Enthralled - 7. Chapter 7

07

The morning sun was an aggressive, cheerful yellow, beating down on the suburban asphalt with an optimism that Andy found personally offensive. He was a creature of the night, a 300-year-old apex predator who had spent centuries swathed in the comforting, blood-soaked shadows of European history. He had navigated the cobblestone streets of Victorian London, the gaslit alleys of Paris, and the smog-choked nights of the Industrial Revolution.

Now, he was driving a rusted, beige-and-brown 1972 Chevrolet Impala land yacht through a suburban school zone at a strictly enforced fifteen miles per hour.

Andy’s pale, perfectly manicured hands gripped the massive steering wheel. He was dressed in his signature vintage leather jacket, his dark hair painstakingly pomaded, looking every inch the 1950s rebel he had frozen himself into. Beside him, riding shotgun on the cracked leather bench seat, was Amanda Cooper. She was in full cheerleader uniform, her blonde ponytail immaculate, aggressively applying a coat of strawberry-scented lip gloss using the Impala's rearview mirror.

"He’s going to get himself killed," Andy murmured, his baritone voice tight with anxiety. His dark eyes were fixed on the road ahead.

Twenty yards in front of the massive chrome bumper, Lucas Cooper was aggressively weaving through the morning traffic on a heavily scuffed skateboard. He was wearing an oversized graphic tee, loose denim jeans, and a backwards baseball cap, completely devoid of any protective gear. He looked exactly like what he was: a chaotic, hyperactive teenager with the self-preservation instincts of a lemming. Lucas kicked off the pavement, picking up speed, and attempted a complex flip over a discarded soda can. The board wobbled dangerously, the urethane wheels screeching against the asphalt, before Lucas miraculously stomped it back down, entirely unbothered by his near-brush with a severe concussion.

"He’s fine," Amanda said dismissively, popping her lips and capping the gloss. "He’s rubber. He falls off that thing three times a week. The emergency room nurses know him by his first name. Focus on the road, Dracula."

Andy’s jaw clenched, his fangs pressing lightly against the inside of his lower lip. He was an immortal monster, a creature of calculated stillness and sudden, devastating violence. Yet, every time Lucas's skateboard hit a pebble, Andy's cold, dead heart performed a phantom, terrified stutter.

Amanda shifted on the wide leather seat, turning to face him. She crossed her legs, resting her chin on her hand, and leveled a deeply scrutinizing stare at his pale profile.

"So," Amanda began, her voice dropping the casual, apathetic tone she usually reserved for her family. "Let's talk about the vampire thing."

Andy’s spine stiffened. He kept his eyes on Lucas. "I do not know what you are referring to."

"Oh, please," Amanda scoffed, rolling her eyes with theatrical flair. "My parents think you're just a goth kid who is really into the whole vintage, brooding bad-boy aesthetic. My brother is just completely nuts, so his opinion doesn't count. And Marty—who, by the way, has the intellectual depth of a protein shaker—seems to think you are a literal vampire. But then again, Marty and his football friends seem to think they are a pack of werewolves." She let out a sharp, derisive laugh. "Ha. Weed. Am I right? Honestly, the things teenage boys come up with when they have too much free time."

Andy remained perfectly silent, his expression an unreadable, aristocratic mask.

Amanda dropped her hand, leaning a fraction closer, invading his personal space with the sheer, unearned confidence of a high school cheerleader at the top of the social food chain.

"Seriously," Amanda said, her voice dropping into a deadly serious register. "Which is it? Because let's look at the facts. You live in a car. A very large, very loud car. You dress like you watch Grease on a continuous loop. You read The Outsiders like it's a religious text. You speak like a Victorian novelist who swallowed a dictionary. But holy hell, you know European history like an absolute boss. You corrected Mr. Gable yesterday on the exact thread count of Marie Antoinette's execution dress."

"It was a matter of historical record," Andy murmured defensively.

"So, deal," Amanda demanded, pointing a manicured finger at his chest. "Spill. Now. Are you just a deeply traumatized runaway with a bizarre hyper-fixation, or are you actually something out of a YA novel?"

Before Andy could formulate a response that preserved his ancient dignity without actively lying to the girl whose neck he had considered snapping only a few weeks prior, Amanda’s expression hardened into pure, uncompromising steel.

