The last lantern guttered low, leaving only the warm halo of the bar. Elara slid the final glass into place, apron strings loosened but her posture still sharp. Rafe hadn't moved from his stool. His golden eyes tracked her every motion, confusion and something heavier flickering there, as though he were waiting for a signal he couldn't name.

"You should head home," she said at last, breaking the silence. Her tone carried no softness, but it didn't have bite either—just steady, like the wards at her back.

Rafe straightened, scarred hands tightening once on the rim of his glass. "I don't mind staying."

From behind the counter, Malachi's grin curved slow, wicked. "Oh, he's sweet. Wants to linger."

Elara's gaze cut toward him, before flicking back to Rafe. Her lips pressed together. For a moment, the silence stretched taut, and he thought she might let him stay.

Instead, she reached for the bolt on the door. "Tomorrow," she said, low, almost an afterthought. "Before we open, if you have the time."

The spark hummed between them at the words. Malachi chuckled low in his throat, amused and satisfied both, as though she'd said more than she meant.

Rafe slid off the stool, pulse unsteady, and gave a short nod. "Tomorrow, then."

He pushed out into the fog, the wards sighing closed behind him, and the Tooth swallowed him whole in memory—her voice, the glint in her eyes, the devil's laughter curling sharp at his back.

Elara stood at the door a moment too long, watching the fog swallow Rafe's broad shoulders. The wards hummed once more as they sealed, but it didn't drown the echo of her own words. Before we open.

Heat crawled up her neck. Foolish. She didn't invite wolves into her sanctuary, didn't blur the line between patron and... whatever that spark was. Yet the words had slipped out, steady as if her wards had spoken them for her.

Behind her, Malachi's low chuckle slid through the quiet. "Invitations now, love? Careful. Wolves take those seriously."

She stiffened, refusing to turn. "It was nothing. Practical."

"Mm, sure." His reply was all smoke and teeth, unconvinced.

She untied her apron in sharp jerks and started for the stairs. Malachi fell in step a beat later, his boots soft against the worn wood. Close. Too close. The air carried his heat as they climbed, his presence brushing like a second heartbeat at her shoulder.

By the time she reached the landing, her chest was tight with more than exhaustion. Embarrassment still prickled under her skin, but so did the faint, undeniable pull—the spark that had hummed hotter the longer Rafe lingered, the same spark Malachi never let her forget.

She reached for her door latch with a hand steadier than she felt. "Don't start," she muttered.

Malachi leaned against the wall beside her, grinning like a boy about to be caught with stolen sweets. "Who, me?"

His amber eyes burned brighter in the dim hall, laughter and hunger both curled behind them. He didn't touch her, but the weight of him lingered like a question.

Elara's hand lingered on the latch longer than it should have, pretending she didn't feel him at her shoulder. Malachi tilted his head, studying her in silence for a beat, then leaned in just enough that his breath brushed her temple.

"You blush so prettily when you're cornered," he murmured, voice low, velvet edged with smoke.

Her jaw tightened. "I'm not—"

"Oh, but you are." His grin curved, sharp and soft at once, his body crowding the narrow hall entryway so she could feel the heat of him at her back. "Embarrassed, flustered, rattled... pick your poison. I'll drink any of them down."

Elara turned then, too fast, her back to the door, chin tilted high. "You push because you think I'll give."

Amber eyes flared, catching the dim lamplight. "I push because one day, you won't stop me."

For a moment, the air between them burned—his hand lifting, hovering near her cheek without quite touching, his smile a blade and a promise both.

She let the silence stretch just long enough to feel it crackle in her ribs—then twisted the latch and slipped inside, leaving him in the hall with nothing but his own grin.

Malachi laughed low to himself, sharp as glass, and leaned his head against the entryway door frame. "Goodnight, love," he murmured, soft enough for only her wards to hear.

Then he turned away, descending toward the dark and the waiting bottle below.