🌕 - The curse of the red moon
Theo frowned slightly. “Your uncle knows six supernatural teenagers are showing up?”
Liam sighed. “Okay, six.”
“Wow,” Theo said dryly. “I feel so included.”
Liam rolled his eyes, but there was a faint smile threatening at the corner of his mouth anyway.
Theo hummed softly like he was still considering whether to be difficult about it.
Which meant yes. Absolutely yes.
🙏 - Gods don’t beg but I might
He hates that when Liam looks at him — really looks — it feels like being seen and being forgiven in the same breath.
Something inside him strains toward that warmth, the way plants lean toward light even after growing up in the dark. That reaching feels wrong, instinctively wrong, but he can’t stop doing it. Can’t stop wanting to be closer. Can’t stop hoping Liam won’t step back.
This is why it feels like kneeling: not the posture, but the surrender.
A quiet, reluctant offering of every unlovable part of him — the teeth, the scars, the jagged pieces — held out in trembling hands. He waits for Liam to flinch. For the disgust. For the recoil. For anything that proves Theo should’ve listened to his instincts and stayed alone.
✨ - until the stars forget our names
Theo stood above it all, like he always did.
Not in an official way. Not in any way that could be written down or challenged. But it was there, in the way the others glanced at him when something went wrong. In the way silence bent, just slightly, when he spoke.
In the way he never fell.
“Your stance is off,” Theo added, pushing away from the railing and stepping forward. “You’re putting too much weight into your front foot.”
Corey stilled. “I’m not—”
Theo moved before he finished the sentence.
One second he was standing still, the next he was behind Corey, nudging his ankle with just enough force to throw him off balance again. Corey stumbled forward with a half-hearted curse, catching himself at the last second.
“—you were saying?” Theo finished lightly.
🐺 - The wolf that breaks its own bones
He felt too big for his own skin.
Not in the way he had when he first turned — when anger had scraped along his bones like something trying to carve its way out. This was quieter. Tighter. Like his body had decided to hold everything in and see what would happen.
The claws didn’t slip out anymore unless he asked them to. That was progress. That was control. But control felt suspiciously like pressure sometimes.
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