"Actually, it doesn't matter," she interrupted herself. "I don't care if you're immortal, or if you're just weird. But listen to me very carefully, Andy. If you hurt my brother—if you break his heart, or if you drag him into some kind of dangerous, messed-up gothic drama—I will personally cut your nuts off with a pair of craft scissors."

Andy blinked. For a creature who had terrorized the European countryside, the threat of craft scissors wielded by a suburban teenager should have been laughable. But he looked at the fierce, protective fire in Amanda's eyes, and he felt a profound wave of respect.

"I assure you, Amanda," Andy said, his voice dropping to a soft, vibrating register that was entirely devoid of manipulation. "I would sooner step into the midday sun and burn to ash than allow any harm to come to Lucas."

Amanda stared at him for a long, heavy moment. She searched his dark, ancient eyes for any sign of deceit. Finding none, she let out a short breath, her posture relaxing back into the cracked leather seat.

"Good," she said simply. "Now, step on it. You promised to drive me all the way to the main entrance so the autoshop teacher can drool over this motorized boat, and I cannot be late for first period."

---

Across town, in the sticky, syrup-scented confines of the Silver Spoon Diner, a completely different kind of summit was taking place.

Kevin sat in the largest corner booth, his black trench coat bunching uncomfortably around his shoulders. The synthetic fabric was two sizes too small, a tragic remnant of his high school years, but he refused to take it off. It was his armor. Flanking him were his two most trusted lieutenants in the war against the supernatural: Gary, a teenager who wore fingerless gloves indoors, and Toby, who was currently breathing heavily through his mouth while attempting to clean a pair of cheap tactical binoculars with a napkin.

Spread across the Formica table were poorly printed Google Maps of the local high school, blurry screenshots taken from Lucas’s Twitch stream, and a single, lukewarm cup of black drip coffee.

"The target is mobilizing," Kevin whispered, his voice trembling with the weight of his own self-importance. He tapped a red marker against a circled area on the map. "He has established a perimeter in the Cooper garage, but he moves the vehicle during daylight hours to maintain his cover among the youth."

"Do you think he's building an army?" Gary asked, his eyes wide behind grease-smudged glasses.

"Of course he is," Kevin hissed. "He's infiltrating the educational system. We have to strike today. We observe, we isolate, and we eliminate."

An exhausted sigh broke their intense, whispered planning.

Martha, a middle-aged waitress wearing a pink uniform and an expression of profound, soul-deep fatigue, stopped at the edge of their booth. She held a coffee pot in one hand and a rag in the other.

"Are you boys going to order actual food today?" Martha asked, her voice entirely devoid of customer service cheer. "Or are you just going to keep breathing heavily over my menus and asking for free refills on that one cup of coffee?"

"We require sustenance for the mission," Kevin declared, trying to project a commanding aura. "We will require more cream packets. And sugar. The brain needs glucose for tactical planning."

Martha stared at him. She didn't see a warrior of the night. She saw a thirty-year-old man in a cheap coat taking up a prime, six-person booth during the morning rush.

"You get one more refill," Martha said flatly, pouring a splash of brown liquid into the mug. "And if you don't buy a pancake in the next ten minutes, I'm kicking you out into the parking lot. I've got paying customers, Neo."

She turned and walked away, completely unfazed by the dark, brooding glares of the Night Watch.

"Civilians," Kevin muttered, shaking his head at the tragedy of the ignorant masses. "They don't understand the sacrifices we make to keep them safe. Drink up, men. We move on the high school in fifteen minutes."

Their grand infiltration of the local educational facility went exactly as well as a daytime raid by three sleep-deprived internet conspiracy theorists could go.

They marched onto the high school grounds just as the late bell rang, trying to stick to the shadows of the brick walls. Kevin was sweating profusely under the heavy synthetic fabric of his trench coat. They communicated in aggressive, unnecessary hand signals, creeping toward the cafeteria loading dock with the stealth of a marching band.

They didn't even make it to the first set of double doors.

"Hey! You three!"

Kevin froze. He slowly turned around, his hand instinctively dropping to the pocket containing his holy tap water squirt gun.

