Danny POV
 

November 30, 2026

 

25…26…27…28…29…30.

Bag him.

​My hands are already back on his chest, pressing down with everything I’ve got.

1…2…3…

A rapid rhythm. Stayin' Alive helps me keep time. The name always felt appropriate.

Motorcycle versus semi. No helmet. Guy's lucky he still has his brains on the inside.

Now it's my job to make sure he keeps his pulse. Long enough to hand him off.

​My rhythm falters for a breath as a familiar voice slides through my mind—soft, smooth, and commanding.

​“Come to me...”

​A woman's voice. A strange accent I can never place. The same one that’s been haunting me for months.

​I force my hands back into rhythm, my ribs throbbing in protest as I yell toward the front. “Snodgrass, tell me we’re almost there!”

“Two minutes!”

The rig lurches hard as we take the Leon Sullivan exit.

Almost there.

The whisper finishes her thought, low and insistent.

“…Obey”

Always like that, three words, then one. Never changing.

The monitor finally gives me something besides a flat line.

Snodgrass backs into the ER bay at General, careful but quick. He's still kind of new, but he's picked it up fast.

The trauma team has the doors open almost before the rig comes to a stop.

I stayed with him until the trauma team took over.

"Twenty-year-old male. Motorcycle versus semi. No helmet. Lost pulses three times en route. Last ROSC about thirty seconds ago. Airway secured, bilateral breath sounds. IV established, fluids running..."

They take over without missing a beat.

I step back.

I mutter the same prayer I always do when I hand someone off.

I don't know if anybody's listening. Truth be told, if they are, we've got a few things to discuss.

Still... it's a habit Dad taught me.

"We do what we can... then we add in some hope."

I check my clothes for any contamination as I take my gloves off.

The light blue of my shirt is good for contrast. I spot some blood on my right side. The guy had woken just long enough to grab my shirt and yell. I do hope that won't be his last memory.

I toss my gloves, then get a disinfectant wipe to try and get what I can off. I’ll have to change at the station. The scent of the chemicals mixed with iron stings my nose. Colt used to tease me because I complained about all the smells of the job.

“Well, big kitty, you are the one who brought that nose of yours to a very stinky job.”

He'd grin, make sure nobody was looking, then steal a quick kiss anyway. If anyone had caught us, we'd have been in one hell of a meeting with the supervisor. Being work partners with your boyfriend isn't frowned on. But kissing them on duty is. He's the only one I'd ever take risks for. Just wish I'd taken the risk to tell the world I loved him.

Snodgrass breaks me out of my thoughts by tapping my shoulder,

“Hey, take five, you worked hard on that one, I'll clean up.”

“Oh, thanks. Yeah, I could use it.”

I give him a nod and head inside to go wash up some.

The staff bathroom inside offers just enough room to get a wet paper towel and wipe the sweat from my arms and face. My naturally snow-white hair is plastered to my forehead with sweat. I run my hands through it trying to make it look better, but it tends to always be a mess no matter what I do. I scrub my hands first, then work my way up my forearms, checking the stripes as I go. The black tiger stripe birthmarks that cover my body are notorious for hiding blood.

I step into the hall and am greeted by my brother Caleb. He’s wearing scrubs and his usual warm, toothy grin. A soft, familiar chuff rumbles from his chest as he bumps his shoulder lightly against mine — the kind of greeting that says good to see you without needing words. I return it instinctively, the low, breathy sound vibrating in my own throat. Caleb somehow makes sharp teeth look welcoming. He's already holding out a cup of coffee.

"That guy got lucky you got there in time."

I take the coffee. Burnt coffee and disinfectant drift up with the steam.

"Would've been luckier with a helmet."

Caleb shrugs.

"Maybe. But he gets a second chance to not be stupid."

I nod, taking a sip of the coffee before asking,

"How's your shift?"

Caleb brushes a stray red curl out of his face as he laughs some. “Oh same old things.”

I chuckle a little. “If people are gonna get hurt may as well make it interesting right?”

Caleb gives me a look, “I would rather they not be hurt. I am fine with an empty ER.”

I smirk. “You have never seen an empty ER.”

He smiles as his shoulders lift a little. “This is true.”

We have a moment where we both just stand there in the kind of comfortable silence that people who've literally spent their whole lives together have.

A lot of people are surprised to learn there aren't just two tiger boys in the family—there are four of us, all born at the same time.

Mom always jokes she should've expected a litter as she playfully pokes Dad's side. He's the one who gave us our tiger-like appearance and behaviors. Dad just laughs.

Dad's always been gentle like that.

After a moment Caleb looks to me.

"You off soon?"

"Nah, I work till 17:00."

Caleb scrunches his face.

"Ribs doing okay? You've only been back home two weeks."

I rest a hand on his shoulder.

"You've worried yourself sick for six months. Trust me, I'm fine."

Caleb doesn't look convinced, but a monitor alarm sounds somewhere down the hall.

He pats my shoulder as he heads away, calling back,

"Please don't work too hard."

I make my way back to the bay.

I hear Snodgrass opening the passenger door of the rig. I climb into the driver's seat, my coffee from Caleb still only half gone.

