold werewolf eyes made her stomach clench for entirely different reasons.
Yoko locked her phone with a decisive click and, in one fluid motion, slid it into her back pocket. She stood, her movements methodical, purposeful. The air around her shifted—no longer the relaxed energy of a lazy Sunday afternoon, but something sharper. Focused.
She checked her reflection in a small, black-framed mirror, sliding her signature dark sunglasses on with a precise click that somehow sounded final.
"I'm heading out for a bit," she said. Her voice was casual. Too casual.
Enid pushed herself up on her elbows, a small spike of panic cutting through the exhaustion. 'Out? Where?' The room suddenly felt too big, the impending solitude pressing in.
"Where are you going?"
"Just... need to check on something." Yoko grabbed a small black bag from her hook, slinging it over her shoulder with practiced ease. "Ask around."
Yoko pulled her phone from her pocket, scrolling through contacts with her thumb. She had people to call. Favors to collect.
'Ask around.' Enid knew that tone. It was the same simmering, quiet energy she'd had at the Weathervane, right after the pack of idiots had looked right through her. That controlled fury disguised as vampire cool.
"About the pack? Yoko, you really don't have to—"
"Don't eat the furniture while I'm gone, Glitter Girl." Yoko's lips twitched in the barest hint of a smile. She gestured to Enid's face. "You still missed a spot."
Enid's fingers instinctively went to her temple, brushing the single, stubborn speck of glitter that had apparently bonded to her skin. *'Right. The glitter. From him.'* The memory flickered—his dry humor, the way he'd pointed it out at the Weathervane, that almost-smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"I'll be back later," Yoko said from the door. Her silhouette was backlit by the hallway's dim light, making her look like some kind of avenging vampire shadow.
It opened and closed with a soft, final click.
And just like that, Enid was alone.
The silence of the room, once comfortable, now felt vast and heavy. Her colorful, chaotic side—now strewn with the contents of her abandoned box, sweaters cascading like a rainbow avalanche—suddenly seemed too bright, almost aggressive in its cheerfulness. Yoko's shadowy, organized side looked too empty, the dark bedspread like a void.
'Okay. Alone. This is fine. I'm fine.'
She flopped back onto the quilt, the ache in her stomach roaring back to life, feeling twice as empty as before. The stubborn glitter on her temple caught the late afternoon light filtering through the window, a tiny spark that reminded her she'd started this day covered in the stuff, laughing with a boy who'd caught her before she hit the ground.
'That was only yesterday morning.' It felt like a lifetime ago.
---
Gabriel Beoulve's POV
Date & Time: Sunday, August 29, 2021, 4:25 PM
Gabriel's emotional crisis would have to wait. His stomach, oblivious to the existential crumbling of his core philosophy, had just made a sound that was both primitive and demanding.
He was sitting at his desk, staring at a blank page in his journal, trying to find the words for the morning. Trying to reconcile the image of Xavier and Ajax witnessing his "full predator mode" and not leaving. The pen felt heavy in his hand, useless.
'Control the body, control the beast.' Alaric's voice. But Alaric had never mentioned what to do when control failed and people stayed anyway.
The door to his room burst open, slamming against the stone wall with a bang that should have made him flinch. It didn't. Gabriel didn't even look up, his hand just gripping his pen tighter, his shoulders tensing.
"They're all empty!" Ajax announced, vibrating with the kind of panic usually reserved for actual emergencies. "The machine in our hall is empty, the common room one is picked clean. They're all dead! We're going to starve!"
Xavier looked up from his sketchpad, his voice maddeningly calm. "It's the weekend, Ajax. Staff's off. They probably don't restock."
"So what, we just die?" Ajax threw his hands up in a gesture so dramatic it belonged in a Greek tragedy. "We accept our fate? Our tombstones will read: 'Here lie Ajax and friends, victims of Sunday'?"
Gabriel's head was starting to throb. 'Isolation is safety. But starvation is inefficient.' And a caffeine headache was worse. Much worse. His high-end espresso machine was still packed in its case in his closet, a useless, heavy brick without the beans he needed. The commissary's coffee from yesterday was swill. Going without was... unacceptable.
"Wait!" Ajax's eyes lit up with renewed hope. "Let's check the other dorms! Ophelia, Puck... someone's gotta have snacks. Girls always have better vending machines. It's a universal truth."
Xavier raised an eyebrow. "Is it?"
"It is now. Come on!"
"Fine." Gabriel stood, the scrape of his chair loud in the room. His hunger, a simple, solvable problem, was a welcome distraction from the complex, unsolvable one in his head. At least vending machines didn't look at him with unexpected loyalty.
The quest through the interconnected hallways of the North Wing was a comprehensive failure. Every machine they found was either dark and broken—display screens dead, the interior a black void—or completely sold out, picked clean by students who knew the Sunday rule and had gotten there first.
"This one's dead too," Xavier announced at the Ophelia Hall machine, giving it an experimental shake. Nothing. Not even a rattle.
Ajax groaned, sliding dramatically down the wall like a tragedy's final act. "This is hopeless! They're trying to kill us. It's a plot. We're going to starve, and they'll find our glittery skeletons in the spring, and someone will write a very sad ballad about us."
Gabriel felt his eye twitch. "We're not going to starve in the next two hours, Ajax."
"You don't know that! I have a fast metabolism!"
Xavier sighed, closing his sketchpad with a soft thump. "Let's look at the other place, maybe we could find one that has something. Or we can survive until tomorrow."
'Inefficient. Wasteful.' Gabriel turned, leading the way out of the dorm corridor without a word, his stride purposeful. They could either sit in the room and listen to Ajax's dramatic death spiral, or they could... what? Walk? Think?
They walked through the North Wing's main archway, stepping out into the central Quad. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the ancient cobblestones.
And stopped.
The Quad wasn't empty.
The vast cobblestone space, usually just a transitional zone between classes, had been transformed. It was bustling, filled with colorful stalls, strings of lights already glowing warmly in the fading daylight, and dozens of students milling about. The air, which hours ago smelled only of old stone and damp earth, was suddenly rich with the scent of hot popcorn, cinnamon sugar, and fresh-baked bread. It hit him like a wave—warm, inviting, completely unexpected.
Xavier was the first to speak, his voice quiet with genuine surprise. "What... is that?"
"Is that... a market?" Ajax scrambled to his feet, his despair instantly forgotten, his eyes wide with wonder. "Since when do we have a market? How did we not know about this?"
Gabriel's eyes scanned the scene, his mind automatically assessing, cataloging, calculating. 'Temporary. Student-run.' He saw a stall piled high with pre-packaged snacks in plastic bins. Another selling fresh-baked goods from the communal kitchens, the pastries arranged with an amateur's enthusiasm. His gaze locked onto a third stall, run by a student in a beekeeper's veil, selling jars of local honey that glowed like amber in the light. And right next to it—a small table piled with bags of coffee bearing the unmistakable circular logo of The Weathervane.
'The Quad Market.' The memory surfaced from one of Alaric's dry briefings about Nevermore's operational quirks. *'Commissary closed, students fill the gap.'*
"It's the Quad Market," Gabriel said, the words coming out before he could stop them. "It's the weekend student economy. When the staff's off, students sell surplus."
Ajax pointed at him. "How do you just know that?"
Gabriel ignored the question. His eyes were fixed on the coffee stall. 'Coffee.' His headache pulsed in agreement. 'And honey.' The right honey could salvage even mediocre beans. He moved with clear, undeniable purpose, his stride lengthening.
"Food!" Ajax yelled, his starvation crisis forgotten in the face of actual sustenance. He grabbed Gabriel's sleeve, pulling him forward with surprising strength. "Actual food! We're saved!"
Xavier followed, a small smile playing at his lips. "The dramatic rescue arrives just in time."
Gabriel let himself be pulled forward, his focus already narrowing to the specific stalls he needed. 'Efficiency. Coffee, honey, then assess food options.' A simple plan. A solvable problem.
He could work with this.
---
Enid Sinclair's POV
Yoko had been gone for almost forty minutes, and the silence in Room 312 had gone from peaceful to oppressive.
Enid's stomach issued another pathetic, hollow growl that echoed in the empty room like an accusation. She was starving, lonely, and her half-unpacked boxes felt like a monument to her failure to even settle in properly. The colorful sweaters seemed to mock her—so bright, so cheerful, so utterly out of place in a school where she'd already been rejected by her own kind.
'No. Stop spiraling.' She sat up, shaking her head like she could physically dislodge the negative thoughts. 'Productivity. That's what I need.'
She grabbed her school-issued campus map and her phone. Yoko was off doing... something protective and vaguely intimidating, probably. Enid could do something too. She could get the lay of the land. Feel grounded. Learn where things actually were instead of just stumbling around like a lost puppy. And maybe, just maybe, find a rogue vending machine.
She left Ophelia Hall, map in hand, feeling slightly ridiculous. The paper crinkled loudly in the quiet hallway. She traced the lines on it, trying to connect the flat, two-dimensional drawing of the Quad to the massive, sprawling gothic castle looming around her in three very confusing dimensions.