A high school security guard, an older man named Stan who was aggressively attempting to finish a crossword puzzle on a clipboard, stood a few yards away. Stan did not look intimidated. He looked annoyed.

"This is a closed campus," Stan said, clicking his pen. "Are you students here? Because you," he pointed at Kevin, "look like you’re thirty, and you," he pointed at Toby, "look like you’re about to pass out from heatstroke in that coat."

"We are authorized personnel," Kevin said, trying to lower his voice to a gritty, cinematic rasp. "We are conducting a localized inspection of... infrastructural integrity."

Stan sighed. It was the same sigh Martha the waitress had used. It was the universal sigh of the working class dealing with absolute nonsense.

"Empty your pockets," Stan ordered, pulling a walkie-talkie from his belt. "Now. Before I call the actual police."

Panic seized the Night Watch. Gary, terrified of acquiring a criminal record that might ruin his chances of getting a job at GameStop, immediately began emptying his pockets onto the hood of a nearby parked sedan.

Stan stepped forward, looking down at the confiscated arsenal.

There was a plastic-handled set of nunchucks, still bearing a neon yellow price tag that read $14.99. Beside it sat a single, aggressively bent throwing star that looked like it had been run over by a lawnmower, and a handful of loose, slightly bruised garlic cloves.

Stan picked up the bent throwing star, holding it by the dull edge. He looked at Kevin.

"Is this a joke?" Stan asked.

"It is a lethal projectile," Kevin said, his voice cracking. "Forged in the fires of justice."

"It's tin," Stan corrected. "And it's bent. I'm confiscating the ninja toys. Now, get off the property before I have you arrested for trespassing and extreme public loitering. Go on. Scram."

Humiliated, disarmed, and thoroughly defeated by a man doing a crossword puzzle, the Night Watch slunk away from the main building, retreating toward the grassy expanse behind the gymnasium bleachers.

"This is a setback," Kevin panted, wiping sweat from his forehead as they huddled in the shade of the metal grandstands. "But we are not deterred. The vampire is here. I can sense his dark aura."

"I smell something," Toby agreed, sniffing the air. "It smells like... ozone and wet dog."

Kevin’s eyes widened. "Foul beasts of the night."

He peered around the edge of the bleachers. Standing in a loose circle near the edge of the football field were six massive, broad-shouldered teenagers wearing matching blue-and-gold letterman jackets. They were laughing loudly, passing a football back and forth with terrifying, unnatural speed.

Kevin’s eyes locked onto the largest one—a towering, muscular behemoth of a boy. The name on his jacket read Marty.

"Look at the size of him," Kevin whispered in horror. "That's him. That's the Alpha Vampire. Look at the pale skin... wait, he's not pale. But look at his aura! The arrogance! He is the master of this domain."

"Are you sure?" Gary asked nervously. "He looks like a linebacker."

"The dark forces take many shapes," Kevin hissed. He reached into his coat and pulled out the plastic, neon-green squirt gun. "We strike now. We catch the beast unawares. For humanity!"

Kevin burst from the cover of the bleachers, his trench coat flapping behind him, looking absolutely ridiculous. He charged the circle of high school athletes, raised his squirt gun, and squeezed the trigger.

A pathetic, arc of lukewarm tap water hit Marty directly in the center of his expensive, dry-clean-only letterman jacket.

At the same time, Toby sprinted forward and hurled a handful of loose garlic cloves at the tight end with the buzz cut. The garlic bounced harmlessly off the boy's chest and scattered into the grass.

The werewolf pack froze.

The football dropped to the ground. Six pairs of eyes slowly turned to look at the three panting, sweating edgelords standing aggressively in front of them.

Kevin braced himself. He waited for the hiss, for the red eyes, for the demonic transformation. He waited for the beast to burst into holy flames.

Marty looked down at the wet spot on his jacket. He looked at the plastic squirt gun in Kevin's trembling hand. Then, he reached down, picked up a bruised clove of garlic from the grass, popped it into his mouth, and chewed it thoughtfully.

"Needs salt," Marty grunted.

Kevin’s jaw dropped. "You... you aren't burning."

"Bro, you just shot me with a knock-off Super Soaker," Marty said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated with suppressed, predatory annoyance. He cracked his massive knuckles, stepping forward, towering over the thirty-year-old man. "Do you have any idea how much it costs to dry-clean varsity wool?"

