It was a small station. One employee up front, probably a second in the back. One open door and a pile of boxes, ready to either stock or be put away.

“You, uh, want a croissant?” I asked. Rafe had already caught up—faster than I’d thought he would—and the front door had been heavy enough it’d slowed me down before I could chicken out. I glanced at his hand pressing on the glass, and then back up. “Or if they don’t have it, bagel? Do they sell sandwiches? That’s gotta be, um,” Rafe was gazing in my eyes without a word, “made in person.” I shrunk, feeling self-consciously stupid.

Rafe loomed over me. “Sure. And coffee, if you can.” He pressed something heavy into my hands.

“What.” I almost dropped it, but Rafe caught it with the same hand, all without his eyes moving away. I took a look for a reason to look away. “Wait, why do you still have this?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “Why not? It works.”

“Because—” For better or worse, I’d bought him a novelty bacon wallet as a joke for his birthday. His whole Pack had gone silent as he’d read my card, but then he’d laughed and took out his own wallet, trading the contents. I’d thought he was just humoring me, helping me save face. “I just. I don’t know. I didn’t expect you’d keep it.” It looked worn. Well used. A lump grew in my throat.

The side of his mouth pulled to the side as he curled my fingers over the Bacon. “I need to make a call. Buy whatever you want for yourself. Find a cinnamon roll or something.”

There was a bite in his words that kept me from instantly retorting I didn’t eat that anymore. Not since the work party, where someone had left a whole tray. Instead of socializing, I’d ended up at the table, stuffing myself only to throw it all up later.

I watched him go and looked back down, feeling the lump in my throat. I couldn’t just leave if I had his wallet in my hands and he had the keys, but it was sorely tempting anyway, the urge to find a corner and just will the sick feeling away.

Wait.

If memory served me right, Rafe never left with anything less than--

“Do you take hundred-dollar bills?” I asked the cashier, who pointed to the sign that explicitly said they did not. And then a second sign underneath that said there would be a small charge for credit or debit cards under $10. “Crap.”

Rafe didn’t carry cards.

At least ten dollars’ worth of gas station stuff, I guess. Not too hard considering I knew how much he’d pig out if given the chance. Enviable werewolf metabolism and all. Might as well grab something to tide him.

I scoured the shelves, looking for the slim jims. He’d want something to chew on, letting his fangs grow a little as he gnawed. And I’d never tell him this, but I liked watching him eat. Rafe could be tough to read if he wanted to be; when it came to food, he was nothing but a good eater.

Before this, Rafe and I had taken maybe two road trips together. The second one was because I had a week off, and Rafe was itching to run naked in the woods. Very unexpected to learn all werewolves haze their partners in national parks, but stupidly fun once I got over the embarrassment. The first one, on the other hand, was for one of those work retreats. You know, when management is paying for the whole office to become friends.

Rafe at the time wasn’t a frequent face at work. Familiar voice, yes. There were a few werewolves from his Pack who came in when we needed extra muscle. Rafe was who you called if you wanted to book that time. And if there were complaints with them, you went to Rafe too. His was a magic number that solved everything, and he got results. Results, said Corporate, over everything else.

I’d always instinctively relied more on people who were more patient with me; Rafe had been no exception. Three months floundering into my job, he was much friendlier than everyone else to me. I felt I could trust him, even if all I knew about him was that you could hear the smiles and frowns in his words, and he didn’t mind too much that I was still figuring everything out. When he’d invited me to help him organize that work retreat, I really hadn’t thought to say no.

It was one thing to enjoy listening to someone’s voice over the phone. It was another to realize that everything about Rafe in person fascinated me. Werewolves in the field dressed for work; Rafe dressed in sweats and hoodies and looked miles better for it. I’d craned my head up at him, watching the small sleepy way that Sunday sun cast down over his shoulders and smile on his lips as he shook my hand. His posture was tall and relaxed, his hand was large, and his grip was gentle.

And I’d thought, Wow, at the same time I’d thought maybe I was really lucky there was at least one person in this world who didn’t flinch at all the exposed marks tracing up my hands and arms. Who sat comfortably beside me as he tapped rhythms on the steering wheel, cocking his head at turns, as if listening to some other music. Who didn’t really stare beyond a mildly curious surprise at the tattoos that circled my fingers and palms. Who asked small questions about magic, what the scarification on my limbs meant, and shared his own coming-of-age story in exchange.

I was contemplating straight up buying the whole shelf before I decided it was better to buy only what I could carry.

Major priority right now was sandwich (no croissant, what the hell were you thinking, Tai) and coffee for him, tea for me, from the little convenience instant machine—

A warm breath cast on my cheek and shoulder. “Overthinking on how much to spend again?”