'Okay, so if that's the Fencing Hall...' She squinted at the map, then at a distant tower. 'And that's the tower with Weems' office... then the Conservatory is...' She turned in a slow circle, the map held up like a shield against her own confusion, nearly walking into a stone pillar.
That's when the smell hit her.
It wasn't just the familiar damp stone of the castle or the faint mustiness of old wood. It was... popcorn? And cinnamon? And something baking, warm and sweet and completely out of place in the gothic gloom?
Her stomach growled so loudly she actually looked around to make sure no one had heard it.
She followed her nose like a cartoon character, walking through the main archway that led from the North Wing into the central Quad, her map forgotten in her hand.
And stopped dead.
The courtyard wasn't empty. It was full.
Colorful stalls were set up on the ancient cobblestones, strung with lights that glowed warmly in the late afternoon sun like little captured stars. Students were crowded around tables, laughing and haggling, their voices creating a warm buzz of activity. Music drifted from a speaker somewhere, something upbeat and cheerful. It was... a market. An actual, bustling, alive market.
'Since when is there a market?' A giddy, hopeful energy bubbled in her chest, pushing aside the loneliness and pack rejection and glitter anxiety. 'Food. Actual food. I'm not going to starve after all!'
She was so focused on a stall piled high with what looked like fresh-baked pastries—golden and glazed and probably still warm—that she didn't look where she was going. She took two quick, eager steps forward, still staring at the food like it was a mirage that might disappear, and collided hard with something solid.
Not something. Someone.
"Oof! Oh, gosh, sorry!" she yelped, stumbling back, her map fluttering to the ground.
"Hey! It's the glitter girl!"
Enid's head snapped up, her heart doing a weird little flip. It was the trio from the shuttle. From the coffee shop. The gorgon, was grinning at her like they were old friends, his expression all friendly, chaotic energy barely contained. His green-striped beanie was slightly askew. Beside him, the quiet, artistic one, offered a small, polite nod, his sketchbook tucked under one arm.
And then there was Gabriel.
He was standing right in front of her—she'd apparently collided with his shoulder—looking just as surprised as she felt. His gray eyes were wide for just a fraction of a second before his expression shuttered back to that careful neutrality.
"Oh!" she said, her cheeks instantly heating, the familiar flush of embarrassment spreading up her neck. "Sorry, I was just... market. Food. I didn't see... Gabriel?"
His expression was guarded, but his gray eyes were focused, direct. He steadied himself, adjusting his stance, and gave a short, stiff nod. "Enid." A pause. "Looking for food."
"Glitter Girl!" Ajax vibrated, seemingly unaware of the charged energy crackling in the two feet of space between Gabriel and Enid. He pointed at her, then at his friends in rapid succession. "We're on a mission! A food quest! The vending machines are all dead, and we were about to resort to cannibalism! Well, I was. These guys have more self-control."
"Yeah, food quest," Enid said, a small, genuine smile forming despite her lingering embarrassment. Her heart was still racing from the collision. "And you're... well, I don't actually know your names. We keep almost-meeting without the actual meeting part."
"Right! Yes! Introductions!" Ajax pointed to himself with his thumb, his grin widening. "I'm Ajax. This is Xavier." He gestured to the quiet artist.
"Enid," she replied, her voice filled with a sudden, warm relief that surprised her. They had names. They weren't just "the gorgon" and "the artistic one". They were Ajax and Xavier. Real people. People who were... smiling at her. "It's so nice to finally know who you are!"
"See? We're all friends now!" Ajax declared with absolute certainty, as if friendship could be established by verbal decree alone. "You gotta join us! We're gonna find something to eat before we all starve to death. Which is imminent. Very imminent."
Enid's hopeful smile faltered. She instinctively glanced at Gabriel, searching his face for any reaction. He hadn't said a word since her name. His face was neutral, unreadable, that careful mask he seemed to wear like armor. 'He's just being polite. I'm intruding. They're roommates on a quest, and I'm just... the glitter girl who keeps bumping into him.'
"Oh, I don't want to intrude..." she started, already taking a half-step back, her smile dimming. The familiar weight of being unwanted pressed down on her shoulders.
"The market is public space," Gabriel said.
It wasn't an invitation. But it wasn't a rejection, either. It was just... a fact. Delivered in that flat, precise way he had of stating obvious truths. But his eyes held hers for just a second longer than necessary, and something in his expression, something she couldn't quite name, didn't look cold.
Xavier, who had been watching the exchange with a quiet, perceptive gaze, finally spoke. His voice was gentle, like he was trying not to spook a nervous animal. "Seems we all had the same idea." He gestured toward the bustling stalls. "We should probably stick together. Look at the available food. Safety in numbers."
"Yes! Exactly!" Ajax beamed, bouncing slightly on his toes. "Safety in numbers! And snacks! C'mon!"
He plunged into the crowd toward the nearest stall without waiting for confirmation, his beanie bobbing through the sea of students like a green-striped beacon.
Xavier gave Enid a small, encouraging smile,and followed Ajax at a more measured pace.
Enid looked at Gabriel. He was watching her, his expression still impossible to read, but he wasn't walking away. He gave another one of those tiny, stiff nods, this one aimed toward the market like a silent direction: this way.
She took a breath, her heart doing a weird, fluttery jump that had nothing to do with hunger. 'Okay. This is okay. He said I could come. Sort of. In his weird, factual way.'
She bent down quickly, grabbing her fallen map, and fell into step beside him, moving into the bustling, fragrant chaos of the Quad Market. The late afternoon sun felt warm on her face. The music from the speakers was cheerful. And for the first time since last night and the Weathervane, she felt like maybe, just maybe, things might be okay.
---
Enid Sinclair's POV
The market was a chaotic, fragrant blast of sensory overload in the best possible way. Enid felt a thrill of excitement as they wove through the crowd, Ajax leading the charge like an enthusiastic tour guide with no actual knowledge of the destination.
"Okay, food, food, food," Ajax chanted, zeroing in on a stall that had actual, pre-made sandwiches displayed under a slightly crooked handwritten sign. He bounded up to it, read the price tag, and his face fell so dramatically it would have been funny if Enid's own stomach wasn't cramping with hunger.
"Twenty... twenty dollars?" he yelped, loud enough to make a few nearby students look and then quickly look away. "For a sandwich? Are they gold-plated? Is the bread made of hopes and dreams? Is there a secret truffle I can't see?"
Enid hovered a few feet away, her short-lived feeling of inclusion evaporating like morning mist. This felt like a private roommate crisis—the kind you had with people you lived with, people who knew your snack preferences and borrowing habits. She was just... there. An awkward plus-one to their hunger emergency.
Xavier sighed, his eyes assessing the scene with a grimace, his gaze sweeping over the other stalls. "Forget the sandwiches. It's all inflated." He pulled out his wallet, frowning at its contents. "We could pool for a pizza delivery, maybe? Split three ways."
"Good idea!" Ajax's optimism surged back immediately, his despair forgotten. He dug a crumpled ten-dollar bill out of his pocket, smoothing it out like it was precious. "I've got ten."
Xavier checked his wallet more carefully, counting out bills. "Twelve. That's twenty-two. It's... not enough for the delivery minimum, plus tip." He looked genuinely regretful. "Jericho Pizza requires thirty."
They stood in a small, defeated circle, the bustling market suddenly feeling like a cruel tease. The smells of food that had been so enticing seconds ago now just felt like a taunt—so close, yet financially out of reach.
"I..." Enid started, her voice small. They both looked at her, and she felt her cheeks heat under the attention. "I have fifteen, if that helps?" She pulled out her small wallet, holding up the bills. "We could maybe get closer?"
Ajax's face lit up like she'd just offered him the secrets of the universe. "Yes! That's... that's twenty-seven! Wait, no. Thirty-seven! We can totally—"
"We have what we need."
The voice, quiet and certain, cut through Ajax's enthusiastic math like a knife. Enid turned. Gabriel was standing slightly apart from their circle, holding two large plastic bags like they'd materialized out of thin air.
One bag was filled with what looked like... raw ingredients. Fresh-looking vegetables with their greens still attached. A butcher paper-wrapped package that probably held meat. In the other bag peek the distinct, Weathervane-logoed sack of coffee beans she recognized from this morning, and a large jar of local honey that glowed amber in the light.
Ajax pointed at the produce, his expression baffled. "Uh... you bought... things that need to be cooked...?"
"Yes." Gabriel's expression was neutral, as if this were the most obvious solution in the world and he couldn't understand why they were staring at him. "I assumed you guys wanted proper food rather than overpriced snacks." He looked pointedly at his roommates, one eyebrow raised slightly. "I'm assuming one of you knows how."
A beat of silence. Ajax held his hands up, palms out, like Gabriel had just accused him of a crime. "Whoa, no. I make toast. Sometimes. And it's... 50/50 on the fire alarm. The toaster and I have a complicated relationship."
Gabriel's gaze shifted to Xavier with the precision of a searchlight.
Xavier just shook his head, apologetic. "Not me. I can reheat things. That's the extent of my culinary abilities."
