Leo’s laughter was the culprit. It echoed in his ears—stubborn, bright, and utterly intrusive. It was a sound Rowan wasn’t allowed to want, yet it hummed in his bones like a frequency he couldn't tune out.

He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, his jaw aching from how tightly he held it. Why did I stay? The question paced in his mind like a caged animal. The mission was over. The objectives were met. He should have been miles away by now, fading back into the shadows where a wolf belonged.

"That was faster than I expected," 

he muttered to the empty air, his voice a low rasp.

He came to a sudden halt under a flickering streetlight. He stared at his own shadow, long and distorted on the concrete, as if waiting for it to detach and give him an answer. Disappearing should have been easy. It should have felt like peace—the wolf returning to the safety of the dark forest. Instead, there was a jagged, twisting heat in his chest. Every time he tried to push Leo’s image away, the memory of the man’s smile flickered back to life, steady and rhythmic as a heartbeat Rowan didn't want to claim.

With a frustrated growl, Rowan forced his legs to move again. He needed a distraction. He needed noise, or fire, or something sharp enough to cut through the fog of Leo’s ghost.

At the end of the block, a neon sign bled crimson onto the sidewalk: RED MOON BAR. It was a place for the restless—filled with men who had too much money, music that was too loud, and enough shifting shadows to hide a man who didn't want to be found.

“Maybe I should just drink the frustration away,” 

Rowan whispered, the words tasting like ash.

He pushed through the heavy doors. The thud of the wood closing behind him felt like a seal, locking the quiet world out. He didn't look at the crowd; he walked with a predator's directness straight to the counter. The bartender, a man who looked like he’d seen every kind of ruin imaginable, gave him a cursory glance.

“What can I get you?”

“Something strong,” 

Rowan said, his voice dropping into a dangerous register as he slid onto a stool.

A glass of dark amber liquid appeared before him. Rowan didn’t drink it immediately. He swirled the glass, watching the distorted reflections of the neon lights dance in the liquor.

 Why does it bother me?

He hated it. This sharp, stinging ache wasn't an instinct—it was an emotion. A human frailty he had no business carrying. He took a long, punishing swallow, letting the burn of the alcohol sear its way down his throat. He welcomed the pain; it was easier to manage than the memory of a knock on his door.

He brought me cake. The thought was ridiculous. Rowan slammed the empty glass onto the wood. The sound was lost under the thumping bass of the music, but the impact vibrated up his arm. Just a neighborly gesture. So why did my heart react like it was a declaration of war?

“Another,” 

he demanded.

The bartender refilled the glass without a word. People came to the Red Moon to bury things—usually heartbreaks or debts. But Rowan wasn’t suffering from a broken heart. He was suffering from a breakdown of his own walls.

He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the room. The people here were beautiful and careless, living lives that didn't involve the weight of secrets he carried. He tried to sink into the anonymity, to pretend for just one hour that he was as empty as the glass in his hand.

But the louder the music grew, the louder Leo’s voice became in his mind. He closed his eyes, the darkness behind his lids offering no escape.

I shouldn’t have watched him all day. I shouldn't care who he’s with, or whose hand he holds, or where he goes when the lights go out.

His grip tightened. The glass groaned under the pressure of his hand, threatening to shatter.

“I need to get a grip,” 

he hissed to himself.

But the truth had already taken root in the pit of his stomach. It was a realization that burned hotter and deeper than the cheap whiskey. He finished the second drink in one go, stood up, and walked toward the exit without looking back. The alcohol hadn't drowned anything; it had only made the fire burn brighter.

------

The hallway of the apartment complex felt endless, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like a swarm of angry hornets. Rowan’s vision was slightly blurred, the edges of the world softening from the amber burn of the whiskey. He reached his own door, his fingers brushing the cold metal of his keys, but his eyes drifted.

Across the hall stood Leo’s door.

In his sober mind, that door was a boundary—a line in the sand he had sworn not to cross. But the alcohol had eroded his discipline. Before his logic could catch up to his movement, Rowan was across the tile. He didn't think; he just let his hand fall against the wood in a heavy, insistent knock.

Inside, he heard the muffled sound of footsteps and a light, expectant voice. The lock clicked, and the door swung wide.

“Why are you guy—” 

Leo started, a bright, welcoming grin already forming on his face. He was clearly expecting the friends he’d been laughing with earlier. But the words died in his throat as he looked up.

The smile faltered, replaced by a look of pure bewilderment. Standing there, shrouded in a dark hoodie and smelling of rain and high-proof rye, was his cold-hearted neighbor.

“Can I help you…?” 

Leo asked tentatively, his grip tightening on the doorframe.

Rowan leaned against the doorjamb, his shadow falling over Leo, tall and imposing even in his disheveled state. He looked at Leo—really looked at him—with an intensity that felt like it could bruise.

“Don’t you really remember me?” 

Rowan interrupted, his voice a low, jagged growl.

Leo blinked, his head tilting in confusion. 

“What?,....what are you talking about?”

“You promised,” 

Rowan said, taking a half-step forward into Leo’s space. The wall of ice he usually kept between them was melting into something messy and desperate. 

“You promised you’ll remember me.”

Leo tried to stammer out a response, his mind racing to figure out if he had missed some vital piece of information or if this was just a riddle. 

“I… I don’t understand, we just—”

But he didn't get to finish. Rowan lunged—not with teeth or claws, but with a sudden, crushing hug. He buried his face into the crook of Leo’s neck, his hands clutching the back of Leo’s shirt as if he were a drowning man and Leo was the only thing keeping him afloat.

Leo froze. The neighbor who barely offered a nod in the hallway was currently holding him with a terrifying, silent grief. He felt the heat radiating off Rowan’s skin and the slight tremor in the man’s large frame.

He’s drunk, Leo realized, the scent of the bar finally registering. He’s completely wasted.

“Hey,” 

Leo said softly, trying to pry himself loose. 

“You’re not okay. Let’s get you back to your place, alright?”

He put his hands on Rowan’s shoulders to push him back, but the moment the physical connection changed, Rowan’s strength simply vanished. His knees buckled, his heavy head rolling onto Leo’s shoulder. The sudden dead weight sent them both swaying.

Rowan had collapsed, falling fast into a deep, alcohol-induced sleep right in Leo's arms.

Leo groaned, straining his muscles to keep them both upright. He looked at the unconscious man, then at the empty hallway, and finally at Rowan’s closed door across the way.

“At least he should have told me his door passcode,” 

Leo muttered to the empty hall, struggling to shift Rowan’s weight so he didn't drop him on the floor.