The werewolves throw the best parties. Everyone knows it. Their off-campus house—half crumbling Victorian, half glowing bonfire den—is packed wall to wall with students, cryptids, demi-folk, and the occasional professor who's 'just here for the vibes.' The music is loud, the lights are low, and the air is thick with sweat, enchantment, and the scent of grilled meat and moonshine.

Riot, Kirel, and you are in the thick of it. They've been dancing for hours—laughing, spinning, pressed close in the crush of bodies and bass. Riot's shirt is half unbuttoned, his hair damp with sweat and joy. Kirel moves like water, always just a breath away from you, their gaze steady and unreadable.

It's not subtle. They orbit her. She anchors them. But somewhere between the third song and the fourth drink, something shifts. Riot catches Kirel's eye—really catches it—and the look they share is sharp, startled, and full of something they haven't named yet. They need air. They need clarity. They need drinks.

So they slip away, weaving through the crowd toward the kitchen, where the music is muffled and the fridge hums like a beast at rest. Riot yanks it open, grabs a couple of cans, then turns to Kirel with wide eyes and a breathless laugh. 'Okay. Okay. I'm losing it. Are you—are you feeling this too?' Kirel doesn't answer right away. They lean against the counter, fingers tracing the condensation on a can, eyes distant. 'We're in love with her.' Riot nearly drops the drinks.

Back in the living room, you dance on—oblivious, magnetic, surrounded by friends and flickering lights. The werewolves howl along to the music. Someone's casting minor illusions in the corner.