I'll probably forget about it till later. I'm so used to cold coffee I might as well start with iced.

Snodgrass nods to me as I get my seatbelt snapped into place. He radios in that we are clear of General, headed back to the station unless another call comes in. It's 4 am, but that means nothing for emergencies. Some guy making his way home, ignoring how drowsy he is. Or some parent goes to check on their baby through the night, and heaven forbid they aren't breathing. Snodgrass and I are ready for anything, between the two of us we might have seen it all. As I ease the rig out of the bay, an all-too-familiar voice comes over the radio.

Noah’s—measured, professional, softened just a little by exhaustion.

“Copy that, 309. Marking you returning to station. Be safe.”

Snodgrass keys up immediately.

“Sure thing, Dispatch… though your brother’s driving, so that ‘safe’ bit might be hard.”

I can hear the smirk in Noah’s voice.

“Copy that, Danny. Remember—ambulances are expensive. The last one you broke cost more than your salary.”

I shake my head, easing us onto the road.

“Noted, Dispatch. Your shift almost over?”

“Negative, 309. Picked up another.”

I grimace at that. The streetlights along 64 flicker across the cab in steady intervals.

“Careful, Dispatch. People are gonna think you’re trying to outwork me.”

“Impossible,” Noah replies. “There are only so many hours in a week.”

I laugh at that, and immediately regret it. The now months-old familiar catch, a stitch stealing the air right out from under the laugh. Snodgrass gives me a knowing look as he says, “Don’t worry, dispatch, I'll take care of ‘crash’, let us know if anyone needs us.”

“Copy that 309, we will be in touch.”

I see the Montrose exit come up and take it. Sighing a bit as I see yet more construction. Sure, the roads need it desperately, but construction means delays and detours. A detour could steal away those 2 minutes that could mean life or death.

We pull into the parking lot. We aren't in a fire station like most medic stations. Just a little building that gives us a space to sleep between calls. As if sleep is something I actually do anymore. Used to be the pain meds took the choice, but I stopped those as soon as I could tolerate. I have seen too many times what happens when those little pills take over your life. In my profession it's far too easy to get them too.

So now I do my best to rest when I can, even if it’s broken. The flashes of memories from the crash. The woman in the fog is always reaching, commanding. My body has to be rested, so I can keep people breathing.

—

I'm restocking the rig when I hear the tones.

Noah’s voice, measured and professional: “Station 309, respond to I-64 East near mile marker 58.5, Exit 58C Washington Street area, for a two-vehicle collision. Minor damage reported; both drivers ambulatory. Charleston Fire is on scene. Time out 05:15.”

Snodgrass comes out saying, “Get your ass in a seat. He doesn’t have to tell me twice. As I get into the passenger side, clicking my belt,

Adkins screaming from the back—

the rig rolling—

equipment slamming loose—

Echoes in my mind.

I pull myself back before I get lost in it—

the antiseptic, the antifreeze… the iron.

I ground myself by grabbing the MDT. Something real. Something to get my mind back where it belongs. Charleston Fire's already on scene. I already know who I'm going to see. Last I saw him was as I left the loft for work. He was snoring loudly on the couch. I find myself glancing at the side mirrors, checking our surroundings even though I'm not driving. Part of me expects the sight of a Mack coming right at us. The Whisper starts her loop.

I think back to my first real memory after the crash.

Her voice.

It scared the hell out of me, but I chalked it up to a bad dream.

Then she kept repeating...

Every thirty minutes.

I didn't realize till a couple days later that all my brothers heard it too. We arrive on scene without issue. I hear Marcus laughing before I even climb out.

“Oh look, we get the smallest Sato on scene too”

I let Marcus entertain himself. I've got a patient waiting. A tired-looking young woman. The car she's near has side damage. Looks like someone didn't check their blind spot.

She eyes me, her gaze lingering on my neck, my arms. She steps back ever so slightly. I’m used to it. I lead with

“Morning, ma’am. Can you tell me if you’re in any pain? Did you lose consciousness at any point?”

She hesitates, probably not expecting the familiar cadence of a local coming out of a guy who looks like me.

She sighs and steps closer. “My arm hurts a little…”

She holds up her left. Yep, she was the one who merged. Her arm is already sporting a good-sized bruise from the door.

I tilt my head, keeping my movements slow. “May I?”

Before moving to get a more physical exam of her arm. She hesitates again.

Snodgrass speaks up.

“You’re in good hands, ma’am. Danny’s been doing this for ages. And the stripes just make him easier to find.”

I give her a gentle smile. No teeth. Just the tired lift at the corners of my mouth—non-threatening.

The stripes are bad enough; my teeth don't need to make things worse.

The patient allows me to complete her assessment. She refuses transport; she will probably change her mind later when the adrenaline wears off. For this moment, though, I get her to sign the refusal as Snodgrass finishes with the other patient. An older gentleman seems more agitated than injured. His truck has barely a scratch.

I'm getting my bag back into the rig when I feel a strong hand clap my shoulder. “Good to see ya back out here, but I’m still the better looking one.”

