The days that followed blurred together, yet one thing refused to fade—the memory of gray eyes and the strange, electric stillness that had wrapped around me the moment they met mine.
I told myself it meant nothing.
People met strangers every day. People felt drawn to others for no reason at all. That was normal. Human. Ordinary.
Still, every time the bell above the bookshop door chimed, my heart jumped before I could stop it. And every time it wasn't him, disappointment settled quietly in my chest.
By the fourth day, I stopped pretending I wasn't waiting.
"Scarlett," my coworker called from the back room, "can you bring out the new shipment?"
"Coming," I replied, tearing my gaze away from the door.
I stacked books carefully, but my mind wasn't on titles or shelves. It drifted—back to the way his voice had sounded when he said my name, back to the warmth that had surged through my hand when our fingers touched.
Ridiculous, I scolded myself. You don't even know him.
The bell chimed.
This time, I felt it before I heard it.
My breath caught as I looked up.
He stood there again, just inside the doorway, dressed casually in dark jeans and a jacket that looked like it had seen a few fights with the wind. His hair was slightly tousled, as if he'd run a hand through it one too many times.
Xavier.
Our eyes locked, and the world—once again—forgot how to move.
A slow smile tugged at his lips, softer than the first time. "I was hoping you'd be here."
The words sent a strange warmth curling through my chest.
"I—uh," I cleared my throat, setting the books down. "I work here."
He chuckled quietly. "That explains it."
I walked toward him, suddenly aware of my posture, my hair, the faint dusting of ink on my fingers. "Did you… find what you were looking for last time?"
"I did," he said. "Which is why I came back."
"Oh." My heart skipped. "More history?"
His gaze held mine. "Something like that."
I gestured toward the counter. "I can help you look."
Instead of following me toward the shelves, he tilted his head slightly. "Actually, I was wondering if you'd take a break."
I blinked. "A break?"
"There's a coffee shop down the street," he said easily. "I've been told it's decent. Thought maybe you'd like company."
My mind raced. I didn't do things like this. I didn't accept invitations from men I'd met twice. I didn't—
"Yes."
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
His smile widened, slow and genuine. "Great."
I grabbed my coat and scribbled a note for my coworker, my hands shaking just enough to betray me. Outside, the air felt cooler, fresher. The city buzzed around us, but as we walked side by side, everything else seemed to dull.
"So," he said, glancing at me, "how long have you lived here?"
"Not long," I replied. "A few weeks. My friend and I moved from… somewhere quieter."
"Quieter," he echoed. "That explains why you look like the city's still trying to swallow you whole."
I laughed softly. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who knows the feeling."
The coffee shop was warm and crowded, filled with low chatter and clinking cups. We found a table near the window, close enough that I could feel his presence like a hum beneath my skin.
Conversation came easily—too easily.
He told me about growing up in different territories, about traveling more than staying still. I told him about the bookshop, about moving with my best friend, about how strange freedom felt when you weren't sure what to do with it.
He listened. Really listened. Not once did his attention drift.
"You're different," he said at one point, his voice thoughtful.
I frowned. "Different how?"
"Like you don't realize how much weight your words carry," he replied. "You talk like someone who's survived things quietly."
The comment struck closer than I expected. I looked down at my cup, steam curling upward. "Maybe I just like listening more than speaking."
"Maybe," he agreed. "But I don't think that's all."
When we parted outside the café, dusk was already creeping in.
"I had a good time," he said.
"So did I," I admitted.
He hesitated, then pulled his phone from his pocket. "Can I—?"
"Yes," I said again, smiling this time.
As we exchanged numbers, my phone buzzed almost immediately.
Xavier: Just making sure you didn't give me the wrong one.
I laughed, shaking my head.
Misty noticed the change before I said a word.
"You're glowing," she announced that night, arms crossed as she leaned against the kitchen counter. "And don't insult me by saying it's the lighting."
I sighed, dropping onto the couch. "I met someone."
Her eyes widened. "Someone someone?"
"I don't know," I said quickly. "His name is Xavier. He's… kind. Calm. He makes me feel safe."
That last part slipped out softer, more honest than I'd intended.
Misty studied me for a long moment. "Safe is good," she said finally. "Just don't forget who you are."
I nodded. "I won't."
Over the next weeks, Xavier became a constant.
Texts in the morning. Calls late at night. Walks through the city that felt less overwhelming with him beside me. I found myself laughing more, breathing easier. And he—he watched me like I mattered, like I was something precious rather than lacking.
Still, questions lingered.
He never spoke about his family in detail. Never said where he truly came from. And sometimes—just sometimes—I'd catch him watching the shadows like he expected them to move.
One evening, as we walked home under the glow of streetlamps, he slowed.
"Scarlett," he said quietly, "if something happened… if you were in danger—would you trust me?"
The question sent a chill through me.
I stopped walking, turning to face him. "Why would you ask that?"
His jaw tightened briefly before he relaxed. "Just answer me."
I searched his face, the sincerity in his eyes. "Yes," I said. "I would."
Something like relief crossed his features. "Good."
"What aren't you telling me?" I asked softly.
He hesitated. "Not yet."
A flicker of unease brushed my thoughts—but it didn't outweigh the comfort I felt when he reached for my hand.
Far away, eyes watched from the dark.
Whispers spread again, sharper now, more urgent. The presence they sought had been confirmed. The girl without a wolf had stepped into the open.
And fate—no longer patient—began to move faster.
I didn't know it yet.
But the calm I'd found was already cracking.
And soon, everything would be taken from ordinary hands and thrown into the storm.