Chapter 6: Teeth and Tender Things
She hadn't meant to get this close.
Dinner had been a mistake.
Not because Eliot had said anything wrong. Not because he'd leaned in too far, or touched her without asking, or stared with the kind of expectation she'd grown used to avoiding.
No.
It was worse.
He'd looked at her like she was real.
Like she was a person.
Like the things she said mattered. Like the pauses between her words meant something. Like she meant something.
And that… that had unmoored her in ways she didn't have the language for.
She made it home on autopilot. Through the cold elevator with its rust-stained walls and that faint, old metal smell that never quite left. Her keys dug into her palm. The light above her blinked like it couldn't commit.
By the time she shut the apartment door behind her, her control was already slipping. Her muscles hurt from how tightly she'd held herself together all evening.
She leaned her back against the door and just stood there for a second, breathing.
Then she laughed once, under her breath.
Not amused. Not really.
Just tired.
Because here she was—knees shaking like she was some wide-eyed girl trying not to fall for a smile.
God.
What the hell was wrong with her?
She walked into the kitchen, lit a single candle on the counter. Not for the light—she could see just fine without it. She needed the stillness. The focus. The small, flickering thing to tether her to now.
Because the other part of her—the part she'd learned to lock away—was wide awake.
It had scented him.
Felt him.
Not his skin or his mouth. No.
His aura. His intent.
And that had been enough.
He smells like rain and graphite, the wolf in her murmured. The clean kind of want. No lies. No poison.
She didn't respond. She didn't need to.
The wolf wasn't asking permission. It was just watching again. From behind her eyes.
She hated how natural it felt.
How easily instinct kicked in when it shouldn't.
How sharp her senses had become since she'd stepped into that restaurant and watched him walk in, a little nervous, a little unsure—but completely unguarded.
He hadn't tried to impress her. Not really. He'd just… showed up.
And the part of her that usually snarled at attention had just… quieted.
That was the problem.
Because it wasn't about attraction.
It was about trust.
And that was infinitely more dangerous.
Lena wandered toward her bedroom. Opened the small drawer beside her bed, where she kept pieces of things that didn't fit anywhere else.
Inside: a cracked silver pendant. An envelope from someone long dead. A pressed sprig of yarrow. An old photo, folded once down the center.
She smoothed the photo open.
Eliot.
Smiling, but not for her. Caught in a moment he hadn't noticed—a laugh caught mid-breath, arms full of too many books, shirt wrinkled at the shoulder.
She didn't even remember printing it.
Didn't want to admit why she'd kept it.
But the truth was simple.
She was afraid of forgetting what it looked like. That look—uncomplicated joy. No weight behind it. Just lightness.
It made something deep in her tighten.
Because if she let herself want that—if she reached for it—she wasn't sure she'd know how to let go again.
She paced for a while after that.
Back and forth. Barefoot across the cool floor.
There was too much movement in her blood. Too much heat under her skin. She rolled her neck, stretched her spine, opened the balcony door just to feel the cold.
The air smelled like wet concrete and electric wire. A storm had passed, but left its fingerprints everywhere.
She stepped out, arms folded tight over her chest.
The city below was slower now. Softer. No horns. Just the hush of late traffic, the occasional distant bark of a dog, the hum of neon.
She liked it like this. When it all went still.
When the edges blurred.
Her fingers curled around the metal balcony rail. Nails pricked longer—just slightly. She forced them back.
Control. Always control.
The wolf wanted out.
Not to hurt. Not even to hunt.
Just to feel.
The way he looked at you, it said. That wasn't a threat. That was something else.
And she knew it was right.
Because when she closed her eyes, she remembered every detail too clearly.
The way he'd looked up when she ordered for him. The faint surprise—then comfort.
The way he'd winced at the wine and tried to hide it.
The way he didn't touch her—not once—but still felt close.
And then, the way he'd said, "Why did you say yes?"
Like he hadn't expected her to.
Like it meant something.
And it did.
She just didn't want to admit what.
Back inside, the candle was flickering low.
She picked up her phone. Opened their thread.
No messages since dinner.
He hadn't pushed.
Hadn't sent a follow-up. No polite "had a good time" or "let's do it again."
She respected that.
He gave her space.
But still—she wanted to say something.
Something simple.
Not too much.
She typed:Tea tomorrow? Or coffee. I'll pretend to like it this time.—L
And hovered.
Her thumb stayed above the screen, not moving.
The wolf inside tilted its head. Don't do it. He'll see you. Not just the surface. The whole of you.
But something else pushed back.
Not the soft part. Not even the hopeful part.
Just… the part that remembered being looked at like she wasn't broken.
And she pressed send.
No fireworks.
No immediate reply.
She didn't expect one.
She stood in the quiet until the candle went out.
Then she closed the drawer, turned off the fan, and crawled into bed.
Still too awake.
Still too aware.
And for the first time in a very long time, she hoped morning would come quickly.