I exhale some and laugh, shaking my head a little. “You go right ahead and take that title.”

Marcus grins, "Damn right I will. So how ya feelin'? They really got you back on the road already?"

I turn to look at him. He's much taller than I am; I have to angle my head up some to look him in the eyes. Emerald green, filled with his usual sarcastic charm.

“I am fine. Now don't you have work to be doing?”

He laughs some. “Giving you hell is my full-time job. Cleaning up wrecks is just the hobby”

I get myself back into the passenger seat as Snodgrass radios us clear. Through the window I can hear Marcus already giving someone else grief. I don't catch the words. Just the laugh.

Some things don't change.

Snodgrass pulls us out, and I watch the scene shrink in the side mirror until it's just lights and Marcus's silhouette getting smaller.

As I shift in my seat, getting my tail in a better position, my ribs ache, deep and stale.

I ignore them.

My brothers all show it differently.

Caleb feeds me, checks in often. Noah casually jokes and tries to act like he wasn't on shift that night and took the call.

Marcus is loud, abrasive, and refuses to admit his crew had to physically restrain him when the truck driver came stumbling out of the wreck reeking of alcohol.

We'd already buried too many people six and a half years ago.

Then my stupid ass nearly made them do it again.

Snodgrass takes us back toward the station without either of us needing to say it. The city is starting to wake up around us, that particular grey-blue of early morning when the streetlights haven't decided if they're still needed.

I think about Marcus laughing on that scene.

Noah had told me about it maybe two weeks into my recovery. Sitting in my hospital room like he was giving a briefing.

"I'm lucky Caleb works in a hospital. It kept him out of that shit show. You nearly dead, and Marcus doing his best to end up in prison."

He'd said it to the window. Not to me.

I hadn't asked for details. I don't think I needed them.

—----------------

 

The afternoon sun shines on the parking lot as the end of the shift finally arrives at around five. By pure luck, no call comes in last minute.

I sit in my car—small, reliable.

I pull out my phone. Habit takes me straight to messages.

Sammy’s name is lower on the list than I expect.

Five years together, but still sometimes I wonder why we still hang on.

Then I remember who sat beside me when everything fell apart.

“Hey, babe. Off work. Gonna make a stop, then head home. See you at the restaurant soon.”

I sigh, then scroll further down.

This one, I call.

It rings twice before he picks up.

Scott sounds better today—there’s more of him in his voice.

“Hey, Danny.”

“Hey. I’m headed home from the station. Need anything from the store?”

There’s a pause. His voice shifts—something familiar, almost parental.

“How long you been on shift?”

“Long enough. I’m already out. Delivery’s expensive.”

He laughs, then groans—his body reminding him he’s not ready yet.

“Fine. You wanna just grab some chicken and deli sides for the kids?”

“What about you and Rich?”

“Rich’ll eat chicken. I’m not really hungry today.”

“Got it. So your usual.”

“Dan… money’s tight—”

“Did I ask that?” I cut in, not harsh—just firm.

“You need food. Your body’s healing.”

Adkins doesn't argue after that. We end the call and I get the car started.

The engine has that familiar 2014 hum—present, but not loud.

I glance at the rearview. Clear.

The little crochet figure Caleb had given me for good luck

stares at me with the oversized red eyes of a local cryptid. The side of my mouth curves in fondness thinking how only Caleb could see an omen as a good luck charm.

The drive to the store isn't long. The Riverwalk has a good-sized grocery store that always has a good stock of rotisserie chickens and pre-made sides.

The air is unreasonably chilly. It gives me a good excuse to slip on my hoodie. It covers the uniform, and the stripes.

For a while, I just get to be what they see—a foreign-looking guy with weird eyes…

Instead of the one with weird body tatts. Thankfully, the tail tucks into my slightly oversized cargo pants.

I have Dad to thank for my Japanese heritage. Caleb and I inherited more of it than Marcus and Noah. I was the only one to get the white hair. The others inherited Mom's red hair and freckles. Somehow, that even carried over to orange fur. Dad did what he could to make us seem a little less strange. Instead of giving us names that reflected his own heritage, Kenji Sato chose ones that blended in a little easier. My feet take me to the deli out of habit.

It’s an easy place to grab something warm that isn’t fast food.

Caleb does what he can to give us home-cooked meals, but life as an ER nurse means that doesn’t always happen.

Mom sends food every Sunday—even if we don’t make it up the holler. Emma Sato has been feeding her four boys and her husband for twenty-seven years; no amount of “we're fine” will get her to stop.

I smell the rich, meaty aroma of the chickens in the warmer as I get closer. The steady heat from the stand radiates outward, a stark contrast to the cool air filling the store. I spot a few chickens. I've beat the 9-5 crowd. I pick up two, hesitate a moment, then grab another two.

A medic’s pay isn’t great, and six months of no work is wrecking their finances. Mine aren’t great either, even if my time off was covered, but I don't have kids to feed. Probably never will.

Colt and I talked about adopting.

Then one day he was found displayed like some awful art piece.