Three pairs of eyes, Gabriel's with dawning resignation, Xavier's with curious amusement, Ajax's with desperate hope, slowly swiveled and landed on Enid. She felt herself flush, the heat creeping up her neck.
*'Oh no. Oh no, they think because I'm a girl—'*
"I can make cereal," she offered weakly, her voice almost apologetic. "And I've... burned water. Before. It's actually a special skill. My mom banned me from the kitchen after the Great Spaghetti Fire of 2019."
Gabriel stared at the three of them, one... two... three, his gray eyes moving between their faces like he was calculating some complex equation and really disliking the result. A slow, profound realization seemed to dawn on his face, his expression shifting from neutral to something like resigned understanding. It was followed by the faintest, almost imperceptible sigh of resignation that somehow spoke volumes.
"Guess I'm cooking, then," he said, his voice flat, matter-of-fact, like he was announcing he'd take out the trash.
"But where?" Enid asked, her mind racing through the logistics. "The dorms seems to only have microwaves, right? And like... mini-fridges?"
"There is communal kitchen," Gabriel said, already turning to walk, his posture suggesting he expected them to follow without question. "The seller said its small kitchen shared by the dorms, but there are only few students that use it. We also have to clean up after we're done."
Enid stared at his back as he began to walk away, his stride purposeful and efficient. Ajax and Xavier exchanged a look of pure, baffled awe that bordered on comedic.
"You asked about kitchen access while you were shopping?" Xavier called after him, hurrying to catch up, his long legs covering the distance easily.
Gabriel glanced back over his shoulder, his expression giving away nothing.
"Efficiency," he said, as if that explained everything. "Multiple problems, one trip."
Enid stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot, her mind trying to process what had just happened. He'd... bought ingredients. Asked about kitchen access. Planned for all of this. While they'd been panicking about pizza money, he'd been three steps ahead.
'Who is this boy?'
She hurried to catch up, falling into step with the group as they headed toward the commissary, the bags of ingredients rustling in Gabriel's hands. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones, and somewhere behind them, the market continued its cheerful chaos.
But Enid wasn't thinking about the market anymore. She was thinking about a boy who cooked, apparently, and who planned things methodically, and who had just casually solved all their problems without asking for anything in return.
---
Enid Sinclair's POV
The communal kitchen was... not great. It was a slightly neglected, beige-tiled room with stainless steel counters that had seen better days, basic equipment that looked like it dated back to the school's founding, and the faint, lingering smell of old coffee grounds mixed with industrial cleaner. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead with a faint buzzing that made Enid's teeth ache.
She hovered by the doorway, feeling awkward and out of place, expecting someone to just hack at the ingredients and produce something barely edible. Maybe boil some chicken until it was dry. Throw vegetables in a pan until they were mushy. The kind of cooking that was technically food but tasted like obligation.
Then Gabriel moved, and the entire atmosphere of the room shifted.
He didn't hesitate. Didn't pause to survey the sad state of the kitchen with disappointment or make excuses for what he was about to attempt with subpar equipment. He just set his bags on the cleanest counter with a quiet, decisive thump and did a quick, silent survey. His gray eyes swept over the space—the stove with its slightly warped burners, the sink with its perpetual drip, the available tools hung haphazardly on hooks. It was the same intensity she'd seen in the Weathervane, that absolute focus that made the air feel heavier. But this focus was different. It wasn't cold and predatory; it was... absolute. Determined. Like he was taking the measure of a battlefield and calculating his approach.
He opened a few drawers with methodical efficiency, pulling out a worn but serviceable knife and a cutting board scarred with the history of a thousand meals. He tested the knife's edge with his thumb, his expression unimpressed but accepting. He gave a single, slight nod and began.
'Okay, so he's serious about this.' Enid leaned against the doorframe, her pulse picking up for reasons she couldn't quite name.
"The tools are basic," he said, his voice crisp, almost like a diagnosis. "It'll do." He turned, and his focus was so sharp, so direct, Enid felt like a student being addressed by a professor who expected excellence. "Ajax, wash the coriander and scallions we bought. Gently."
"On it!" Ajax beamed, grabbing the herbs with enthusiastic hands. "I'm a master washer. You'll see. Master-class washing. Five stars on WolfAdvisor."
Gabriel turned back to the counter without acknowledging the commentary, pulling out an onion. He placed it on the cutting board, positioned the dull knife, and began to chop.
Enid was mesmerized.
She'd expected... hacking. Or at least the fumbling, awkward, violent motions she used when her mom forced her to help with dinner prep. But his movements were fluid, economical, and precise. There was no wasted motion. No hesitation. The dull knife moved in his hand with a confidence it didn't deserve, the blade finding the perfect angle to compensate for its lack of sharpness. It produced a pile of remarkably uniform dice, each piece almost exactly the same size. The tap-tap-tap of the blade against the board was rhythmic, steady, not chaotic—almost musical in its precision.
'He moves like...' She couldn't even find the words. It was like watching a dance. Or a ritual. Something that required absolute presence and control.
"Impressive," Xavier said, his voice quiet with genuine appreciation. He'd found a stool in the corner, already sketching in his notebook, his eyes captivated by the scene unfolding. "Even with a dull knife." He gestured at it with his pencil. "It's like watching a sculptor work with a rock."
"It's just technique." Gabriel didn't look up, his focus absolute as he adapted to the poor blade, his wrist adjusting the angle with each cut. "You work with what you have."
A sudden splash and a yelp from the sink made Enid jump, her heart racing. Ajax was holding the coriander under the faucet, water spraying everywhere, droplets catching the harsh fluorescent light.
"Whoops! Little tsunami. My bad," Ajax said, grinning sheepishly, water dripping from his sleeves.
Gabriel didn't even pause his chopping. Didn't look up. His rhythm didn't break. "There's a towel on the counter," he said, his voice perfectly calm, perfectly controlled, like Ajax creating a small flood was just part of the expected process. "And gently. It's coriander, not a dog."
He was... patient. He was in total control of the situation, managing bad tools and a chaotic friend without even raising his voice or breaking his concentration. The knife kept moving. Tap-tap-tap. Perfect rhythm.
'This is the same person,' she thought, her pulse quickening, her breath catching slightly. 'The same person who stood in the Weathervane and made the air go cold. Who made those normies and pack run with just his words.'
The thought was jarring, almost disorienting. How could both of those things exist in one boy? The boy who had looked so ashamed after he'd scared those bullies, shoulders slumped, face drawn—and this... this focused boy whose hands moved with such careful precision?
Gabriel moved to the stove, adding oil to a slightly warped pan with a practiced flick of his wrist. The pan heated, and he added the onions and garlic. The kitchen filled with a sharp, bright smell that mellowed into something sweet and rich within seconds. It cut through the stale air, transformed the space. He seared the chicken and seasoned the vegetables with measured, confident pinches from small containers he'd bought, his fingers precise, almost delicate.
Enid just stood there, rooted by the doorway, forgetting to offer help, forgetting her hunger, forgetting everything but the performance unfolding in front of her. The way his shoulders were relaxed but his hands were sure. The way he tilted his head slightly when tasting something, analyzing it. The way he moved around the kitchen like he'd mapped it in his mind—three steps to the sink, two to the stove, never wasting movement.
'What if...' The theory that had been a whisper on the shuttle bus was suddenly roaring in her mind, undeniable and clear. 'What if the control is because of that presence? What if he has to be this focused, this precise, to keep that other part of him contained?'
It wasn't two different people. It was the same person. The same boy. The same intensity, just... aimed differently. The control wasn't a mask over danger.
It was the only thing standing between everyone and it.
A rich, savory aroma suddenly bloomed in the kitchen as he finished the sauce, the scent of lemon and butter and chicken combining into something that made her mouth water and her eyes actually sting with how good it smelled.
The sauce began to thicken, turning from watery to creamy, the color shifting to this pale, golden smoothness that looked almost... alive. Like he'd transformed something ordinary into something impossibly elegant.
"Wow," she whispered, mostly to herself, the word slipping out unbidden.
Gabriel's hands stilled for a half-second, his shoulders tensing almost imperceptibly, as if he'd forgotten she was there. He didn't look at her. He just gave a tiny, sharp nod and went back to work, his focus narrowing even further, like he was retreating behind his own walls.
But Enid saw it. That moment of surprise. That flicker of... something.
She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling her heart hammering beneath her palm, and watched him create something beautiful out of nothing but discipline and care.
---
Gabriel Beoulve's POV
While Enid had watched, mesmerized by the precision of his hands, Gabriel's mind had been elsewhere, caught in the familiar loop of Alaric's lessons and the weight of their purpose.
Gabriel tuned them out. The chatter from Ajax, the quiet observations from Xavier, Enid's silent, heavy focus from the doorway, it was all just noise, a distraction from the only thing that mattered: the task.
He pressed two fingers against the center of the largest chicken cutlet, feeling the resistance. The meat pushed back with that specific firmness that meant it was done but not overdone. *'Almost. Thirty seconds more.'* He adjusted the flame on the warped pan with a precise twist of his wrist, compensating for the uneven heat distribution he'd identified in the first two minutes.
