why you really left.

witch

The wolf doesn't come back out of the master suite.

The witch doesn't come back out of the room down the hall.

It's three in the morning -- past that. She closes the door and turns on a light once she finds it. Room is large, well-appointed: large bed, covers turned down. Large window. There's a seat beneath it, with broad pillows at either side. No moon visible in the sky. Just stars. Stars that go on forever, speckling the sky instead of dotting it.

Makes her ache.

--

Let's say she undresses. Washes up. Puts on her pajamas. Looks lingeringly at the door, thinking of the hall beyond, thinking of Rafael, thinking of the whole night behind her.

Let's say she looks at herself in the mirror he won so that he could give it to her. Let's say she considers walking to him, finding his arms -- doesn't think he'd push her away now.

--

But this is how it really happens:

the stars make her ache. Her stomach hurts. Her chest hurts. Her throat tightens. She doesn't think of Rafael at all. Feels a pull in her that's older than this life. Her eyes sting.

Ends up on the window seat, the heavy duvet pulled from the bed and wrapped around and under and over her. Doesn't wash up. Holds her stuffed giraffe in her arms.

Keeps the mirror between her body and the glass, where the stars reflect off of its surface. She is at the room's coldest point; the gold of the mirror's setting becomes like ice. Her brow hurts from furrowing and from the chill.

Devon covers her head with the comforter. Burrows deep.

--

Wakes far too early and ends up in the bed instead, coughing a little. Sleeps heavily for hours after that. When she does wake she doesn't know where she is.

Which is not unusual.

She is a Fianna.

Throat hurts. Head aches a little. Body is stiff, and sore in spots from sleeping on a glorified windowsill. It's dry in Denver; worse here. She goes to the bathroom -- walking out into the hall, still wearing her sweats and that Sid + Nancy shirt, which isn't a tee but once was. Its sides are mostly cut off, enough so that one can make out the waistband of her sweats. And sideboob: she took her bra off before sleeping, at least. Feet are bare.

Hair is a wreck. Eye makeup is smudged and she's got one hand up, scritching at her scalp, yawning enormously. Might still technically be morning; might be afternoon. The sun's up. She doesn't try to figure it out past that.

wolfman

Can see her room a bit better in daylight. Guest rooms at this residence are better kept. There's actually furniture in here besides the bed; a bedroom set in heavy oak that actually matches. So much oak in this house. So much hardwood and stone, natural elements, hardy, indestructible.

She had her own hearth. Nobody lit it for her, but if she wanted to she could've kindled her own fire. Wood in a basket by the fireplace. Poker and tongs and brush nearby.

Bathroom is attached to the guest room, shared with the bedroom next door. Interesting brass fixtures and en-bloc stone: a juxtaposition of the ultramodern and the classic. Shower is enormous, glass and dark onyx, or perhaps marble; a rainfall showerhead. Thick towels. Premium toiletries. Soft, absorbent rug to catch her feet when she emerges.

--

Window in the bathroom, window the bedroom. Both looking eastward. Alpine lake still as a mirror. Mountain peaks carving the sky. Pines, pines, and more pines; no other tree hardy enough to survive this climate, this altitude.

Down at the lake, a pier. Lashed to the pier, a little rowboat. Soon enough the lake will freeze, and that boat will have to come out of water. Perhaps one could skate that lake in the winter, if the ice is solid enough.

--

Girl finishes her morning routine eventually. Her door opens inward, which is good because otherwise she wouldn't be able to open the door at all. Her doorway's blocked, you see. Big white wolf lying across it, stretched out on his side, thick-furred and heavy-muscled and warm and path-obstructing. Furred ears twitch. Head comes up. Wide across the ears, solid in the muzzle, the bone structure almost too blocked-off to be a Silver Fang. Pink tongue licks out over black lips. Eyes are yellow, and they blink at the girl.

Wolf gets up. Wouldn't be able to speak in this form anyway, but certainly offers no explanation. Shakes fur out and goes trotting away, claws ticking, gait loping.

--

Girl's left to herself for some time. Can explore if she wants to. The library upstairs. The gym downstairs. The movie theater, where she'll find a copy of My Fair Lady. The game room, the pool room, the ballroom. The garage, with its waterskis and its snowmobiles and its cars, its cars, its cars. Turns out Cadillac isn't the only chauffeured vehicle the wolf, or the wolf's mother, owned. There's a silver-grey Phantom in there, so old school that it's no surprise he never rides it. Could never pull it off, not in a million years.