"You are a creature of darkness!" Kevin shrieked, backing up.

"I'm a guy who wants a smoothie," Marty corrected.

With a speed that defied his massive bulk, Marty lunged forward. He didn't bare his teeth; he didn't use his claws. He simply grabbed Kevin by the collar of his cheap trench coat, lifted the grown man entirely off his feet, and flipped him upside down.

"Hey!" Kevin screamed, his legs flailing uselessly in the air.

Marty shook him. Hard.

A shower of mundane detritus cascaded from Kevin's pockets onto the grass. Fourteen dollars in loose change, a crushed granola bar, a ring of novelty keychains, and a lint-covered piece of gum hit the dirt.

"Smoothie money," the buzz-cut tight end announced cheerfully, dropping to one knee to scoop up the quarters. "Thanks, weirdos."

Marty dropped Kevin into an unceremonious heap on the ground. The werewolf brushed off his hands, entirely bored by the encounter.

"If you ever shoot me with tap water again," Marty said, leaning over the trembling edgelord, "I'm going to take that squirt gun and shove it so far up your dark aura you'll be spitting plastic for a week. Now get out of our territory."

The Night Watch didn't need to be told twice. They scrambled to their feet and sprinted blindly toward the parking lot, abandoning their mission, their loose change, and their last shred of dignity.

---

While Kevin was being violently shaken down for pocket change, Andy was parked outside the large, cavernous bay doors of the high school autoshop.

The air was thick with the smell of motor oil, exhaust, and teenage sweat. Lucas was perched on a stack of bald tires near the chain-link fence, happily crunching his way through a family-sized bag of BBQ potato chips, watching the spectacle unfold.

Mr. Henderson, the autoshop teacher, a man whose coveralls were permanently tattooed with decades of grease, was practically vibrating with religious ecstasy as he slowly circled the 1972 Impala.

"She is magnificent," Mr. Henderson whispered, running a reverent, dirty hand over the sweeping lines of the rear quarter panel. "Original chrome. The suspension is shot to hell, and she smells like she’s been sitting in a swamp for a decade, but the bones... the bones are pure American muscle."

"I am aware of her pedigree," Andy said, standing rigidly by the driver's side door, his hands clasped behind his back.

Mr. Henderson spun around, a manic light in his eyes. "I'll trade you. Straight up. Right now. Keys for keys, title for title."

Andy raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "You wish to barter for my sanctuary?"

"I wish to barter for history!" Mr. Henderson pointed a grease-stained finger across the garage floor. Parked near the tool benches was a thoroughly uninspiring, intensely practical, silver 2014 Volvo hatchback. "Look at that. Spotless. Incredible fuel economy. Just sit in it, son. Just feel the practicality wash over you."

Five minutes later, the 300-year-old apex predator was sitting in the driver's seat of the Swedish compact car.

It was a catastrophic visual.

Andy’s towering frame was folded up like a gothic praying mantis. His knees were pressed uncomfortably close to his chest, and the ceiling was so aggressively low that his meticulously styled, pomaded hair brushed against the grey fabric of the roof. He gripped the modest, synthetic steering wheel with pale, aristocratic hands, looking as though he had been violently compressed into a Tupperware container.

Lucas was leaning against the passenger side door, eating a BBQ chip, his dark eyes crinkling with sheer amusement.

"Thirty-five miles to the gallon on the highway," Mr. Henderson pitched, leaning in through the open window, completely ignoring Andy’s murderous glare. "Side-curtain airbags. Anti-lock brakes. It has a backup camera! You’ll never dent a fender again!"

"I survived the collapse of the French monarchy," Andy stated flatly, his dark eyes staring blankly at the digital dashboard display. "I do not require a camera to reverse a carriage. And I do not care about miles per... gallon. My current vehicle runs on sheer atmospheric dread and unleaded gasoline."

Before Mr. Henderson could launch into an explanation of heated seats, heavy footsteps echoed on the concrete floor.

Marty strolled into the autoshop, tossing Kevin’s confiscated $14 in loose change in his massive palm like a baseball. The werewolf linebacker stopped dead in his tracks. He took in the sight of the brooding, leather-clad immortal crammed into the sensible hatchback.

