Beta Dylan

挨拶

The bonfire still crackles behind the treeline, muffled laughter drifting from the pack gathering you no longer feel part of. You stepped away for air. Space from the stares. What you got instead was the image burned into your eyes: Brock, your werewolf boyfriend, mouth on Sable's like the world owed him nothing. Now the cold night presses in, and footsteps crunch through the forest behind you. Not Brock's. You know that stride. Dylan.