'63 Corvette Sting Ray in there too. Fire engine red. Split rear window. Wolf's mama knew her cars.

--

Breakfast already laid out in the dining room. Warm dishes kept warm. Cold ones on ice. Everywhere the unmistakable touch of servants, valets, chaperones, though all of them remain unseen -- moving ahead of the girl, moving behind the girl, smoothing her way, clearing her traces. She could be alone in an enchanted castle. A fairy tale through a cracked mirror.

Distant door slams shut. Then the wolf's heavy footsteps. Man-shaped now, nowhere near as light of foot and fleet of step as the other shape. Girl hears him coming a long way off, checking one room and then the other. She knows he's looking for her. Who else could he be looking for here? Without her scent to guide him it's a long affair: doors opening and shutting, footsteps this way and that, until

he catches up to her. Almost walks past the doorway but glimpses her at the last moment. Backtracks. Stands in the door a moment, heavybrowed, dark hair tousled, cheeks flushed with cold. Comes in after a hesitation. Peels his jacket off and throws it over the nearest available surface.

"You eat?" He goes looking for food immediately. Pulls a plate from the warmer, then starts lifting the lids on the selections.

witch

The house is so earthy, so wooded, so stone-bound, so grounded, that she almost feels claustrophobic. Odd, in a house so large. She wakes to see these things through hooded, sticky-feeling eyes, and does not look closely at them. She shuffles to the bathroom in her half-clothes, and drinks water from her hand at the sink. Doesn't go to shower. Goes to the door into the hallway and feels a warmth radiating in toward her. Opens it.

Heavy side of the wolf lolls inward a bit, no longer supported by the door. She stares down at him as he stirs, eyes closing and opening with equal slowness. Ears twitch. Eyes open. Tongue winds over lips, fangs. Wasn't expecting his eyes to be golden. Can't remember what he looked like in that terrifying alleyway.

She moves to her knees and folds herself over his side, head on his middle, nose tickled by fur. Her arms drape over, her body drapes over, her hair covers, she closes her eyes and all but lays atop him for a bit, lifted and lowered by each deep breath he takes. Doesn't say anything. And when he shifts a little, her eyes open. She breathes in heavily. Straightens up. Her hands rest on top of her thighs.

He gets up. Shakes his fur out a bit and walks off. And she goes back in the bedroom, shutting the door again. They can both just pretend they saw nothing. Did nothing. Words create reality; if they don't talk about it, then it doesn't have to be real.

--

Eventually takes her medicine to ease the effects of what is, in truth, a pretty mild hangover. A teaspoon or so of the green, grainy goop that she can never make taste good. Doesn't gag; does cough a little after taking it. Ends up getting in the shower, finally.

Finally. After a night of drinking and dancing and fucking on a floor and sleeping in a car and then sleeping in hairspray and makeup. Realizes how filthy she is only after she climbs in. There are gaps in her awareness of herself when she literally cannot smell her own stink. When no one can.

So she showers. For a long time. Drowses on the floor of the shower as the hot water falls over her, wakes her up. Slowly. She washes smudged and dried and baked-in makeup as gently as she can. She gets products out of her hair and turns those silky -- and then matted, and then fallen -- curls back to normal texture. She cleans out under her finger- and toe-nails. She runs her palms over her still-smooth body parts; Rafael, all unawares, bought her some rather premium waxing with his credit card, too.

When she's done she puts stuff in her hair so that the waves it dries into won't also be frizzy kinks and stray whatevers. Leaves it hanging, drying, as she puts on new makeup, dark around the eyes, light and soft on the lips. When she dresses she puts on those skinny black pants with the rips up and down. She puts on a black bra that she threw on the floor last night. She puts on a sky blue tank top, ribbed and close-fitting. She puts on a sweater, oversized and black and an open-knit that reveals the blue beneath, but it's not the hole-filled and torn-up sweater she sometimes wears. It's a whole different oversized, black, open-knit sweater. This one is big enough to drape off one shoulder. She puts on thick, warm black socks. She puts on a pair of Converse All-Stars that are ostensibly pink, but mottled with grunge and wear and age.

Hair is still a little wet when she steps out of the room again. No wolf flopped in front of the door this time. No sign of Rafael. No feeling of his rage filling the hallway, humming in the master suite down the hall.

Stupid lying can't-deal-with-life Rafael, she thinks of him, simultaneous with wondering where he is, and where he might be, and if he would like to cuddle.