A slow, feral grin spread across Marty’s face.

"Oh, bro. No way," Marty boomed, his laughter echoing off the metal tools lining the walls. "Look at you. You look like you're about to go sparkle in a meadow."

Andy’s left eye twitched. "Excuse me?"

"That is some terminal Edwina Cull'em aura right there," Marty wheezed, pointing a massive finger at the windshield. "Are you gonna play baseball in a thunderstorm next? Put the AC on high so you don't sweat? Where's your flannel, bro?"

Andy slowly turned his head to look at Lucas, his fangs pressing dangerously against his lower lip. "Who is Edwina?"

"He means Edward Cullen," Lucas said around a mouthful of chips, entirely unhelpful. "From Twilight. It’s a book about a brooding, overly-dramatic vampire who refuses to drink human blood, dates a high schooler, and drives a shiny silver Volvo."

The silence in the small hatchback was absolute.

Andy’s face went completely, perfectly blank as the information processed in his ancient brain. He looked at the steering wheel. He looked at the sensible cup holders. He looked at the werewolf laughing at him from outside the window.

Andy’s hand shot out. Before he even unlatched the door, Marty’s hand whipped into his letterman jacket pocket. The werewolf pulled out his smartphone with a speed that rivaled Andy's own supernatural reflexes.

Click-click-click.

Andy froze, his 300-year-old predatory instincts momentarily overridden by sheer technological confusion. "What are you doing with that infernal device?"

"Documenting history, bro," Marty grinned, his thumbs flying across the glass screen with terrifying speed. "Just dropping this on Bluesky. The pack group chat is going to lose their minds."

"Delete that," Andy commanded, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy baritone. The door of the Volvo swung open with terrifying speed. Andy unfolded himself from the vehicle, his statuesque frame towering over Mr. Henderson as he took a deliberate step toward the massive linebacker.

"Too late, it’s live," Marty laughed, holding the screen up just out of Andy's immediate reach.

On the screen was a perfectly framed, high-definition photo of Andy hunched awkwardly in the driver's seat of the sensible sedan, his vintage 1950s leather jacket completely at odds with the beige interior.

Beneath the photo was the caption:

Caught the new guy shopping for economical sedans. 🧛‍♂️🚗 #TeamEdward #SparkleTime #HideYourDaughters #HideYourVolvos

"I am going to shatter that glass rectangle, and then I am going to shatter your femur," Andy hissed, his fangs fully extending as he lunged forward.

Before blood could be spilled on the autoshop floor, a hand clamped onto the collar of Andy's leather jacket.

Lucas yanked backward with surprisingly effective leverage. "Okay! That’s our cue! We’re leaving before the autoshop teacher has to file a police report about a werewolf homicide!"

"He compared me to a vegetarian!" Andy roared, his boots skidding on the concrete as Lucas dragged him toward the hallway doors. "Mr. Henderson! You may work on the Impala! But if you alter the upholstery, I will end you!"

"He’s just jealous of your cheekbones!" Lucas yelled back to Marty, effortlessly utilizing that assertive, chaotic energy that Andy was entirely helpless against. "See you at lunch, dog breath!"

Lucas dragged a seething, hyperventilating Andy down the empty corridor, ignoring the bewildered stares of passing students. He threw open the door to the nearest boys' washroom and shoved the immortal vampire into the large handicap stall.

Click. Lucas locked the stall door.

"I am going to end him," Andy paced the tiny tiled space, looking like a caged tiger, the smell of institutional bleach overwhelming his senses. "Three hundred years of darkness. I survived the Spanish Inquisition. I will not be cyber-bullied by a teenager who chases frisbees in his free time!"

"Andy. Look at me," Lucas commanded.

Andy stopped pacing. He looked down at the boy. Lucas hopped backward, sitting squarely on the closed toilet lid, and patted his own knees.

"Sit," Lucas said.

Andy’s jaw clenched. Every predatory instinct in his body screamed at him to break out of the stall, hunt down the werewolf, and reclaim his fearsome reputation. But he looked at the soft, genuine affection in Lucas’s eyes, and his utter submission to the boy in front of him won out.