I rub the plain silver band with my thumb, feeling the tiny diamonds catch against my skin, a habit I've had for 6 and a half years.

Caleb had handed it to me at Colt's funeral.

"I helped him pick it out. He wanted something you would actually wear.”

Now it’s a reminder of a vow I never got to make.

After I check out, I make my way to the doors.

Cool air rushes in as they slide open—river smell, exhaust, the city coming to life as people get off work.

In it, I hear her.

It’s background noise now, most days; I barely even notice.

But sometimes… it gets louder.

“Come to me…”

I exhale and keep walking.

Then I notice something.

She’s louder when I’m facing west.

—------------------

I pull up to the little house tucked away from the road. Like many houses on the west side of Charleston, it looks like it grew from the hillside itself. A dozen concrete steps that look more like ruins lead up to the porch. I gather the food, chickens, mac and cheese, green beans, some good-smelling bread that was on the discount rack.

I step over a plastic dump truck as I get to the door, nudging it to the side so no one trips. The sound of the doorbell is greeted with the familiar excited voices of Haley and Hunter: “Who’s here?!” The tired but warm voice of Scott chiming in, “Guys, let Rich get it.” Rich opens the door with a cautious glance out the window first. “Oh hey Danny, good to see you.” I offer the food as I say, “Bet the kids are driving you nuts; maybe this'll settle them some”

Rich takes the bags, his face showing he wants to protest out of politeness, but he knows his kids deserve it. “Come on in, Scott is going stir-crazy only seeing nurses.” Scott chimes in, “They are wasting the good-looking ladies sending them to me.” I chuckle as I step in. “They probably like seeing you the best; they get to do their job, not dodging hands.” Scott smiles, clearly trying to not move too much, I can see the tension in his posture even as he lies back on the hospital bed that takes up most the small living room.

Rich moves to the kitchen. I hear bags rustle, plates clink softly.

I ease onto the chair next to the bed, staying near the edge so he doesn’t have to turn to see me.

“How you feeling today?”

I keep my voice normal—none of the clinical tone I use on shift. Scott smirks a little “I'm better. They say I might be able to start using a walker soon.” I smile genuinely “Hey, that's great progress.” He shrugs a little “If you say so, but look at you, back in the saddle. “ “Like they say, you have to get right back on, and you will too.”

Scott looks toward the kitchen, something heavy in his eyes. I can hear the kids arguing over how much mac and cheese they’re getting.

“Dan… they’re talking about disability.” The company is fighting it.” I can't help how my brows lower and tense as I say

“That’s not right. You weren’t even driving.”

“The lawyers are always going to try and save a buck or two. They don't care what's right.”

“Well, plenty of desks that need a guy who knows what he’s doing. “

“You know as well as I do only the chosen ones get the comfortable jobs. Those of us in the field just work till we drop.”

“Well, no matter, you guys are going to be okay. I got you into this…”

Scott cuts me off.

“Bullshit.”

“Daniel Sato didn't run a red light while drunk. He did his job by the book.”

I have no response. I've pushed back before; it doesn't move him. So I nod and say. “You and your family are gonna be okay. Long as I’ve got breath.”

Scott nods, Rich calls out, “Danny, you want some?”

“Nah… I’m good. Gotta head out. Dinner with Sammy.”

I begin standing, pause a moment as something pulls tight along my side. Scott gives me a knowing look, then says the thing I always hope doesn't come up. “You ever gonna marry that girl? You’ve been dating longer than I’ve known ya.”

“She’s got her career. She doesn't need me holding her back.”

Rich walks in with a plate for Scott, direct as always. “Then why even date?”

Saved by Hunter: “Uncle Danny, when can we go fishing again? And can Uncle Marcus come?”

I ruffle his hair. “I’ll check my schedule—see when Uncle Marcus is off too.”

Hunter smiles and nods, then takes off, probably to pester his sister.

Rich helps Scott get his tray set over the bed.

It’s good to see his arms moving right. For a while there, his coordination was off.

Now he’s holding a fork just fine.

“I'll let y'all enjoy your dinner. I better get home and changed, so I'm not late.”

Rich gives me his signature look he’s developed as customer service, the one he uses when he’s got plenty to say but can’t.

Scott gives me a wave “Be careful.”

Coming from him, I hear every bit of feeling under it.

I step back out into the cool air, letting the door close behind me.

I make my way down the crumbling stairs.

Slide into the driver's seat and shut the door.

Rich's question won't leave me alone.

I mutter to the empty car.

"Because I love her..."

The words don't feel as certain as they should.

"...I think."

 

My drive home to the loft is a short one.

We found a loft on the east end near the Capitol—real steal. The owner didn't want to renovate it, and between the four of us and our semi-retired dad, we were happy to do the work. We got a steep discount. After a couple years of working between shifts, we now have an updated space for half the cost of the ones around us.

I make my way inside.

The hall smells like every old building I’ve ever been in—must, maybe mold—buried under lemon cleaner. The elevator was beyond our capabilities, so it's still a panic attack waiting to happen.

I sigh as I eye my options. The questionable elevator, or three floors worth of wincing each step.

