Page 1 of Ours
1
The edgesof the photograph had gone soft, worn thin by years of handling. Cole ran his thumb over the faded image—two smiling faces, pressed together, frozen in a moment that had long since shattered.
His chest ached, a dull, familiar throb. Stupid. He should've thrown all this shit out months ago. Should've burned it, shredded it… Anything but sit here and let it gnaw at him. But still, he looked. Still, he let himself miss what was already gone.
"What a fucking mess." His voice cracked in the empty apartment.
He shoved the photo aside and pushed back from his desk. Chair legs scraped across hardwood. Too loud. Everything was too loud when you lived alone.
Cole moved to the window, pressed his forehead against cool glass. Three stories below, the city pulsed with Saturday night life. People laughing, drinking, hooking up—living, basically.
Unlike him. He was stuck on repeat, haunting his own life since Marcus walked out.
"You're too much," Marcus had said, pulling his hand away when Cole reached for him one last time. That perfectly controlled expression, like Cole was a problem to be solved. "Too needy. Too desperate. It's exhausting."
The apartment door had clicked shut with such finality. All this time later, Cole still heard that click in his nightmares. Still felt Marcus's fingers slipping away.
He pressed his palm against the glass, watching it fog. At twenty six, he should be down there in the mix, not up here marinating in memories. But the thought of dating apps made his stomach turn. He couldn't handle seeing that look again—that moment when someone realized he cared too much, felt too deeply, needed too intensely.
God, he was pathetic.
His phone buzzed on the desk. Saturday night check-in from his mom, probably. Or worse—another wedding invitation. Jake's this time, from the preview notification. Another college friend who'd figured out how to be loved without destroying everything.
He didn't pick it up. Couldn't deal with typing out another polite decline, another excuse for why he'd be missing another celebration of someone else's happiness.
His eyes drifted upward to the full moon creeping into the night sky. Almost unconsciously, his mind wandered to rumors about the upcoming werewolf mating run.
Every year, the local pack opened their ritual to a handful of humans. A night of primal abandon under the full moon: no names, no messy emotions, no morning-after regrets. Just instinct and hunger.
To be chosen. To be claimed. To be wanted—even if just for one night.
Heat pooled low in Cole's belly at the thought.
He'd always been the careful one. The planner. The dependable architect who designed spaces for others while his own life gathered dust. Twenty-six years of coloring inside the lines, and what did he have to show for it? A too-quiet apartment and a photo album of regrets.
Maybe it was time to try something different. Something reckless.
He dragged a hand through his dark hair—when had it gotten so long?—and caught his reflection in the glass. Christ, when did he get so thin? His cheekbones looked sharp enough to cut, and the shadows under his eyes had become permanent fixtures. He looked exactly like what he was: someone who'd forgotten how to take care of himself.
When was the last time someone had touched him? Not a casual brush in a coffee shop, but really touched him, with intent, with want?
He couldn't remember.
The moon pulsed, calling to something wild beneath his skin.
"Fuck it." The words tasted like freedom.
Cole snatched his jacket from the hook, suddenly energized by a decision that felt entirely his. No more wallowing. Tonight, he was going to feel something—anything—even if he had to offer himself up to monsters to make it happen.
The drive to the forest took thirty minutes of white-knuckle courage. Each mile stripped away another layer of doubt.
What the hell was he doing?
His hands shook as he turned off the engine. For thirty seconds, he just sat there, listening to the tick of cooling metal. The cars parked nearby meant he wasn't the only one desperate enough to be here. Somehow that didn't make him feel better.
Last chance to go home. Pour another whiskey. Pretend this was enough.
But it wasn't enough. Hadn't been for so fucking long.