He dropped down, his heavy boots bracketing Lucas’s sneakers, and let Lucas pull him forward until he was sitting on the boy's lap. The physical contrast was absurd—a towering, leather-clad vampire draped over a skinny, hyperactive teenager—but the immediate grounding effect of Lucas's blazing body heat was undeniable.

"Breathe," Lucas murmured, wrapping his arms around Andy’s waist and resting his chin against Andy’s chest. "He’s just an idiot."

"I do not sparkle," Andy whispered miserably into Lucas's messy hair.

"No, you don't. You’re entirely matte," Lucas agreed, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into the cold leather of Andy's jacket. "You know what else you are? You're the guy who pushes his glasses up when he reads, even though you don't actually need glasses. You read my comic books twice because you think the paneling is 'structurally fascinating.'"

Andy’s tense shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch.

"You're the guy," Lucas continued, his voice dropping into a soft, private register, "who sneaks into my bedroom just to watch me sleep, entirely forgetting that you don't actually sleep. And you smell really nice when you wash. Like old books and expensive soap."

"That is a very mundane list of attributes," Andy mumbled, though he wrapped his cold arms around Lucas's shoulders, burying his face deeper into the crook of the boy's neck.

"It’s stupid boyfriend stuff," Lucas smiled. "I like your stupid boyfriend stuff."

The tension finally snapped. Andy let out a long, rusty sigh, the last vestiges of his murderous rage melting away into the humid air of the washroom. For three centuries, Andy had manipulated humans, seduced them, controlled their desires with performative, brooding dominance. Yet, sitting in a bathroom stall, stripped of his mythology, he felt more seen than he ever had in his immortal life.

Lucas pulled back just enough to look Andy in the eyes. The cocky swagger vanished, replaced by a sudden, jarring vulnerability.

"You're gonna get tired of me, though," Lucas blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. He looked away, tracing a line on the tile floor with his sneaker. "I'm a lot. I'm always like that. I'm dumb, and I'm hyper, and people get bored of dealing with me eventually."

Andy’s ancient heart gave a phantom thud. He reached up, his pale, cold fingers gently framing Lucas’s face, forcing the boy to look at him.

"Lucas," Andy said, his baritone voice ringing with absolute, centuries-old sincerity. "You are the most interesting human I have met in a long time. You aren't afraid of me. You don't fall for my smoldering, brooding performances. You didn't cower when you found out what I was."

Andy let his thumbs brush over Lucas's cheekbones. "You always take what you want. You're really assertive. A dweeb, certainly, but the aggressively assertive kind. I do, kind of, love you. As stupid as that sounds to my ancient sensibilities. You are... cool."

Lucas’s eyes widened. A slow, incandescent grin spread across his face, entirely erasing the brief moment of insecurity.

"I am cool," Lucas breathed, his confidence instantly rebounding to stratospheric levels. He grabbed Andy by the lapels and pulled him in for a hot, demanding kiss. It was aggressive, messy, and entirely perfect, tasting like BBQ chips and raw, unfiltered teenage victory.

When they finally emerged from the stall five minutes later, Andy's leather jacket was slightly rumpled, and Lucas's hair was standing on end.

They unlocked the stall door and stepped out—only to find a half-dozen teenage boys frozen at the sinks, staring at them with wide, horrified eyes. The washroom had filled up while they were occupied.

Andy froze, his 1950s tough-guy facade slamming back into place.

Lucas, however, didn't miss a beat. He adjusted his collar, threw his arm casually around the waist of the most terrifying, brooding apex predator in the school, and strutted toward the exit with the unearned swagger of an emperor.

As they passed the sinks, a kid in a backwards baseball cap slowly, hesitantly raised his hand.

Lucas high-fived him without breaking stride.

Andy closed his eyes, his aristocratic dignity withering into dust as they walked out into the hallway, leaving a trail of absolute, legendary high school rumors in their wake.

Ten minutes later, the high of their bathroom exit was completely obliterated by the harsh, fluorescent reality of the school cafeteria.

They were sitting at the far corner table with Lucas's tightly-knit group of fellow nerds. Andy was still radiating a low-level aura of murderous intent from the washroom rumor mill, while Lucas was happily tearing into a sandwich.