Closing my eyes a moment I reach back and unfasten the Velcro at the back of my pants, mom made sure every pair had it.

My tail — white with black stripes, just like Dad’s — slides free. I can balance without it, but when given the opportunity and privacy, it really is much easier.

I give myself a moment to stretch. Twenty-four hours of confinement is its own special kind of hell. My tail flicks and sways as I start up the stairs. I grip the railing and try to breathe evenly. The memories from physical therapy help — one foot in front of the other, just like they taught me.

“Come to me…”

I’m tired and annoyed, so for once I answer out loud. “Unless you’re up these stairs, that’s not happening.”

As always, the second part is immediate.

“Obey…”

“Really freaking hard to do when I don’t even know where you are.”

We have tried to find answers about what is happening to us in every way we can think.

Caleb even dragged us to a supposed psychic. Woman was a complete nutjob. Claimed she could sense some woman with immense power calling to us. Then she started raving about balance and destiny and how we were all connected. Crazy stuff.

I reach the top with my pulse racing and my breathing labored — not doing my ribs any favors. The voice keeps looping, unmoved. My head pounds the way it always does when she gets louder.

I lean against the cool tiled wall, forehead pressed to one of the big river-rock tiles Dad suggested. The stone feels good. Grounding.

Through the heavy steel door I can hear Marcus and Caleb inside. The door is thick, but it’s no match for Marcus’s laugh. My keys jingle in the lock. The heavy latch clanks. As I walk in, the voices stop. Caleb is in casual clothes. A very worn tee with some game character on it. His orange and black tail flicks behind him. A soft, happy chuff rumbles out of Caleb as soon as he sees me, the sound low and welcoming. Marcus follows with a deeper one, almost a laugh wrapped in a breath. I answer them both instinctively, the familiar vibration easing some of the tension in my shoulders. Marcus looks fresh from a shower, deep copper hair slicked back and wet. I can smell his cologne across the room. Though to be fair, all four of us tend to have a better sense of smell than others. Marcus is adjusting the buttons on his shirt, much more put together than his usual tank top and jeans when he's relaxing. I hang my keys on the hook by the door as Marcus speaks up. “Well look, the cat drug himself in.”

“Nice to see you too. Going out?”

Caleb cuts in, “Oh, just his fourth date this week.”

Marcus just smirks. “Y'all wish you were as popular “

I pause by the counter, looking at Caleb, then back to Marcus. “I prefer dates with the same woman. When’s the last time you had a second date?”

Marcus laughs, running a hand through his hair. “I like the thrill of the chase. No fun when they chase you back.”

I shake my head, a small smile there as I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water.

None of us want to admit we know why he hasn’t had a stable relationship in six and a half years.

Truth is, we're lucky we still have Marcus after what he lost.

Caleb tries to redirect. “So you going out too, Danny? You sure you're up for it?”

Before I can answer, Marcus cuts in. “Man, forget Samantha already.”

He draws out her name, hitting each syllable just a little too hard. I take a long drink of my water, trying to ignore him. It just leaves him more room to talk. “Come out with me. I’ll find you a girl who won’t give a damn about the stripes.”

“Don’t worry about me. Caleb needs a date that isn’t pixels.”

Caleb begins to protest, then shrugs. “Fair…”

Marcus laughs and drops a hand on my shoulder “We can pry Noah out of his desk chair and make it a brother’s night. “

I drink the rest of my water, pulling gently away.

“I’m good to go out. Not tonight—and no women.”

I leave myself open, and I know it the second Marcus grins. “Fine, we'll get you a nice guy.” I toss the empty bottle at him and head for my room.

Leave it to Marcus to remember the one part of me I'm still too scared to let the rest of the world see.

Marcus doesn’t even have shame in that aspect.

One morning we might see a woman coming out of his room. The next time, a guy.

His philosophy:

"I just like people. Don't matter the equipment."

I wish it were that easy for me.

 

My room is quiet. My head is not.

The woman's voice is quiet for now, but another thought has been slowly festering beneath it.

I slide my hoodie off, then start unbuttoning my uniform shirt, careful with the movement. I showered earlier after changing from the bloody shirt. As I reach for the long-sleeved one Sammy insisted I wear tonight, I see myself in the mirror.

The stripes along my sides are threaded now with scars that still look too fresh. My arms aren't much better. My side aches in that particular metallic way it's ached since the hospital — a cold thread of pain instead of a warm one. I've never mentioned it to anyone. Doesn't seem worth the conversation.

I remember hands that used to trace the stripes along my chest—soft and loving.

Sammy prefers to pretend they don’t exist.

I close my eyes a moment and get the shirt on. Before I finish buttoning it up, I grab the foundation that Sammy also insists on. A thick formula, designed to cover tattoos. I smear it over my neck, cursing some as I get some on the collar.

She wasn't always like this.

She came back after college right around the time I lost Colt. We'd dated the summer after graduation before she left. I became a medic. She chased her degree.

When she came home, she found me trying to survive a grief I didn't think I'd survive.

She stayed.