--

Explores. Downstairs to the gym first, seeing dozens of herself in walls of mirrors, seeing private sauna and the door to the indoor pool, with a faint hint of steam rising from its heated ripples through the glass. Sees all the many, many weights available, the likely unused cardio machines, the enormous television, the controls to the sound system. She leaves there, finds the movie theater. Turns things on and presses Play and sees the DVD menu for My Fair Lady, which makes her nostrils flare and her mouth purse with the effort not to smile, or smirk, or laugh. Turns things off again, leaves.

Finds billiards. Finds darts. Finds a poker table. Finds a cabinet full of board games and card games and most of them are very, very nice, little wood pieces, little metal pieces, only a few made with plastic anything. Finds the hidden television in there, the tucked-away consoles, the racks of video games. Finds a hundred different amusements.

Finds a ballroom. Walks in through massive doors and takes a breath, looking at the parquet, the high windows. She nearly-closes the door behind her and sing-songs:

"Hello!"

-- hears the roundness of the sound, the acoustics of the room meant to contain and amplify music for dancing, partying, entertaining. He was not lying. She could throw her own damn gala if she wanted to.

Doesn't want to. Slips back out of the ballroom, and Rafael is nowhere, and she does feel a little like a girl in a bedtime story, waking in some strange, empty place with every luxury she could want or imagine. Not a very nice story, she thinks. There are always other characters. When you begin alone and stay alone,

it is usually a scary story.

--

She goes back upstairs and he is still not there. She goes to the library and curls up in a leather armchair, looking around herself, scanning book spines, feeling the heavy silence of the room. Her eyes close and her hair is almost dry now; she breathes in the smell of leather and books and here she does not feel at all claustrophobic, because though everything is heavy and earthen still, there is a sense of wind and air and lightness wherever there are books. It is because of what they hold. It is because they make the untouchable something you can open and close in your hands.

Devon opens her eyes. And her stomach growls. And she goes downstairs. There is food there. This unsettles her. She's seen no one, heard no one. She eyes these things warily, warm and cold alike, even though she's hungry. Stands there with her arms crossed over her chest, hands tucked under her arms. Never ended up going out to the garage, because cold. Looks along the lines of food: the prepared fruits, the fluffy eggs, the crisp bacon, the little cups of yogurt, the cereals and the carafes of milk, the carafes of juice -- orange and cranberry and apple and whatever else. The slices of toast, the florets of butter and honey butter. Waffles. Fresh whipped cream. Hash browns. Croissants. Silver pitchers of hot coffee and hot chocolate and hot water. Bags of tea. More food than two people can eat.

When a door slams she starts, whipping around. Nothing there yet. Just the sound of him and the feel of him, storming around. Takes her a few moments to realize he's looking. Not calling out, just hunting for her. Her head tips; her shoulders relax again. She thinks of calling out, telling him

I'm here, I'm here

but doesn't.

Her eyes flare and her nostrils too, slightly, when she sees him. He passes. He walks backward. Her eyes are on him, wide and bright and intense. Arms still crossed, hands still tucked, she doesn't move as he comes in, sheds jacket, walks right over to the food and barely looks at her, asks if she ate.

"Just got here," she says.

He's going to start filling his plate.

"We aren't alone here, then," she also says. "It's not just Franklin."

wolfman

"James introduced me to the staff first day I was here."

Wolf answers girl without looking up. Has a plate in hand, the ceramic heavy and durable. Not much about this house is light, fine, delicate. There's luxury here, and luxury aplenty, but somehow it seems a veneer, a superficial dusting of precious metals, precious stones. Just beneath, the heavy, well-hewn bones. Strong against the winter, impervious to the elements and the cold. Perhaps the wolf has ancestors and distant relatives who are shining aristocrats living in gilt homes on the upper east side, in old boston, in london and cambridge and versailles, dresden, vienna. His mother must have been different; more like him, or he more like her, than he knows. Not all his ruggedness and vigor comes from the father, the upbringing. Must not have, if his late mother's home and hearth is any indication.

Carved ham and crisp bacon and scoop upon scoop of eggs heafed onto his plate. Tops it all with two slices of toast, a little ceramic ramekin of whipped butter. Has a seat at the table,

the head,

not thinking twice about his position. Privilege steals upon a man. Comes easily, almost unnoticed. Wolf starts eating, his fork flashing against the plate.