"Dude, it smells like an actual restaurant in here!" Ajax announced from the corner, his voice carrying that enthusiastic amazement that made Gabriel's jaw tighten. "How are you making simple stuff smell this good?"
'Control the heat, control the outcome.' Alaric's voice, a permanent echo in his mind, as familiar as his own breathing. 'Precision is the wall between man and beast.'
The chicken was done. He moved the cutlets to a plate with careful placement, not overlapping, allowing them to rest properly. The pan was sizzling, the fond, the browned bits of flavor, stuck to the bottom in a beautiful, caramelized pattern. He added the lemon juice.
It hit the hot metal with a violent hiss, steam exploding upward in a fragrant, acidic cloud that made his eyes water slightly. The sharp citrus cut through everything, bright and clean.
"The colors are incredible," Xavier noted, the sound of his pencil scratching on his pad stopped. "The chicken is perfectly golden."
Gabriel ignored him, his focus on the pan. He was deglazing, scraping the bottom with a wooden spoon in long, deliberate strokes, releasing all that concentrated flavor. 'Control the acid, control the brightness.' Alaric's voice again. 'Control the reaction, control the beast.' Every technique was a lesson. Every lesson was a wall against the beast.
He lowered the heat, adding a splash of broth from a carton they'd bought. Now, the most critical part. He took the cold butter he'd cubed earlier and began swirling it into the pan, one piece at a time, his wrist moving in a steady, constant circle. The sauce began to thicken, turning from watery to creamy, the color shifting to this pale, golden smoothness that looked almost... alive. Like he'd transformed something ordinary into something impossibly elegant.
'This is the part that requires focus. This is the control.' One degree too hot and it would break, separate into greasy puddles. One moment of distraction and it would be ruined.
'Every movement measured. Every ingredient a purpose.'
This was what Alaric had drilled into him. This was the discipline. This was the ritual of survival. The knife work, the heat control, the precise timing, it was all training. All preparation for the inevitable.
'I learned this because I would always be alone.'
The training wasn't about becoming a chef; it was about self-sufficiency. It was about having the control to nourish himself when no one else would be there. When his family couldn't stand to be near him. When his transformations made permanence impossible. It was practice for a life of isolation, for cooking meals for one in empty kitchens, for surviving when the world decided he was too dangerous to love.
'This was supposed to be training for cooking for one.'
He glanced at the others despite himself. Ajax was practically vibrating by the counter, his eyes fixed on the pan like it held the secrets of the universe. Xavier was watching the sauce come together with an artist's appreciation. And Enid... she was still by the door, her eyes wide, her expression unreadable but intense.
'Not... cooking Chicken Piccata for four.'
The warmth in the room was suffocating, and it had nothing to do with the stove. It was them. Their easy presence. Their gratitude hanging in the air like humidity. Their... acceptance. This was the variable Alaric had never prepared him for. The possibility that someone might stay.
"It's beautiful," Enid said, her voice barely a whisper, but it cut through his concentration like a blade.
Gabriel's hand almost faltered, the circular motion stuttering for just a fraction of a second before he forced it back to smooth. 'Beautiful is dangerous.'
He forced the thought down with brutal efficiency, adding the fresh coriander and scallions to the finished piccata sauce. The herbs hit the hot liquid and released their perfume immediately—bright, green, alive. 'Beautiful makes you forget the beast waits. Beautiful makes you want to stay.'
He spooned the sauce over the chicken with methodical precision, each cutlet receiving exactly the same amount, the vibrant green herbs standing out against the golden-brown meat like an artist's final touch. He worked with careful attention to presentation, plating four servings with the kind of care that betrayed how much this mattered.
It was just sustenance. A solution to a problem. Basic French technique applied to available ingredients.
But as he looked at the four plates, perfect, complete, ready, he didn't feel the satisfaction of control he expected. He felt the sharp, terrifying panic of connection. Of having made something that would make them feel... something.
And he had no defense against that at all.
---
Enid Sinclair's POV
Gabriel took a slow breath, pushing the weight of that realization down with practiced force. The food was done. That was what mattered now. Focus on the task.
Gabriel placed four plates on the counter with careful precision. It wasn't just... food. It was beautiful. The chicken was a perfect, golden-brown, glistening with a pale, creamy sauce that caught the harsh fluorescent light and made it look soft, almost glowing. Sprinkled on top were the vibrant green pieces of fresh coriander and scallions, so bright they looked like they'd been painted on. The aroma of lemon, garlic, and butter filled the kitchen in waves, a warm, bright scent that made Enid's empty stomach ache with anticipation and something else.
They didn't even bother moving to a table. The kitchen felt like their space now, transformed by the cooking. Ajax grabbed a plate and a fork, leaning against the counter and taking a huge bite before the food had even cooled properly, his eyes closing in anticipation.
His eyes went wide. His fork froze mid-air. His entire body went still.
"Dude," he said, his voice full of a comical, wide-eyed shock that would have been funny if it wasn't so genuine. "This is... this is restaurant food. Actual restaurant food. How is this even possible?"
Xavier took a slower, more deliberate bite, closing his eyes for a moment as he tasted it. His expression shifted—surprise, then appreciation, then something like wonder. "The balance," he murmured, almost to himself, like he was analyzing a painting. "The lemon cuts through the richness but doesn't overwhelm. You layered the flavors intentionally."
Enid finally took her own bite, her hands slightly trembling.
It was... warm. That was the first word that came to her mind, and it wasn't about temperature. The chicken was impossibly tender, yielding under her fork without resistance. The sauce was bright and rich at the same time—the lemon providing acid and life, the butter providing comfort and weight. And the fresh herbs... they tasted like spring, like sunshine, like something good and safe and *intentional*.
She tasted care in every component. Someone had thought about how these flavors would work together. Someone had made sure the chicken was perfect, the sauce was balanced, the herbs were fresh. Someone had... cared.
"The coriander..." she said, her voice quiet, almost reverent. She looked at the bright green herbs, then at her plate, then at Gabriel's rigid back. "It tastes like sunlight. It tastes... safe."
The word hung in the air. Safe. Not delicious, not amazing, not incredible—though it was all those things. Safe.
She looked at Gabriel. He was standing by the stove, his back mostly to them, already starting to wipe down a perfectly clean counter with sharp, jerky movements. His shoulders were rigid, tension radiating from every line of his body like he was preparing for an attack.
'He's uncomfortable,' she realized, her "protector theory" crystallizing into absolute fact. 'He's pulling away from the praise. Like it... like it physically hurts him.'
The same hands that had created this precise, careful, safe meal, hands that had moved with such gentle certainty, such focused intention, were the ones that had made the air go cold in the Weathervane. That had instilled primal fear in grown men with just a words and a presence.
She saw it clearly now, the picture complete and undeniable. It wasn't a contradiction. It was a single, perfect truth.
'This control... this is his protection. Not ours. His. This is how he keeps himself contained. This is how he cares without letting himself be vulnerable.'
Her chest ached with understanding.
---
Ajax Petropolus' POV
'Holy crap.'
Ajax shoveled another huge piece of chicken into his mouth, not even caring that it was probably not polite. It was, without question, the best thing he had ever eaten. Better than his mom's Sunday roasts. Better than the fancy restaurant his parents took him to for his birthday. Better than anything he'd ever imagined chicken could be.
"Dude, seriously!" he said, pointing his fork at Gabriel's back with emphasis, unable to contain his enthusiasm. "How are you this good at cooking chicken? Is this like, a secret werewolf thing? Enhanced taste buds that translate to cooking? A Beoulve family secret passed down through generations? Because this is... this is legendary! This is—"
Gabriel didn't even turn around. He just scrubbed at the counter with increased intensity, his movements sharp. "It's basic technique. The pan sauce needs acid to balance the fat. Nothing special."
"Nothing special?" Ajax looked at Xavier and Enid for support, his expression genuinely baffled. "This is everything special! I didn't even know chicken could do this! I thought chicken was just... chicken!"
He couldn't understand why Gabriel was being so weird about it. If Ajax could cook like this, he'd be insufferable. He'd be making everyone call him 'Chef Ajax.' He'd have business cards printed. He'd probably start a food blog.
But Gabriel was acting like he'd just microwaved a frozen dinner and was mildly annoyed about the time it took.
'Why can't he just accept that we think he's awesome?'
He caught Xavier's eye. Xavier gave him a small shake of his head—a silent let it go. But Ajax couldn't let it go. This food was too good to not celebrate.
"Safe?" he said, catching up to Enid's weird comment and needing to process it out loud. "It tastes amazing! Incredible! Life-changing!" He pointed his fork at Gabriel again. "Man, you're our friend who makes insane chicken and is super weird about people saying thank you! That's your thing now!"
Gabriel's shoulders got even tighter, hunching slightly like he was trying to make himself smaller. 'Okay, maybe lay off the praise. He looks like he's about to bolt.'
Ajax just shrugged and went back to his plate, attacking it with renewed enthusiasm. If Gabriel didn't want to be thanked, fine. He'd just thank him by eating all of it and maybe licking the plate. That was gratitude too, right?