Once I clean the shirt as best I can, I unbuckle my belt and step out of my pants; dark stripes along my thighs stand out against my pale skin. It has been far too long since my legs have seen sunlight. The dress pants Sammy got me are not altered. I never have my tail visible around her.

And yeah, that makes some things practically not happen.

Marcus's laugh carries across the loft. His words about finding a girl who wouldn't mind tug at me. I slide on my good shoes, adjust my collar, and check myself once again. I have to be sure. It's becoming a compulsion. Before I can stop myself, I mutter, "Might just buy some hair dye and contacts... complete the look."

The voice gets louder at that moment. I hear Marcus curse, and I'm reminded I'm not the only crazy one. I turn to go. My tail twitches against my leg as I walk back into the kitchen. Noah has emerged, oversized tumbler in hand. He looks me over without trying to hide the quiet assessment on his face. A soft, questioning chuff slips from his chest. Marcus answers it with a deeper one from across the room, more gruff than concerned. I return both without thinking, the familiar rumble easing something tight in my chest. Marcus, of course, doesn't leave it there. "You sure you've got everything covered? Wouldn't want to embarrass Samantha."

Caleb comes back into the room, headset now hanging around his neck. It’s clear that his pixel date will be beginning soon.

A warm little chuff escapes him as he catches my attention.

“Oh, Danny. Glad I caught you. Wanted to tell you, Mom mentioned how you should bring Sammy to Sunday dinner.”

Marcus cuts in. “She might faint, cause I sure as hell ain't tucking my tail in my own goddamn parent's house.”

I smile softly to Caleb. “Sammy usually does Sundays with her folks.”

Caleb smiles back and nods, saying. “After almost five years, she's pretty much family.”

Marcus heads for the door.

“Bullshit!”

He opens the door, grabbing his keys he turns saying.

“You ever try to propose to that woman, and I’m officially a triplet.”

The door slams behind him. The weight of the door adding to the solid punctuation of the thud.

Noah sips his coffee, purses his lips and adds— “I do agree she would not make a good addition.”

I glare at him and sigh, hanging my head. “Anyway, I'm going to be late. You two have fun with your computers.”

Caleb gives a cautious, warm smile.

“Try to have a good evening. Text when you can—you know I worry.”

I grab my keys and tell him. “Of course.”

The door closes quietly behind me.

The restaurant is just across town. The buildings over there try a little harder to look like a city than they do closer to the loft. Charleston's still small enough you can cross it before your coffee gets cold. Marcus still occasionally gets to play with the ladder truck, but there aren't a ton of buildings tall enough to justify it.

I turn into the small parking lot and park close to Sammy’s familiar SUV. A high-end thing that probably eats double the gas my little box of a car does.

I check myself once more in the visor mirror after shutting off the engine. Aside from my white hair and pale blue eyes on a young man who looks like he comes from somewhere much more east than West Virginia, I appear normal. Just like she likes.

I step out of the car and spot Sammy right away. She and her parents are already waiting near the entrance. She's wearing a red dress that stands out against her olive-toned skin. Her wavy black hair is pinned back perfectly. She's always put together. She doesn't even like me seeing her without makeup.

I used to joke that I’d be waking up next to her eventually, to not be so worried. That I love her for her, not how perfect her eyeliner is.

Nowadays, those jokes don't even make sense anymore. We don't stay at each other's places.

 

Her dad sees me first and gives me a polite nod. Her mom waves—bright as ever. I wave back, a real smile slipping through before I can stop it.

I forget myself for a second as I walk up.

Sammy clears her throat sharp and makes a quick motion across her mouth—cover it.

Right.

I press my lips together, pulling them back before it shows too much. The teeth are always the problem. People notice. They always do.

“Sorry,” I mutter when I reach them, keeping my mouth closed now. “Long day.”

Her deep brown eyes catch mine, just long enough for the annoyance to register.

Then her smile snaps right back into place like nothing happened.

 

“Hi,” she says, stepping closer, easy and warm. “You made it.”

I lean and give her a polite kiss on the cheek in greeting.

I learned pretty quickly to bury any instinct to greet her the way I greet my family.

Her dad, Antonio, clears his throat. “We better check in; these tables are hard to get.”

Her mother, Ronda, nods, saying, “Oh, they know better than to give away the table for the owner's brother. “

We’re escorted to our table, the host already moving like he knows exactly where we’re going.

A couple of the staff recognize me. I’ve been here a handful of times—mostly Sammy’s birthdays. Once on my own dime for our anniversary. That one took some planning.

“Good evening,” the host says, smooth as anything. He gives Sammy a little extra attention, like he’s supposed to.

We pass tables set close enough you can hear quiet laughter, forks against plates, the low hum of conversation that never quite gets loud. Everything smells like garlic and wine, and something slow-cooked.

Our table’s tucked toward the back—good lighting, not too bright. Sammy slides into her seat as if she belongs here. Her parents don’t even look around.

I take my seat a little more carefully, shifting until my tail finds a spot that doesn't immediately complain. Chairs like this always hurt more. Ambulance seats at least have a little cushion.