"Seventeen of them I think." His mouth is full, words muffled. He starts counting on his fingers: "James, Franklin, Dorothy. Clifford. Lieke. They're the ones that follow me down to the city when I'm there. Rest of them stay up here. Keep the house and the grounds. They have their own house. Their own entrance in here and their own corridors and stairs. It's all very old-school."

Wolf looks up, chewing. Watches the girl, waifish in that too big, too dark sweater. Brings out the paleness of her skin. Roses in her cheeks. Wolf swallows meat and licks his lips, takes a swallow of milk all without looking away. Strange how suddenly lust comes upon him, like a beast roaring out of the night. He looks down at his plate.

"If they bother you I can tell them to stay out of the house until we're gone. Sometimes I do that. Just to have some space to myself. Strangest thing about getting all this; suddenly people are always all over your business."

witch

Rage comes from his mother. Absent parent is almost always the wolf; wolf-child almost always has a wolf parent. Garou born to kin alone is vanishing rare; even Devon knows that. Someone told her. They were explaining the why of certain things. They were explaining to her what she is, and what it means. Could mean. Is supposed to mean, if you listen.

Watches him seat himself, head tipping slightly. Still hasn't moved from where she stands. Hasn't unwrapped her arms.

Knows of James and Franklin. Heard of Lieke. One of the others is the cook, one of the others keeps things clean. Never knew there were a dozen others. This is the main house. This is the estate. This is the land that belonged to one Garou and now belongs to him. Her eyes flick to the walls; hidden stairs, plain and narrow corridors. She does not doubt: the house they live in also belongs to Rafael, doesn't it? In his name. In law both manmade and orally repeated by talesingers, it's his.

Lots of things are his. She, on the other hand, apparently owns a backpack and a knapsack. And everything that is in her head. Which is, when one considers some of the things she knows, actually quite a lot. Rarer than any ancient coin or perfect gem.

He's looking at her. Still, she hasn't moved. Her stomach may or may not growl, to smell the food. Mouth wet from the scent.

The way he's looking at her. Devon's head tilts a little harder, her eyes more intense. Sharper. The color more saturated, somehow. She's reading him.

She gives a slight shrug. "Just weird. Never see them. Like ghosts." Doesn't sound like she minds it. Now that she knows what the ghosts are, and whose words they answer to. Even with real ghosts, those are things you have to know. Devon's arms unfold, slip to her sides. She starts walking towards the table, the stack of warmed plates. Glances over at him. Is going to say something.

"What do you plan to do today?"

Not that.

wolfman

Wolf straightens up a little when she approaches. It's unconscious. Barely even notices he does it. Has a fork in one hand and a mug of milk in the other. Chews, swallows.

"Don't know. Wasn't planning anything exciting. Usually I just lounge around. Go running in the woods. Sometimes I read what's in the library. Some of those books are about my ... ancestors." Wolf thinks a couple seconds. "There's that village. With the kin who knew my mother. We could go ask them what the hell was in that little vial."

Wolf's fork clinks against plate. He picks up a strip of bacon with his fingers, snaps it down.

"Don't have to spend time together if you don't want to. Plenty of room here for both of us."

witch

As he talks, she's filling her plate. Starts with hash browns. Adds some bacon, crumbling it with her hands into the potatoes. Some eggs, though not the way she likes her eggs. Mixes them all up on the plate, a mash of foods. She gets a bowl and puts fruit in it: strawberries, chunks of apple, blueberries, grapes, cantaloupe. In a glass she mixes orange juice and cranberry juice half and half. She pours herself some coffee, stirring in cream but no sugar.

Looks over. Books about his ancestors. Village. Vial.

Brings her food over. Ends up taking a seat a couple down from him, mid-table. Her brows lift a bit at what he says after. She looks at him. After a second or two, she looks back at her plate, digging her fork into her mixture.

"All right," she says, and takes a bite.

wolfman

Wolf doesn't know what that all right means. Maybe she wants to be alone. Maybe she's just acknowledging they can be. Maybe she wants to go to the village with him. It's awkward between them again; has been since the party when she wanted to dance and he wouldn't, or couldn't. Then she danced with someone else. Then he left.

Then they came up here,

where he spent the night guarding her door,

and the rest of the day avoiding her. Or at least not being near her. 'Til now. Over a very, very, very late breakfast, across a heavy oaken table. Wolf almost can't remember what it was like in that dark, deserted room last night. Fucking with such muffled intensity under the watchful eye of cubist portraits, abstract splatters.