---
Xavier's Thorpe's POV
Xavier savored another bite, analyzing the composition with the same attention he'd give to a master's painting. It was more than just good food. It was craft. Art. Intention made edible.
He could see the technical precision in every element. The chicken was perfectly cooked—tender and juicy without being raw, with that ideal golden sear that meant temperature control was exact. The sauce hadn't broken or separated; it was a perfect, stable emulsion, which was notoriously difficult to achieve in a strange kitchen with a warped pan and a bad knife. The brightness of the lemon was perfectly calibrated to cut the richness without overwhelming. The fresh herbs added at the last second to preserve their vibrant character.
This wasn't just a life skill learned out of necessity. This was artistry. This was someone who understood that cooking was another form of creation, another way to take chaos and raw materials and transform them into something meaningful.
He heard Ajax's loud, enthusiastic praise and Gabriel's clipped, technical deflections. The contrast was stark—Ajax's unfiltered joy versus Gabriel's desperate need to minimize what he'd done.
"Cooking is control," Gabriel said, his voice flat, almost harsh. "Precise heat, precise timing, precise results."
Xavier smiled, putting his fork down deliberately. "This is art, Gabriel. Don't diminish it." He saw the intention behind it, the way the bright, fresh herb salad cut the richness of the piccata with acidic contrast, the way the components were balanced like a well-composed painting. "The way the sauce clings to the chicken... that's intentional. That's skill."
He was watching Gabriel hide in real-time. The praise wasn't just praise; it was attention, and it was aimed at something personal, something Gabriel had clearly never intended to share—not the food itself, but the care embedded in it. The vulnerability of having created something beautiful. He'd made himself visible, and now he was retreating behind his walls as fast as he could rebuild them.
'He's showing us who he,' Xavier thought, picking up his fork again, his artist's mind cataloging the moment. 'He's showing us he can create, not just... whatever that terrifying thing was at the Weathervane. He can make something beautiful.'
And that scared him more than any display of power ever could.
---
Gabriel Beoulve's POV
They wouldn't stop talking.
Gabriel scrubbed the counter with a damp cloth, his back to them, his stomach twisting into a cold, tight knot. The kitchen felt too hot, too small, the walls pressing in. The fluorescent lights were too bright. Everything was too much.
"Restaurant food."
"The balance..."
"Tastes... safe."
He felt the words like tiny, sharp impacts against his back. Physical things. Each one making him want to flinch. He'd lost control. Not in the Weathervane—that had been a deliberate release, a choice made in the moment. This... this was a different kind of loss of control. He had taken a practical, logical action to solve a hunger problem, and he had accidentally made them feel something.
Made them see something in him he'd never intended to show.
'Why can't they just eat? Why does it have to mean something?'
"It's basic technique," he forced out, his voice sounding harsh even to his own ears, the words clipped and defensive.
"This is art, Gabriel."
He flinched internally. 'No. It's survival.'
'This is what Alaric taught me,' he thought, his knuckles white on the cloth. 'Control the heat. Control the acid. Control the body, control the beast.' This was the discipline. This was the wall. This was the training for a life of isolation, for the moments when he would have to feed himself because no one else would ever be there. Because he was too dangerous to keep close. Because the full moon came every month and took him away from everything human.
It wasn't art. It wasn't kindness. It was the practical skill of a boy who would always, always be alone.
It wasn't for them. It was because of him.
"It's sustenance," he said, cutting Xavier off, his voice flat and hard. "We were hungry, now we're not."
But their gratitude was a physical thing in the room. It was a warm, suffocating pressure he had no defense against, no training for. Alaric had trained him to fight his monsters, to endure pain, to control the rage that lived under his skin. He had never, not once, trained him for what to do when someone looked at him with genuine, uncomplicated warmth. When someone tasted his food and said it felt safe.
'This is dangerous,' he thought, his heart hammering in a way that felt terrifyingly similar to the Weathervane, that same loss of control but in completely the opposite direction. 'This is more dangerous than the beast. This makes me want—'
He cut the thought off brutally, turning to the sink and beginning to wash the pan he'd just wiped, needing the simple, physical task to drown out the sound of them enjoying his food. The sound of them being... happy. Because of something he'd done.
The water ran hot over his hands, almost scalding, and he welcomed the sharp sensation. Something simple. Something he could control.
---
Enid Sinclair's POV
The comfortable silence that settled over them as they finished eating was almost as satisfying as the meal itself—warm and full and content. They cleaned up in a surprisingly easy rhythm, like they'd been doing this for years instead of hours. Ajax, for all his chaotic energy, was surprisingly efficient at stacking plates, creating a precarious tower that somehow didn't collapse. Xavier wiped down the counters with methodical thoroughness, ensuring everything was properly clean. Enid, feeling a little hesitant but wanting to contribute, found herself organizing the leftovers, carefully wrapping the extra chicken in foil.
Gabriel meticulously cleaned his station, wiping down the stove until it shone, scrubbing away every speck of grease and flour until the surface gleamed. His movements were just as precise in cleaning as they had been in cooking—nothing left to chance, everything returned to order. Finally, he dried his hands on a towel with a sharp snap of fabric.
"I'll be back," he said, his voice holding that flat, neutral tone that gave away nothing.
And with that, he was gone. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving a sudden, ringing silence in his wake that felt almost loud in its absence of his presence.
Enid let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her shoulders relaxing.
A beat passed. Ajax and Xavier exchanged a look.
Then, as if a dam had broken, as if they'd both been holding it in the entire time Gabriel was in the room, Ajax exploded. He wasn't talking to her specifically, but to Xavier, a manic, vindicated energy thrumming through his entire body.
"I TOLD you!" he whisper-shouted, his eyes wide and bright, his hands gesturing wildly. "I told you he was cool! That wasn't just cool, that was... that was legendary! That was superhero-level cool! That was—"
Xavier leaned back against the freshly cleaned counter, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face—the kind of smile that made him look younger, less guarded. "He cooked a better meal than the commissary with basic ingredients and a dull knife," he said, his voice full of quiet awe and something like pride. "'Cool' doesn't begin to cover it. That was mastery."
Enid just sat quietly on one of the kitchen stools, overwhelmed, just listening to them like she was watching a private celebration she'd accidentally been invited to. It felt like being allowed to watch a secret club meeting, like being let in on something precious.
"And at the Weathervane!" Ajax continued, still buzzing with energy, his words tumbling over each other. "He just... fwoosh! And those normies were gone! That was scary but also kind of amazing? Is that weird? That I thought it was amazing?"
"Intense," Xavier murmured, his expression thoughtful. His perceptive gaze shifted, landing on Enid with gentle curiosity. He didn't pry, didn't demand, but his look was an invitation to share if she wanted to. "What did you see afterward, Enid? You were watching him."
Enid started, surprised to be addressed directly, to be included in this moment of shared understanding. "Oh. Um..." She looked down at her hands, remembering. "He looked... exhausted," she said, the memory sharp and clear, painful in its vividness. "And sad. Like he hated that he had to do it. Like it hurt him."
Xavier nodded slowly. "Same focus," he said quietly. "Just aimed differently."
Enid's head snapped up. 'That's it. That's exactly it.'
Ajax must have seen something on her face because he grinned. "Right? He's our friend. Kinda scary sometimes, but in a 'don't mess with my friends' way, not a 'run for your life' way."
Enid's heart gave a strange, warm flutter. 'Our friend. He said our. Not just his and Xavier's... ours.'
She watched them—Ajax, with his baffling, unwavering loyalty that seemed to come as naturally as breathing, and Xavier, with his quiet, sharp understanding that saw things others missed. They weren't scared of Gabriel. They weren't intimidated or wary or keeping their distance.
They were proud of him.
And as she sat there, full of the best food she'd ever eaten, surrounded by people who'd invited her in without hesitation, a new, fragile thought took root and began to grow.
'Maybe... maybe I'm their friend, too.'
---
Enid Sinclair's POV
Just as the warm, comfortable silence started to feel normal—after what felt like both forever and no time at all—the kitchen door clicked open. Gabriel returned.
He wasn't empty-handed. He was carrying a sleek, serious-looking espresso machine—all chrome and black, professional-grade, the kind of thing that looked like it cost more than Enid's entire wardrobe—which he set on the counter with a quiet, solid *thunk*. The weight of it was obvious in the sound. He plugged it in with careful precision, his movements all silent, ritualistic efficiency. Enid, Xavier, and Ajax just watched, fascinated.
Once the machine was ready, humming softly as it heated up, Gabriel turned to Ajax. "The beans. And the honey jar. They're in the bag."
"Yeah, yeah, buried in here with the good stuff..." Ajax, who was still holding the grocery bag from the market, began rummaging through it. The sound of crinkling plastic wrappers filled the kitchen as he moved past chips and candy bars. "Hang on... got 'em!"
He pulled out the bag of coffee beans, and Enid's breath caught. The familiar Weathervane logo stared back at her—that distinctive circular design. And next to it, a prominent sticker with a heavily marked-up price written in someone's hurried handwriting.
