They leave. Vaughn shifts back, grabbing his clothes quickly. I look away — not because I don't want to see, but because I do, and right now that feels too big.
"I should get you home," he says, voice rough from the shift.
"Yeah."
The ride back is different from the ride out. Slower. My arms around his waist aren't desperate anymore — they're just there, steady, like we've done this a hundred times. The city comes back into focus, streetlights and traffic and all the normal things that don't know I just had the most intimate experience of my life in a field with a man who turned into a lion.
We pull up to Ash's house. The porch light is on. I swing off the bike and stand there holding Vaughn's helmet, not giving it back.
"Thanks," I say. "For coming to get me. For not killing Brett. For... the stars."
"Anytime."
I lean in and kiss his cheek. Quick and light, barely there, my lips against the rough stubble of his jaw. He goes completely still.
"I mean it," I say. "Thank you."
He touches the spot where I kissed him. Just his fingertips, pressing against the skin like he's confirming it happened.
"Robin—"
"I know." I step back. Give him the helmet. Give him the smile — the real one, not the performance one, even though it feels like handing him a knife. "I flirt with everyone. It doesn't mean anything."
But it comes out like a question. Like I'm asking him to tell me I'm wrong.
He looks at me for a long time. The bike idles between us. The porch light makes his eyes look gold.
"Night, Robin," he says.
"Night, Vaughn."
I go inside. Close the door. Lean against it in the dark hallway and listen to his bike idle for a long moment before he finally drives away.
Upstairs, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling and press my fingertips against my lips where they touched his jaw.
The real me. The one underneath the performance. The one who curled against a lion in the grass and felt safe for the first time in years.
That Robin kissed Vaughn's cheek and meant it more than every kiss he's ever given anyone else.
I'm in so much trouble.
Chapter 6
Vaughn
Sunday night. The bar is full and Robin isn't here.
Knox and Toby are in the armchair — Toby in Knox's lap, Knox's hand in Toby's hair, both of them doing that thing where they exist in their own private dimension and the rest of us are just background noise. Jason's behind the bar cooking something because Ash is on the couch and Jason almost always cooks when Ash is within a fifty-foot radius, some shifter-caretaker instinct that manifests exclusively as garlic bread and aggressive seasoning. Silas is in his corner with a book that has a castle on the cover. Ezra's at the card table pretending to play solitaire while actually watching the game on the TV above the bar.
No Robin.
Robin hasn't missed a Sunday night at the bar since he started coming months ago. Not once. Not when he had the flu, not when Gordon made him work a sixteen-hour shift, not when he was exhausted or stressed or clearly running on fumes.Sunday night at the bar is the closest thing Robin has to church, and he doesn't miss it.
I pour myself a beer and take my usual spot at the end of the bar. Crossword out, reading glasses on, pen in hand. Normal Sunday. Completely normal.
"Where's Robin?" I ask Toby, aiming for casual. Missing by a mile.
"Busy tonight." Toby doesn't look up from whatever he's reading on his phone. "Said he might stop by later."