"You have anything in mind? For today."

witch

Her lips purse and flatten. Shakes her head. "No," she says roundly, and takes another bite.

Chews slowly. Swallows. Takes a drink of juice.

"Need to be back in Denver on Wednesday," she says, after she swallows again.

wolfman

Wolf glances at girl. Date's not lost on him. "You doing something for Thanksgiving?"

witch

Nods. Eats.

wolfman

"What?"

witch

She glances up at him. Meets his eyes. Doesn't hesitate to do that these days. Maybe that's trust. She licks her lips, tasting the salt from the potatoes -- they were cooked in bacon grease. She appreciates that. Old-world.

Familiar.

"Family," she eventually tells him. "They bought the tickets when I left. To make sure I could come back." Looks back at her plate, and takes another bite.

wolfman

Corner of wolf's mouth moves a little; wistful. He looks down at his plate. Pushes meat around, then stabs it with the fork. Eats.

"Must be nice," he says. "Having folks looking out for you. Your mom?"

witch

"Godparents," she says, still looking at her food, and not him. "Sort of."

Exhales. "Mum's in England."

wolfman

Godparents.

Mum.

Wolf pauses a moment. Even he knows some questions are delicate, and he tries to make this one so: "Got a dad?"

Doesn't really succeed. Tries, though.

witch

That one night, he heard her talking to her 'mum'. Not in English. And he's heard the traces, in certain words and vowels and bits of slang, of an urban English accent. Very late at night it was early, early morning for her mum, who told her that if this bloke wasn't making her feel wanted and appreciated, then that was his problem.

For a woman who seems dead-set on being contrary at any given moment, right down to simply telling him all right when it's obvious he doesn't really want to not spend time with her, perhaps it's a bit odd that her mother was essentially -- if unknowingly -- able to talk her out of fucking someone who she didn't think was earning the privilege. Odd. Or endearing. Or something.

Regardless: she's talked about her mum, who is in England, though this tells him little to nothing about her mum's involvement in Thanksgiving. Godparents, but she calls them family, and they're the ones she's visiting for the holiday. They're the ones who bought her plane tickets to make sure she'd come back for said holiday.

Maybe they're the ones who pay for her cellphone, which isn't some burner bought at a grocery store but a decently up-to-date smartphone with a decent data plan.

But no mention of brothers or sisters or even cousins. No mention of a father.

So he asks.

Devon looks over at him, fork poised above her plate. "No," she drawls. "My mother made me out of clay and Aphrodite breathed me to life."

wolfman

Something they have in common. Correlation isn't exact. He had his father. She has her mother. He lost his father early. She's kept in touch with her mother. He just gained a house and all the wealth of god, it seems, from his errant mother. She -- either doesn't know who her father is or doesn't comment on it.

Wolf watches her as she looks over at him. Green-eyed in this form. Green-eyed in this light. Irises clear and keen, looking at her with fresh interest. She deflects the question, really, but he smiles anyway. Strange reaction. He realizes it, puts the smile away.

"I don't know a damn thing about you," he says. "Starting to think it's on purpose."

witch

Strange energy around that sarcasm. An edge to it. Spikiness. Weird sort of hope, or wistfulness, or something.

He smiles, and it's weird. She looks at him like he's weird. He stops smiling.

"Don't like to talk about him," she explains, though that's not really what he's saying. Asking. Which she knows. And she's stiff, her discomfort physical and visible, when she adds: "Dead, anyway."

wolfman

"Fair 'nough," wolf says. Lets it go. Breakfast -- at midday, or later -- passes without further incident. Wolf's fork is scraping an empty plate when he speaks again, looking at the plate.

"Like having you around. Thought you should know that. If you wanna be alone I'm not gonna crowd you. But I don't mind if you tag along either."

witch

They eat. And they do so in relative silence. She eats slower than he does; started later, too. Ends with coffee, cooled enough now to sip without scadling. Tucks her feet up into the chair, shins to the table-edge. Hands wrapped 'round the mug. Sipping.

Eventually he tells her what she knows. And she looks over at him. Her face is placid; difficult to read.

Tag along does get one eyebrow up, though. A faint twist to her lips.

"Didn't sound like there was much to 'tag along' to," she says, dry. Sets her coffee mug down at the edge of the table -- its creamy tablecloth, thick and fine. The cuffs of her sleeves get tugged over her knuckles, wrapped around her hands, holding fabric in her fists.