"Whoa. You paid *this* for beans? And the honey too?" Ajax held them up, his expression a mix of awe and horror. "Dude, we got scammed. This is highway robbery. This is—"
"The price is irrelevant," Gabriel said, his expression unchanging as he took the items from Ajax's hands carefully. "It was the only source for quality beans."
He measured the beans with a small scale he'd brought with him—because of course he had a scale—the kind of precision that spoke to obsession or training or both. Then he poured them into the grinder attached to his machine.
The first brutal, cracking whirr of the grinder made Enid flinch, the sound sharp and violent in the quiet kitchen. Then, the air was utterly transformed.
It wasn't just coffee. It was that coffee.
The exact same scent from the Weathervane—dark and rich and complex, with that unmistakable bright, citrusy note that had filled the shop just hours ago, that she'd breathed in while standing next to him at the counter. It was the smell of awkwardness and almost-conversations and a shared, specific order that she'd thought was just coincidence.
It was the smell of them.
Enid's head snapped up. Her eyes found Gabriel's profile, then darted to Xavier, who was watching her, not the coffee, his expression knowing.
"It's the same," she whispered, almost to herself, the words barely audible over the grinding. "From this morning."
Gabriel's hands stilled for a fraction of a second—so brief she almost missed it, but it was there. He glanced at her, his gray eyes meeting hers for just a moment, and saw her recognition. He gave a single, slight nod before turning back to the machine—just acknowledgment, just confirmation. A statement of fact.
'He knew. He bought our coffee.'
As the machine hissed to life, steam rising, he addressed the room casually, his tone giving away nothing. "I'm making a full portafilter. There's enough for anyone who wants some." His eyes scanned the group and landed on Enid for just a half-second longer than the others, and she felt that gaze like a physical touch. "The honey is there."
*'He remembered.'*
Her heart did a stupid, happy little flip that made her feel like she was falling. 'He remembered the honey. He didn't have to remember that. He could have just offered black coffee. But he remembered.'
It wasn't a question, like at the shop when she'd ordered. He wasn't asking what she wanted. He was just... stating it. Providing it. Like he'd filed away that detail—Enid takes honey in her coffee—and brought it with him.
"I'll take mine black. Thanks," Xavier said, his voice laced with a quiet, knowing smile that said he understood exactly what was happening.
"Same! No need to sweeten up perfection, right?" Ajax added cheerfully, oblivious to the undercurrent.
Gabriel gave a curt nod. He worked methodically, pulling four perfect shots of espresso into four small cups with practiced efficiency. His actions were all practical, all logical. It was just coffee. He was making some for himself, and waste was inefficient. Making extra was the rational choice.
But as Enid watched him take the jar of honey, open it with a twist of his wrist, and stir a spoonful of golden liquid into one specific cup before sliding it across the counter toward her—no fanfare, no acknowledgment, just a simple gesture—it felt like anything but practical.
It felt... intentional.
'This is how he shows it,' she thought, her fingers closing around the warm cup, feeling the heat seep into her palms. 'Not with words. With actions. With coffee. With remembering small things and pretending they don't matter.'
She looked up, meeting his eyes over the rim of the cup. He looked away first, his expression neutral, but she'd seen it—that flicker of something before the walls came back up.
And she understood.
---
Enid Sinclair's POV
"Man, I'm so full," Ajax announced, patting his stomach with both hands in an exaggerated gesture of contentment. "Let's walk it off. If I sit down, I might never get up again."
"Good idea," Xavier agreed, stretching his arms over his head.
Gabriel gave a curt nod. He pushed the espresso machine to the corner of the counter, out of the way. "Let's go."
The four of them stepped out of the kitchen into the cool, crisp night air. Enid took a deep breath, the scent of damp grass and pine replacing the warm cloud of garlic and lemon and coffee. She felt amazing—full of good food, buzzing from the strong, sweet coffee, and wrapped in a warm, comfortable silence that felt like belonging.
Ajax was, naturally, still carrying the plastic bag of snacks from the market, now noticeably lighter and crinkling with every step. "You know, we should work up room for dessert. Which is currently in this bag."
"You just ate enough chicken for three people," Xavier pointed out mildly, but he was smiling.
"Your point?"
They fell into an easy, meandering pace, walking away from the commissary and onto the main path looping the Quad. It was Enid's first non-anxious tour of the campus.
She was just... walking. With friends. Under the stars.
She watched the group dynamics unfold naturally—her new pack, if she could dare to think of them that way. Ajax was chatting about a video game he'd been playing, gesturing wildly with the rustling snack bag for emphasis. Xavier walked beside him, offering a quiet comment here and there that made Ajax laugh or pivot his argument. And Gabriel... he was walking next to Enid, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the sky. He was quiet, but it wasn't the cold, walled-off quiet from the morning. This was just... quiet. Comfortable silence.
It was the safest she had felt since she'd arrived at Nevermore.
"Whoa, look at that!" Ajax stopped suddenly, pointing up at the deep indigo sky. The first brave stars were twinkling, scattered across the darkness like diamonds on velvet, and a sliver of moon was rising over the gothic towers, silver and sharp. "That one's crazy bright. That's gotta be, like, the North Star, right?"
Xavier squinted upward. "No, that's Venus. The Evening Star. Looks particularly brilliant tonight."
"It's Jupiter."
Gabriel's voice was quiet, but clear in the still air. He hadn't taken his eyes off the sky, his gaze fixed on that bright point of light. "Venus set two hours ago."
All three of them turned to look at him, their expressions ranging from impressed to baffled.
"You just... know that?" Enid asked, genuinely amazed. "Like, you can just look up and tell which planet is which?"
"When you have to track the moon, you learn the rest of the sky too," he said, his voice flat, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining that water was wet. "It's... context."
The weight of that statement hung in the air like a physical thing. 'When you have to track the moon.'
Enid felt her stomach flip. That wasn't how werewolves talked about the moon. Her brothers joked about it, complained about it, marked it on calendars with moon emojis. They didn't *track* it like it was an enemy position.
'Context,' he'd said. Like the moon was something he needed tactical information about. Like the stars were... what? A warning system?
She didn't understand. But the flatness in his voice made her chest ache anyway.
'I want to ask. But how do you ask someone why they track the moon like it's hunting them?'
"Wait, so you can actually tell which one is which?" Ajax asked, sounding genuinely impressed, his head tilted back to stare at the sky. "Like, all of them?"
Gabriel gave a slight, almost imperceptible shrug, his hands still deep in his pockets. "Enough to know where the moon will be. And when."
Xavier nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful, understanding settling over his features. "Right. Context."
Ajax then shook the snack bag, the plastic rustling loudly and breaking the tension like shattering glass. "Well, my context is telling me I might have room for these chips later," he declared with forced cheerfulness. "Let's keep walking! I wanna see if the creepy greenhouse actually glows at night like people say."
Gabriel tore his gaze from the sky and just... walked.
Enid fell into step beside him, the warm, buzzing feeling in her chest now mixed with a new, fierce, and protective ache. She wanted to say something—anything—but the words wouldn't come. She didn't know what he needed to hear.
So she just walked beside him in comfortable silence, and hoped that was enough.
---
Enid Sinclair's POV
The walk had been perfect—mostly. Full of good food, warm coffee, easy company, and the kind of comfortable conversation that felt like it had always existed. They'd looped the Quad, pointed out constellations (or at least guessed at them, except for Gabriel who actually knew), and laughed at Ajax's increasingly absurd snack commentary.
Even the quiet moment at the end, walking beside him in silence, hadn't felt uncomfortable. Just... weighted. Like something important had been said without words.
Now they re-entered the North Wing, the air inside warmer than outside, their footsteps echoing softly on the stone floor. They walked down the main residential corridor, passing the archways that led to Puck Hall with its whimsical stained glass catching the moonlight. They finally stopped at the main junction—the point where the hallway split. Enid's path continued east toward Ophelia Hall, and theirs veered west toward Caliban.
A massive, arched window dominated the junction, its Gothic frame reaching nearly to the ceiling. Silver moonlight poured through the ancient glass, flooding the space with an ethereal glow and casting long, dramatic shadows across the worn stone floor. Dust motes danced in the beams like tiny stars.
"Well, this is my stop," Enid said, a genuine, warm smile on her face. She felt a million miles from the lonely, anxious, rejected girl she'd been this morning. "Thank you guys, I had a really great time tonight."
She turned, ready to head down her corridor, already thinking about how she'd tell Yoko about this when she got back.
"Enid."
She turned back, her heart skipping at the sound of her name in his voice. Gabriel had called her. He stepped toward Ajax and, without a word, took the rustling plastic snack bag from his hand with quiet purpose.
"Take this," he said, holding the bag out to her. His voice was low and a little rough, like the words cost him something. "In case you get hungry later."
"Oh," she said softly, her voice losing its usual brightness. "I mean... I'm pretty full. That meal was..." She trailed off, searching for the right words, then gave up. "It was really amazing."
"We have too much," Gabriel said, but his voice had dropped even lower, more insistent. He thrust the bag slightly forward, like he needed her to take it. "Can't eat it all."
