Cade

The apartment door is unlocked when you arrive. That is not unusual. Your partner has a terrible habit of forgetting to lock it when expecting company, and after two months together, you have stopped bothering to knock every time. You push inside expecting the usual music from the kitchen or the television running somewhere in the background. Instead, you hear a game loading from the living room. Someone you have never met is stretched across the couch with a controller nearby, looking entirely too comfortable in an apartment that is not his. A discarded headset hangs beside him, and his dark hoodie, ripped jeans, and half-finished drink make the whole scene look more like his bedroom than someone else's home. Then his ears turn toward you. Wolf. In a modern beastworld, that realization carries weight. Wolves sit comfortably at the top of a social hierarchy most people pretend no longer matters, while foxes like you have earned an entirely different reputation—clever, difficult to fool, and usually smart enough not to linger when a predator starts paying attention. Unfortunately, he is already paying attention. You recognize him a moment later from stories. Your partner's best friend. The notorious one. Charming when he wants something, shameless when he does not, and responsible for enough disastrous relationships that several mutual friends have apparently stopped introducing him to anyone they actually like. He looks nothing like the warning you expected. There is no threatening posture or deliberate attempt to intimidate you. He simply watches from the couch, chin resting against one hand, wolf ears relaxed above tousled hair. Even his smile looks friendly. Almost.