Suddenly, Lucas’s phone vibrated against the plastic table. Then it vibrated again. And again. It sounded like an angry hornet trapped against the plastic.

Lucas picked it up, unlocking the screen. His eyes widened, and a massive, devious grin split his face. "Oh man. The pack is online."

Andy froze. "What does that mean? What is 'online'?"

"Marty’s post is gaining traction," Lucas cackled, sliding the phone across the table so Andy could see the screen.

Beneath the photo of Andy folded into the Volvo hatchback, the replies from the rest of the football team were rolling in with devastating speed.

@BuzzCutTE: Bro looks like he’s about to play some aggressive baseball in a thunderstorm. ⛈️⚾ #teamjacob4eva #WOLFPACK

@LinebackerDave: Aroooo rooo WOOO! 🐺🌕 Someone get this man a flannel!

@MartyTheBeast: Replying to @BuzzCutTE: He literally asked me who Edwina was. He's so old, guys. 💀

@VarsityWolf03: Wait, does he sparkle though?? #TeamJacob all the way, vampires can't even play fetch. 🎾

Andy stared at the glowing rectangle. His dark eyes flicked over the string of emojis, completely unable to process the phonetic spelling of a howl.

"Why are they typing out animal noises?" Andy asked, his voice a flat, deadpan monotone. "And who, by all that is unholy, is Jacob?"

The card-shuffling nerd sitting across from them stopped shuffling his Magic deck. He looked at Andy, then at Lucas, his voice trembling slightly. "He doesn't know who Jacob Black is?"

"He doesn't know anything," Lucas said proudly. "He's culturally marooned in 1955."

"Jacob," the girl with the anime-stickered laptop chimed in bravely, pushing her glasses up her nose, "is the werewolf from Twilight. He is Edward Cullen's primary romantic rival. He is very warm, he doesn't wear shirts very often, and he is fiercely protective of his territory."

Andy slowly turned his head to look at Lucas.

"They are comparing me to a sparkling vegetarian," Andy summarized, his ancient voice tight with suppressed rage, "and comparing themselves to a shirtless, fiercely protective werewolf rival."

"Pretty much," Lucas nodded, grabbing another BBQ chip. "It’s a whole aesthetic war. Vampires vs. Werewolves. Very 2008."

"I have fought in actual wars," Andy hissed, leaning over the table, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the plastic edge. "I have waded through the blood of my enemies. I was the Scourge of the Carpathians. My nemesis was Stradht the Violator. Now he was fearsome. Lethal. He once slaughtered an entire battalion of the King's guard using nothing but a rusted broadsword and the element of surprise."

Lucas stopped chewing. "Whoa. What happened to him?"

"He runs a boutique in Tulsa now," Andy said flatly, the rage briefly superseded by profound disappointment. "Sells the nicest dresses. Very high-end fabrics."

"Wait. The Scourge of the Black Forest sells prom dresses in Oklahoma?"

"We still have epic verbal spars via WhatsApp," Andy muttered, his eye twitching slightly in annoyance. "Though the nature of our warfare has shifted. He keeps trying to sell me something called... 'Crypt-toe.' I keep telling him I have absolutely no use for the dismembered digits of the undead, but he insists it is a 'highly volatile market.' The man has completely lost his mind."

Lucas stared at his boyfriend for three solid seconds before bursting into a fit of breathless, wheezing laughter. He aggressively tapped his phone screen, pulling up a Google Image search, and shoved the glowing screen back into Andy's face.

"This," Lucas declared, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "This is Jacob. This is Taylor Lautner. This is what they're comparing themselves to."

Andy leaned back, his eyes focusing on the screen. The centuries-old annoyance melted from his aristocratic features, replaced instantly by wide-eyed, unadulterated awe.

"Holy sweet bejeebus Christ," Andy breathed, his smooth baritone cracking. He snatched the phone from Lucas’s hand, holding it closer, zooming in on the image. "Who is this man? Where is this man? How do I find this man?"

Lucas blinked. His cocky swagger faltered for exactly one second before his hyper-competitive teenage ego took the wheel.

"Alright, Edwina," Lucas scoffed, grabbing the hem of his graphic tee. In one fluid, entirely inappropriate motion, he ripped his shirt off right there in the middle of the crowded cafeteria. "But can't we wait till we get home to roleplay?"