Enid looked down at the bag, then back up at his face. His gray eyes were focused on her with that same intensity he'd had in the kitchen—absolute, unwavering—but now there was something else underneath it. Something that made her chest feel tight.
'He's not just offering snacks,' she realized, the thought hitting her with sudden clarity. 'He's... trying to take care of me. In the only way he knows how.'
"Wait, I could definitely—" Ajax started, perking up and reaching for the bag, his eyes on the precious snacks within.
Xavier elbowed him—a gentle but firm thump to the ribs that made a quiet thud. Ajax made a small "oof" sound, his breath leaving him in a rush, and clamped his mouth shut with an audible click of teeth.
"Okay," Enid said quietly, her voice almost a whisper now.
Xavier and Ajax had hung back a few paces, giving them space—Xavier with that knowing smile, Ajax looking confused but patient.
She stepped forward into the pool of moonlight and reached into the bag, her fingers brushing against plastic wrappers. As she did, the beam of silver light from the massive window caught her face fully, illuminating her smile like a spotlight. She felt the cool air on her skin, saw the reflection of moonlight in Gabriel's dark, focused eyes. The stubborn fleck of glitter on her temple—still there after all this time—caught the silver light and sparkled.
She pulled out a small bag of chips and looked up, meeting his gaze fully. The casual, friendly moment suddenly felt... different. Charged. The moonlight made everything look softer, more significant. Like they were the only two people in the world.
"Thank you again, Gabriel," she said, her voice soft but weighted with meaning. She wasn't just thanking him for the snacks. She was thanking him for everything—for the meal, for the coffee, for letting her stay, for not pushing her away like everyone else had.
---
Gabriel Beoulve's POV
His heart stopped.
Then it kicked—a hard, painful thump against his ribs that felt like being hit. Then it skipped a beat entirely, stuttering in his chest.
He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't think. He was trapped—pinned in place by her gaze, by the impossible, silver glow of the moonlight that caught her smile and the stray glitter on her temple like she was something out of a dream he'd never let himself have.
She was looking at him... not like he was a monster, not like he was a pariah, not like he was something to fear or pity or avoid. She was looking at him like he was... good. Like he was someone worth thanking. Worth knowing. Worth standing in moonlight with.
A wave of heat—sharp and unfamiliar and overwhelming—flooded his entire body. It rushed up his neck like fire, burning his ears, scalding his cheeks. He felt his face heating, felt the flush spreading across his skin in a way he couldn't control, couldn't stop, couldn't hide. He was blushing. Actually blushing. He hadn't blushed since he was a child, maybe never. His body was betraying him in the most visceral way possible.
This was a complete and total loss of control.
The beast was loss of control to rage and destruction. But this... this was loss of control to something else entirely. Something that felt warm instead of cold. Something that made him want to step closer instead of run away. Something terrifying in its gentleness.
It was overwhelming. It was unfamiliar. It was... dangerous in ways the beast had never been.
'Too much. It's too much feeling. Too much—'
His pulse hammered in his ears. His hands trembled slightly in his pockets. His throat felt tight, closed, like he'd forgotten how to form words.
"I-its o-kay," he stammered, his voice shaky and unrecognizable, breaking on the syllables like he was twelve years old again and didn't know how to talk to anyone.
He turned abruptly—almost violently—before he could shatter completely, before she could see how much she'd undone him with a simple thank you in moonlight. He pivoted on his heel, his movements jerky and graceless, and strode back toward his friends. He shoved the snack bag into Ajax's chest without looking, without speaking, his hands still trembling.
"Goodnight," he bit out, the word sharp and clipped and desperate.
He walked quickly—not quite running but moving faster than necessary, his stride eating up the distance—down the west corridor toward Caliban Hall. Every nerve ending was screaming. His heart was hammering a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm against his ribs. The flush on his face felt like it would never fade. He didn't look back. Couldn't look back.
'Control the body, control the beast.' But his body wasn't listening. Nothing was listening.
Behind him, Enid watched him go, a slightly confused but still happy smile on her face, her fingers wrapped around her chips. Xavier leaned against the wall, a quiet, knowing, almost proud smile touching his lips—the smile of someone who'd just watched a friend take a terrifying step forward.
Ajax just looked down at the bag that had been shoved into his hands, blinked twice, shrugged, and immediately opened it to check if the sour cream chips were still there.
They were not.
---
Gabriel Beoulve's POV
Gabriel all but slammed the door to Room 209, his hand hitting it harder than intended, the bang echoing in the stone corridor outside. He leaned back against the solid wood, his chest heaving like he'd run a mile. He could still feel the heat in his face—a humiliating, unfamiliar flush that hadn't faded during the entire walk back. His heart was hammering, a wild, uncontrolled rhythm that had nothing to do with physical exertion.
'What was that? What the hell was that?'
The door pushed against his back. He stumbled forward. Ajax and Xavier followed him in, closing the door behind them with a quieter click.
"Dude, what was that?" Ajax asked, his eyes wide with concern and confusion. "You looked like you saw a ghost! A really... blushy ghost. Are you okay?"
"It was nothing." Gabriel ran a hand through his hair, his fingers shaking slightly, turning away so they wouldn't see his face. His voice came out rough, defensive. "Just... warm from the walk."
"You're never 'just warm,' Gabriel," Xavier said quietly. He was leaning against his bedpost, his gaze far too perceptive, seeing too much as always. "And you definitely don't run from warmth. You run from things, not to them."
"Yeah!" Ajax chimed in, dropping the snack bag on his bed with a rustle. "And you gave away the snacks! My sour cream chips!"
"We can buy more," Gabriel bit out, the words sharp, harsh. He needed this conversation to end. He needed the room to be empty. He needed space to think—or better, to not think. "I need... to be alone for a bit."
Xavier studied him for a long, silent moment, his expression unreadable but not unkind. Then he nodded once to Ajax, decisive. "Come on," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Let's go see if the common room machine got refilled."
"But I want to know what—" Ajax protested, gesturing at Gabriel.
"Now, Ajax." Xavier's tone left no room for argument.
"Fine," Ajax grumbled, but he grabbed the snack bag and followed Xavier to the door. He paused, looking back. "But we're talking about this later, right? Because that was weird."
Xavier just pulled him out and closed the door with a soft click.
The silence was immediate and blessed.
Gabriel let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, feeling it shudder out of him. He paced the length of his room—once, twice, three times—running his hand through his hair repeatedly in frustration. He felt trapped in his own skin, his body still humming with that unfamiliar warmth, his pulse still racing. He stalked to the window and pressed his forehead against the cold, old glass, welcoming the sharp chill against his heated skin.
The moon was high now, its silver light cold and familiar—a reminder of his curse, of what he was, of why isolation wasn't just a choice but a necessity.
'Control the body, control the beast.' Alaric's voice. The core of his entire life. The foundation of every lesson, every training session, every moment of discipline.
Tonight, he'd had control. In the kitchen, he was flawless. Every cut precise, every sear perfect, every measured pinch of seasoning exactly right. That was control. That was mastery. That was what Alaric had trained him for.
But then... her smile. The moonlight turning her into something ethereal and impossible. The simple, genuine thank you that had hit him like a physical blow.
And he had lost control. Completely.
His heart, his face, his voice, his ability to form coherent words—everything had betrayed him in that moment. The beast was a loss of control to rage and destruction, to the cold fury that made people run. But this... this was a loss of control to something else entirely. To warmth. To connection. To feelings he didn't have names for and didn't know how to contain.
'What happens when the loss of control feels... good?'
Alaric had never taught him that. Had never prepared him for the moment when his carefully constructed walls would be breached not by force but by gentleness. Not by fear but by gratitude.
He pushed away from the window, his reflection a pale ghost he didn't recognize. No one had ever looked at him like that. Not his parents—they looked at him with barely concealed fear and disappointment. Not the family elders—they looked at him like a problem to be solved or hidden away. Not even Alaric, who looked at him with concern and determination but never warmth.
'Like I was... good. Like I was worth thanking.'
The thought was terrifying in its simplicity.
'Isolation is safety.' The mantra. The rule. The only way to keep people safe from what he became during the full moon.
But tonight hadn't felt dangerous. Not with them. Not in the kitchen with Xavier's quiet appreciation and Ajax's boundless enthusiasm. Not on the walk with easy conversation and shared silence. Not in the moonlit junction with Enid looking at him like...
He cut the thought off, sitting heavily on his bed, his head in his hands. His walls—so carefully built, so meticulously maintained over years of discipline and training—were cracking. He could feel them crumbling bit by bit, piece by piece, every moment he spent with them weakening the foundation.
And part of him was terrified. The rational part. The part that knew what he was capable of. The part that had Alaric's voice permanently embedded in his consciousness, reminding him of the danger, of the beast, of the inevitable full moon that came every month without fail.
But another part... another, treacherous, stupid part... wanted to see what was on the other side of those walls. Wanted to know what it felt like to have friends who weren't scared. To make someone smile with food instead of flee with fear. To stand in moonlight with a girl who said his cooking tasted safe and meant it as the highest compliment.
