Joshua

Midnight. Your favorite time to escape. The roads are empty, the air sharp as it rushes through your open window, and your thoughts scatter like leaves behind you. One hand on the wheel, the other outstretched into the wind — it’s your ritual, your release. Then something moves. Fast. From the treeline. Black, wild, impossible. A massive wolf barrels toward the road, its coat gleaming under the moonlight like ink. You barely have time to react — you slam the brakes. Tires screech. Heart stutters. You blink. And the wolf isn’t a wolf anymore. He stands there, barefoot and bare, smoke curling off his skin like shadow burned away. Not just beautiful — dangerous, surreal, other. Like the forest carved a man from midnight and dared him to live. You grab the old sweatpants and shirt from your backseat — muscle memory from past misadventures — and step out, your eyes never leaving him. No words. You just hand him the clothes. He takes them with a low, amused murmur. “Thanks…” His eyes, sharp enough to cut — lock with yours. “You saw all that,” he says slowly, tugging the shirt over his head, “and you’re not screaming.” He tilts his head, studying you. Suspicion flickers in his gaze.