The visual was catastrophic.

Lucas sat there amidst the tater tots and textbooks, striking a flexed, fiercely protective 'secretly your Jacob' pose. He was painfully scrawny. His chest lacked even the suggestion of a pectoral muscle. And his skin was so blindingly white it practically reflected the fluorescent cafeteria lights like a distress beacon.

Andy slowly lowered the phone, staring at the aggressively confident, hairless, pale teenager flexing in front of him.

"Okay," Andy said flatly, his ancient eyes sweeping over the boy's ribs. "We are taking you to the gym. Immediately. I am having Marty turn you right now, and you are getting a tan."

"I don't need a tan or a gym!" Lucas bragged loudly, puffing out his non-existent chest even further, completely immune to the embarrassment of being half-naked in a public school. "My dick's bigger than his anyway!"

The entire table went dead silent.

The card-shuffling nerd buried his face in his hands with a muffled groan. The girl in the baggy sweater aggressively pulled her anime-stickered laptop screen up to hide her horrified face. The collective eyeroll from the surrounding dweebs was so intense it could have shifted the Earth's magnetic pole.

Andy, however, didn't even look up.

"I suppose that is technically accurate," Andy agreed absently, his eyes drifting right back down to Lucas's phone to swipe to the next picture of Taylor Lautner in the rain. "But the abdominal definition is truly staggering..."

The collective groan of the nerd table was entirely drowned out by the shrill, piercing blast of a whistle.

Mr. Gable, the perpetually exhausted history teacher on cafeteria duty, was marching across the linoleum, his face red and his whistle still hovering near his lips. He pointed a rigid finger at their table.

"Cooper!" Mr. Gable barked, his voice cutting through the ambient lunchroom chatter. "Put your shirt back on! This is a high school cafeteria, not a public beach! What on earth possesses you to disrobe next to the tater tots?"

Lucas’s bravado shattered instantly. The fierce, protective illusion evaporated, leaving behind a panicked teenager who suddenly realized the linoleum floor was very cold against his bare feet.

"I was establishing dominance!" Lucas yelped, frantically grabbing for his discarded graphic tee. He tried to pull it over his head, but in his haste, he got his arm tangled in the neck hole, trapping himself in a blind, flailing fabric prison.

Mr. Gable stopped at the edge of the table, looking down at the struggling boy with a mixture of pity and profound irritation. "Establish dominance in the gymnasium, Cooper. Ten seconds, or you have detention."

A sudden, freezing drop in temperature hit the table.

Andy finally looked up from the smartphone. He slowly set the device down, his dark eyes locking onto Mr. Gable. The 300-year-old aristocratic pride—the aura that had cowed lords and generals—flared to life, entirely bypassing the fact that his boyfriend was currently fighting a losing battle against a cotton t-shirt.

"Is there a problem here?" Andy asked, his baritone voice dropping to a smooth, chilling register that made the hair on the back of Mr. Gable's neck stand up.

Mr. Gable blinked, taking an involuntary step back from the intense, brooding new student. "Uh. The problem is health and safety codes, son. No shirt, no service."

Lucas finally popped his head through the correct hole, his hair standing up in every direction, his face flushed. "I'm decent! I'm decent! Stand down, Edwina, he's got the state health codes on his side!"

Andy’s lethal glare flickered, completely neutralized by the sound of his new, hated nickname. He sighed, the terrifying Lord of the Night deflating back into a tired, bewildered boyfriend.

"Very well," Andy muttered, picking the phone back up and leaning into Lucas's space. "But we are absolutely going to the gym. Your lack of musculature is a tactical vulnerability."

Just as Mr. Gable turned to walk away, shaking his head at the modern generation, Amanda Cooper strolled past the table with her lunch tray. She didn't break her stride. She didn't even look directly at them.

"He thinks he's a werewolf now, Andy," Amanda called out dryly over her shoulder. "Just throw a tennis ball into the parking lot. He'll chase it for hours."

Lucas scowled at her retreating back. "I hate my family."

"I am fascinated by them," Andy murmured, casually swiping to the next image on the phone. "Now, explain to me what a 'protein shake' is, and how quickly we can acquire one."