We look over our menus as the waiter asks, “Shall I bring your usual wine and appetizers?” Antonio nods. “Please,” then looking to Sammy. “Unless my little girl has a request. “ Sammy scrunches her shoulders, bowing her head as she giggles. “Daddy, please—I am pushing 30.

But yes, I think I want some of that sweeter wine I had last time.” I keep quiet. I'm not truly a part of all this.

I order something simple, four cheese lasagna. Sammy gets the lobster linguine, her favorite. Her parents never name what they order. It just shows up.

We begin eating. I am well aware of how easily the white tablecloth will stain if my food drops on it. Sammy chats easily with her parents. I listen and nod whenever Sammy looks my way.

“Daddy, I ordered that new desk for my office. You were right, I do love the look of that wood.”

Antonio seems pleased as he says, “Oh good, we can see about ordering you a full set for the rest of your office.”

Sammy grins. Continues. “Thank you, got to give a good impression and can’t have mismatched furniture.”

Ronda chimes in. “Danny, have you got to see her new office?”

“Oh, not yet, I only really got cleared for driving a couple weeks ago.”

Ronda nods, a look of concern in her eyes. “So terrible what happened. I do hope that driver is in jail.”

I go to answer, but Sammy cuts in. “It really was terrible; those coal truck drivers need many more regulations.”

I nod.

Ronda Continues. “Sammy told us your mom kept care of you. So sorry we didn't stop by the hospital, but Sammy didn't tell us till you were out.”

I smile, keeping my lips closed. “It's ok, I wasn’t much to see or talk to; the pain medication had me pretty out of it.”

Sammy offers, “Yeah, besides, you had your brothers and parents there.”

Ronda gives Sammy a look that has an icy texture. “I know we are modern women these days, but whenever your father has a hospital stay, I don’t leave his side.”

Sammy has a moment where she looks like a younger version of herself, being told she's been caught sneaking out.

Then Ronda, satisfied she got her point across, turns to me again. “We really should arrange a get-together with both our families. Your mother is such a lovely woman, and quite the cook.”

I give her a soft smile, chuckling a little. “That could be very fun. Though you haven't been in the same room with all my brothers at the same time.”

Ronda laughs a little. “You forget I used to volunteer for field trips and very much had to keep you boys in line on buses, and that Washington DC trip where I had to personally escort Marcus through the White House tour because he would not be quiet. “

I can't help but smile as I remember how Marcus kept making loud remarks through the whole trip. Well… to be fair his whole life.

“Oh yeah… that was a fun one.”

Ronda gives a warm chuckle. “You boys have always been a handful. Sammy better hope when you have kids, they come in less than four at a time.”

At that, Sammy takes a large gulp of her sweet wine.

I laugh a little

“Well… with Sammy’s career, kids haven’t really been on the table. I mean, we’d want to be married first…”

Ronda, not missing a beat. “Then maybe get to ring shopping; I can't wait to hold some grand babies.”

I glance to my left hand resting beside my plate. The silver band suddenly feels a whole lot heavier.

This is my turn to take a bit larger drink of my wine.

“He has to ask my permission first.” He gives me a good-natured smirk and wink.

Sammy giggles. “Oh daddy, you are so old-fashioned. “

Antonio laughs and smiles, motioning to the waiter.

“Who wants dessert?”

We finish dinner with more small talk. Thankfully, kids and marriage are not brought up again. Though as I wash my hands after a quick bathroom trip, I can't help but think of the smile on Ronda's face when she talked of grandbabies. My own mom teases me often that she can't wait to spoil kids rotten and give them back.

I walk out of the restroom—must be facing west, because the whisper gets louder.

I shake my head, thinking—

Real dad material.

I’m probably schizophrenic.

As I look around, I find Sammy standing at a polite distance from the door. She smiles and walks over, adjusting the collar of my shirt as she says. “Sorry she brought that up again. She is determined.”

I reach up and place my hand over hers, holding it so it rests on my chest now. “It’s ok; she and my mom are on a mission. Can’t blame em, they both had a house full of kids, now they all grew up.”

Sammy laughs some. “Well my brothers can make her some kids to play with.” She leans to kiss me softly. "You and I are doing good just keeping our schedules straight."

Giving her a small smile and nod, I keep holding her hand but move so we can more easily walk.

“Yeah, far too busy.”

It’s not my place to ask her for kids if she doesn’t want them.

Making our way out to the front, we see her parents waiting by the door. Antonio is a little away from Ronda and motions me over. I give Sammy’s hand a little squeeze and say low to her, “I better see what he has to say.” She nods and makes her way over to her mom, giving Antonio a chance to talk.

Once I'm close, he says. “Yes, I'm old-fashioned. But the Lord gave me one daughter to dote on, so I at least get to give her future husband a hard time.”

For a moment I can't think of a response, then trying to act as respectful as I can. “I'm honored you even consider me, Sir.”

“You have been nothing but good to her.”

“I couldn’t ask for a better match.”

He reaches out his hand, and I shake it. His grip is solid but not forceful.

Sammy walks over, tilting her head. “What kind of deals are we making over here?”

Before I can answer, Antonio smiles. “Future things, pumpkin.” Then he turns to me. “Now you two get home safe. Do you need a cab?”