He lay back on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his heart still racing but slower now. The flush was finally fading from his face.
The moon shone through his window, indifferent and eternal, counting down to the next transformation like it always did.
But for the first time in years, Gabriel wondered if surviving alone was the same as living.
---
Enid Sinclair's POV
Enid pushed the door to Room 312 open, a happy, tired sigh already forming on her lips. "Yoko, you won't believe what—"
The words died in her throat. The room was dark. Empty. Silent.
She fumbled for the light switch, her hand slapping against the wall until she found it. The room sprang to life under the harsh overhead light—her colorful, chaotic side with its explosion of rainbow and unfinished unpacking, and Yoko's neat, dark, and very much unoccupied side. The bed was still made with hospital corners. The desk was still pristinely organized. No sign of recent occupation.
Yoko was still gone.
A small pang of loneliness hit her, unexpected and sharp, puncturing the warm bubble of happiness she'd been floating in. But it was quickly pushed aside by the warmth of the evening still glowing in her chest. She had so much to tell Yoko. So much had happened.
She placed the small bag of chips Gabriel had given her on her desk with a soft crinkle, a tangible, physical reminder of the night. Proof it had actually happened.
She flopped face-first onto her rainbow quilt with a contented groan, her body sinking into the familiar softness. Her mind was a dizzy, buzzing loop of the last few hours, replaying moments like a movie she wanted to watch over and over.
'He cooked for us. He made that... amazing food.'
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling, her hands coming up to rest on her stomach. The stubborn fleck of glitter on her temple caught the light, that same piece that had been there since yesterday, through the Weathervane, through everything. A constant reminder of where this had all started.
This morning, in the Weathervane, she'd seen a boy who looked ashamed and exhausted after using a terrifying, power to protect them from normie bullies. His shoulders had slumped, his face had gone pale, his eyes had held something that looked like self-disgust.
Tonight, in the kitchen, she'd seen the same boy create something beautiful and warm and safe. The same boy that moved with precision and care, that handled ingredients with gentle respect, that transformed raw components into something that made her feel protected.
'He cooks with the same intensity he used to scare those bullies,' she thought, her fingers drifting up to her temple, brushing the stubborn, familiar fleck of glitter that had somehow become precious. 'But one is about control and care... and the other was about protection. Both were about keeping people safe. Just in different ways.'
He was so careful. With his ingredients, selecting each one purposefully. With his words, measuring them out like he was rationing something precious. With his emotions, keeping them locked behind walls so high she wondered if he could even see over them anymore. Until he couldn't be. Until a simple thank you in moonlight had made him blush and stammer and flee like she'd wielded some kind of devastating weapon.
Her mind replayed that last moment at the junction, over and over. The way the moonlight had caught his face, illuminating those sharp features and making his gray eyes look almost silver. The way his voice had cracked—I-its o-kay—breaking on the words like they hurt to say. The way he'd turned and practically run from her gratitude like it was more dangerous than his own power.
That wasn't the scary predator from the Weathervane who'd made the temperature drop with just his presence. That was just a boy—overwhelmed and flustered and completely out of his depth—who had no idea how to handle being seen. Being appreciated. Being thanked for something good.
Her "protector theory"... it was right. She knew it was. Every piece of evidence pointed to the same conclusion. He isolated himself not because he was dangerous in the way people feared but because he was terrified of *being* dangerous. Because he thought keeping people at arm's length was the only way to keep them safe.
'But what if he's wrong?' The thought bloomed in her chest, fragile but persistent. 'What if the control he's so desperate to maintain is actually what makes him safe to be around? What if pushing everyone away is hurting him more than it's protecting them?'
Tonight, for a few hours, he'd let his walls down. Shared his space and his skill and that precious coffee ritual that clearly meant something to him. He'd walked with them under the stars and shared his knowledge and stood in moonlight and let himself be... present.
And nothing bad had happened. No one had gotten hurt.
'He's not what they say he is at all,' she thought, her chest full of a warm, hopeful, protective ache that felt too big for her body. 'He's just... scared. And lonely. And convinced he has to be alone forever.'
She smiled at the ceiling, her heart swelling with determination. She couldn't wait to see him again. Couldn't wait to find more moments where he let those walls crack just a little. Couldn't wait to show him that maybe, just maybe, he didn't have to carry everything alone.
'You let us in tonight, Gabriel Beoulve. And we're not going anywhere.'
---
Yoko Tanaka's POV
The air in the Nightshades Library was cold, still, and smelled of dust, old leather, and secrets. Yoko stood in the low, enchanted light—bluish and flickering like trapped lightning—her arms crossed, a perfect statue of patience. The underground chamber stretched around her, vast and vaulted, filled with towering bookshelves that disappeared into shadow. The silence was oppressive, broken only bythe occasional drip of water from somewhere deep in the stone.
A figure emerged from the shadows between two towering bookshelves, moving with the careful steps of someone who didn't want to be here. An upperclassman vampire—she recognized him from her father's network, someone who owed the Tanaka family favors—with perpetually wary eyes that darted toward the stone archway like he expected Weems herself to appear.
"You shouldn't have called, Tanaka," he whispered, his voice tight with genuine fear. "You're asking about pack politics. It's messy. People don't talk about this stuff. There are reasons people don't talk."
"My roommate is the one it's getting messy for," Yoko said, her voice flat, emotionless, clinical. She wasn't asking as a friend. She was demanding as someone with leverage. "I need to know who and why. Names. Motivations. Now."
The informant let out a shaky breath, looking around the library like the shadows themselves might be listening. "It's Jonas Kael and his 'August Pack.' Elite upperclassmen. Purists and elitists. Thinks he's the second coming of Romulus himself. Traditional pack hierarchy, bloodline supremacy, all that garbage."
"And his problem with Sinclair?" Yoko's voice remained steady, but her mind was already cataloging, analyzing, building a threat profile.
"It's not just her." The informant stepped closer, lowering his voice even further, like the words themselves were dangerous. "It's who she was with. That Beoulve boy. He's an anomaly. A wrong thing. The werewolves... they don't just avoid him. They're terrified of him. And she was seen with him—publicly, repeatedly now. In their eyes, that makes her a traitor."
Yoko processed this, her expression giving away nothing, but her mind was racing. 'Not just social politics. Tribal betrayal. That's deeper. More dangerous.'
"And this 'anomaly'..." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to match his. "What really happened at Crestwood?"
The informant froze. Actually froze, his entire body going rigid. His eyes widened, genuine terror flooding his features, and he took a sharp step back like she'd just threatened him with silver.
"No." The word came out strangled, desperate. He shook his head violently. "We don't talk about that. That's... different. That's not pack gossip or social hierarchy. That's... a secret that bites back."
"I need to know what I'm protecting her from," Yoko pressed, taking a step forward, matching his retreat.
"Beoulve," the informant hissed, the name itself sounding like a curse. "Except for being one of the old bloodlines, I don't know much about them. But your father should have warned you. You know about the rare Alpha Werewolves?"
"Apex Predator. Harbinger of Chaos. The one that destabilizes the pack structure through sheer dominance." Yoko recited the description she'd learned growing up in vampire society, her voice cool and clinical. These were the werewolves even vampires worried about. "What about them?"
"The Beoulves," the informant said, his voice dropping to an almost reverent whisper, like speaking the name too loudly might summon something, "are said to be experts at hunting those. Every member of their bloodline can match an Alpha Werewolf. One on one."
Yoko's poker face held, but she was silent. That kind of power, that kind of legacy... it explained a lot. And raised even more questions.
The informant leaned in, his eyes wide with something that looked like religious fear. "And that thing... Gabriel Beoulve... he's something even they can't hunt. Not because he's their blood. But because some of them tried." He paused, letting that sink in. "Found out the hard way, if the rumors are true."
Yoko let out a small, exasperated sigh. "Rumors? Again? How many rumors about him circulate in this school?"
"If the rumors are true or not," the informant said, his voice deadly serious as he continued backing toward the shadows, "I don't want to be the one to find out. Neither should you. Stay away from him, Yoko. For your friend's sake. For your own. That boy is a walking catastrophe wrapped in control that might not hold."
He didn't wait for a reply. He just turned and disappeared back into the darkness of the stacks, his footsteps quick and silent, swallowed by shadow.
Yoko stood alone in the cold, silent library, the informant's genuine terror echoing louder than any rumor could. The enchanted lights flickered, casting shifting shadows across the ancient stone.
'A family that hunts Alpha Werewolves,' she thought, a cold dread settling in her gut like ice water. 'And they're scared of him. Their own blood. What does that make him?'
She thought of Enid—bright, optimistic, lonely Enid who just wanted to belong. Who'd been publicly shunned by the August Pack this morning. Who'd been defended by Gabriel's terrifying presence. Who'd probably spent the evening thinking he was just misunderstood.
'She has no idea what she's walking into.'
Yoko stood there for another long moment, processing, planning, calculating. Then she turned and walked toward the hidden staircase that would take her back to the surface, back to the Quad, back to reality.
She had information now. Dangerous information. The kind that changed everything.
The question was: what was she going to do with it?