"I know you fancy me," which isn't what he said. But it's also true. Is quiet a moment.

"Wish you'd tell me why you really left the party last night."

wolfman

Wolf's not in junior high. Doesn't dispute that he 'fancies' the girl. Just glances at her, quick, almost sharp. Looks away again.

Plate's empty now. Just the shine of grease from his predictably heavy breakfast. At least he or the cook or someone thought to set out yogurt, fruit, pastries. Not everyone's a wolf. Not everyone subsists on meat and more meat.

"Usually hate going to those things." Wolf pulls his glass over, drinks his milk. "For a little while last night, didn't mind. Even liked it. You were there and you having a good time. Felt good, seeing you have a good time.

"Then it kinda fell apart. You wanted to dance and I didn't, and then I didn't like watching you dance with someone else. Felt like I was just raining on your parade, standing in there. So I left. Just for a while. Wasn't a big deal, or some big secret. That's all there is to it."

witch

Lots of things she could say. But she raises her eyebrows a little.

"Then why wouldn't you just say so?" A beat. "When I asked the first time."

wolfman

Wolf flicks girl a glance. Eyebrows bear down again. He snorts.

"Was a long story. Figured I'd stick to the cliff notes. Wasn't a lie."

witch

"Yeah," she says. "So long. Fell asleep twice now, just listening to all that."

Sarcasm again. Super subtle.

She's quiet a moment. Crosses her sweater-covered arms over her belly.

"Weren't raining on my parade, Rafael." Shrugs one shoulder, once, tightly. And her brows furrow together. Stay that way, this time. "Liked knowing you were there."

Another pause. Not as long.

"It didn't fall apart. If you didn't like it, you could've come got me." Shakes her head a little, like she's still at a loss as to why he didn't, why he just walked out while she was dancing. With strangers. None of whom knew her, liked her, cared who she was if she wasn't attached to his name and his money. "Told me."

More to that. She's looking at him, her brow not quite smoothing but changing.

Aching.

Whatever it is, she doesn't say.

"And it's not really on purpose," she adds instead, going back a few. Sounds uncomfortable again. "Just not any better at talking about myself than you are."

wolfman

Wolf frowns at her a little longer. Then he tries to lighten it: "Didn't realize you'd miss me. Just didn't want to spoil your fun. Dancing and all."

He tosses a napkin over the plate. Learned to do this somewhere, somewhen; watched someone do it and figured it out. Stands up, tugging his t-shirt down where it'd rode up in the back. Barefoot indoors, even though floors are hardwood, air temperature probably shy of seventy in most rooms. Feet thump past, his hand falling briefly to the back of her chair.

"Next time I'll tell you. Wanna go find out what was in that vial?"

witch

[perception + empathy (not using spec): what is that frown?]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 4, 7, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

wolfman

[um... kinda hard to describe! it's just him realizing that she actually wanted him to hang out with her, and not leave her alone. even when she was off dancing and he was just standing there! it jus a "hrmm" frown.]

witch

Didn't realize. She gives a small shrug.

Awkward silence, though not a long one this time. Her eyes follow him as he rises. Watch him as he comes over. Her head turns, trying to follow him as he goes behind her, but she has to turn her head the other way as he passes.

"I really wanted to dance with you, Rafael," she says softly. Sounds wistful herself, now. "With the music, and... "

the darkness, the mirror, the sex,

the way she was feeling,

"everything." Another tiny shrug. "Would have been perfect."

wolfman

Wolf grimaces. Arrests. A fresh line of tension in his shoulders now. He turns to face her again.

"Feel bad enough already, Devon." Now his back's in a corner again. His heels to the wall. "Wasn't doing it to spite you. Know you wanted to dance. Wish I could've danced with you. I just -- don't know how to dance. Really bad at it. Didn't want to look like an idiot in front of everyone.

"Now let's stop going back to last night. Okay?"

witch

For a moment she just stares at him, her mouth slightly open. Her eyes sharpen on him as he cuts off new slices of the same message, one after the other. She exhales halfway through his speech, lowering her legs. Gets up near the end. By the time he gets to scolding her about not talking about it anymore, she's walking off.

wolfman

And

girl's walking off again.

Left in her wake wolf bares his teeth, utters a low sound -- let's just go ahead and call it a growl -- in frustration. Doesn't go after her. Shoves her chair in hard; walks the other way.