I think about the single glass of wine I barely touched and shake my head. “I’m fine. Next time I’ll save you some money and just stick to water.”

“Nonsense,” Antonio says. Ronda appears beside him holding a gift bag, the necks of two bottles clearly visible at the top. Antonio takes it and presses it into my hands before I can protest.

“ My brother keeps me well supplied. Go have a nice night.”

The way he pushes the bag forward makes it very clear: refusing would be an insult. So I give him a polite smile.

“Thank you. That’s very generous.”

“Actually drink it,” he adds with a wink, slipping an arm around Ronda. “Life’s too short not to enjoy the finer things now and then.”

Her parents walk off to their car. Antonio still holding onto Ronda.

True relationship goals.

Sammy clears her throat, catching my attention. I offer my hand, but she's already walking to her car.

I follow her to the driver’s door, leaning casually against the steel-gray SUV.

“So my place or yours?” I playfully hold up the bag. “I have tomorrow off, and I can get Caleb to hook us up with something to curb a hangover…”

Sammy leans and kisses my cheek. “Maybe you and your brothers can share; I've got a girls’ night planned tonight. “

“Oh… sorry, thought we would hang out.”

Sammy gets into her seat; I lean in to see her better. I don't want to crowd her, but I want her to see I'm not just backing off.

“Dan…Gina has been insisting all week. You and I had dinner…”

I reach out to touch her cheek, softly inviting her closer. She turns her head. I pull my hand back.

“Right. Text me when you get home.”

“Sure thing. Have a good night.”

I close her door for her and watch her drive away.

I make my way back to my car, setting the wine carefully on the floor behind the driver's seat.

Before pulling out, I catch my reflection in the rearview.

Pale blue eyes stare back at me.

None of my brothers look exactly like I do. I've spent most of my life wondering why I took after Dad more than the rest of them. Not only am I one of the tiger brothers... I'm the one people remember.

White hair and fur on my tail.

Pale eyes.

Stripes.

A low growl rumbles in my chest before I can stop it.

Just another reminder of the parts of me Sammy would rather pretend weren't there.

We've gotten good at avoiding anything that might accidentally make me purr.

Colt used to delight in causing it, especially if we were around others.

I buckle my seatbelt and carefully pull out of the parking lot, trying not to dwell on just what’s missing in my love life.

 

I hear Caleb laughing before I even get the door fully open. He’s deep in his zone—carefree, shouting at the screen like the fate of the world depends on it. "Get back over here so I can heal you!" Even in games, he can’t stop being the healer. I step inside and set the gift bag on the counter. My phone vibrates. Probably Sammy. I pull it out. Unknown Number Is this Danny? I frown. Strange. I'm careful who gets my number. Probably a scam. Still... my evening isn't exactly packed with excitement. Yeah. Who's this? Three little dots appear. Someone's typing. A floorboard creaks behind me. I spin. The glint of a pair of glasses catches what little light spills in from the hallway. "Shit, Noah... practicing to be a stalker?" I flip on the light. Noah squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden brightness and shrugs. "Kitchen's easy to get around in the dark." I slide my phone into my pocket. Whoever it was could wait.

He reaches over and picks up one of the bottles from the bag, turning it slowly in his hands. “Why waste electricity?”

He holds the bottle close, squinting a little at the label.

Noah lets out a low whistle — the closest he ever gets to dramatic. “Barolo Riserva. 2016 Conterno. That’s a six-hundred-dollar bottle. He really likes you. Or he’s trying to buy future grandchildren. Possibly both.”

I put both hands on the counter and lean forward, hanging my head.

“Problem is… those grandchildren will look like me.”

Noah sets the bottle down carefully. “Us, dear brother. But we actually don’t know that. Just because Dad passed on his unique traits doesn’t mean future generations will retain them. Genetics can be weird.”

I look up at him, grateful for the quiet logic. “You always have just the right facts.” I motion toward the bottle. “Care for a glass?”

Noah shakes his head. “As much as I’d like the bonding experience, we both know it’s best I avoid wine…”

The mental image hits me instantly — Noah, three glasses deep, slurring slightly but still dead serious while arguing about the accuracy of Hollywood EMS procedures. A genuine laugh bursts out of me. I wince at the pull in my ribs, but it only makes me laugh harder.

“Hey, you could be my entertainment for the night.”

He shakes his head again, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Happy to hang out. But I prefer sober.”

He pauses for a moment, then says, “I can be your designated couch buddy though. You relax. I’ll make sure you stay safe. I think you could use it.”

I consider his offer, picking up the bottle to inspect it myself. The whisper sounds a little more forceful this time.

Come to me…

I see Noah wince at the same moment I do.

I shrug and move to find the corkscrew. “Sure. Me, you, and Bossy Ass Bitch are gonna have an evening.”

Noah, dry as ever, reaches for some pretzels. “Oh, she has a name now?”

I open the bottle. The aroma that wafts out is nothing like the cheap stuff we usually drink — rich, deep, almost floral and earthy at the same time.

“She does tonight.”