CHAPTER 5: NAMES OVER WHISKEY

MIA’S P.O.V

The whiskey is already in front of me when I sit down and I do not remember ordering it.

I stare at the glass for a beat, then at him, then back at the glass like maybe it will confess on its own. It smells sharp and warm and a little reckless. Which feels appropriate, considering the night I am having.

“So,” I say, picking it up and taking a sip even though I hate whiskey. It burns all the way down. I do not stop it. “Are you planning on telling me why you showed up at my house like you paid rent there, or are we committing to the mysterious brooding thing for the rest of the night?”

He shifts closer. Not fully. Like he is trying to respect space but only halfway. His knee brushes mine. Accident or not, my stomach flips and I am instantly irritated with myself for noticing.

“Straight to the point,” he says. “I respect that.”

“I do not care,” I say. “I want answers, not applause.”

He exhales through his nose, lifts his glass, drinks slow like he is buying time. His jaw tightens when he swallows. I catch the movement of his throat before I look away, annoyed that my eyes keep doing things without permission.

“You already know what I am,” he says.

I look back at him. “Say it.”

He meets my gaze. Solid. Calm. No hesitation.

“I am a werewolf.”

There it is.

No drama. No buildup. No smile.

I laugh once, sharp and quick, because my brain clearly needs a second to catch up. “Okay. Great. Awesome. Thanks for officially crowning this the weirdest day of my life.”

“You are not surprised,” he says.

“I am in a bar with a stranger who tracked down my mother and just admitted he is a werewolf,” I say. “Surprise packed up and went home hours ago.”

Something like a smile flickers across his face, then disappears.

“What I don't understand,” I continue. “Is why a werewolf is in a human settlement.”

He stares at me for a few long seconds before he answers.

“Your mom,” he says carefully, “is not just someone who messes with herbs.”

My fingers tighten around the glass. “Watch it. Do not accuse my mother of what you know nothing about.”

“I am watching it,” he says. “More than you think.”

“Lucky me,” I mutter. “So talk. How do you know her, and why now?”

He looks away, eyes landing on the bottles behind the bar. I watch him in the reflection instead. Still tense. Still holding something back like it might bite if he lets go.

“I came looking for her because I needed answers,” he says. “About things that started years ago.”

“Years,” I repeat. “And your plan was to just… show up?”

“Yes. But I did not know about you,” he says fast. “You were not part of it.”

“Fantastic,” I say. “Love being an unexpected plot twist.”

He grimaces. “You asked for honesty.”

“I asked for answers,” I snap. “Different thing.”

He turns fully toward me now, and that pull hits again. Like something inside my chest leans toward him on instinct. I hate it. I lean back, put space between us, even though it immediately feels wrong.

“Do you want me to lie to you?” He asks. “I didn't figure you to be a coward.”

“I am not!” I snap. “I just… listen, my mom is not who you think she is.”

“I know your mom because she was connected to people I grew up hearing about,” he says. “I dug into it. Old records. Journals. Stories that never really stayed buried.”

I let out a humorless laugh. “That sounds like the opening scene of a horror movie.”

“It kind of is,” he says.

I watch his face. The seriousness. The weight in his eyes. He is not lying. Not completely. And somehow that makes it worse.

“So what,” I say. “You uncover some ancient mess and decide to knock on our door?”

“Yes,” he says. “And no.”

“Pick.”

“I have business with her.”

My stomach sinks. “What kind of business?”

He hesitates. Just barely. Enough.

I lean forward. “No. You do not get to do that. You do not get to be blunt and then vague like I will not catch it.”

His jaw tightens. “It is complicated.”

“Everything is complicated,” I say. “That answer is lazy.”

“It is the only answer I can give right now.”

I laugh, louder than I mean to. The bartender glances over. I do not care. “Right now. Sure. Let me guess. I would not understand.”

“That is not what I am saying.”

“It is exactly what you are saying,” I shoot back. “You and my mother should compare notes.”

His eyes darken. His posture changes. Not threatening. Just real.

“I am not trying to protect you,” he says. “I am trying not to make things worse. I came because I have my own trouble, so forgive me if I can't coddle you. I am not here to mess up anything.”

“For who,” I ask. “Her or you?”

He does not answer.

The silence stretches. Heavy. Uncomfortable. I feel tired all of a sudden. Angry. Curious. Everything tangled up.

“You know,” I say, quieter now, “everyone keeps acting like I will fall apart if I hear the truth. I am not a child.”

“I know,” he says. His voice drops. “You do not act like one.”

My breath catches for half a second. I hate that too.

“Then stop treating me like one,” I say.

His eyes flick to my mouth, then back to my eyes like he is fighting something. His grip tightens around his glass. His shoulders go rigid, like stillness is a choice.

“This,” he says quietly, “is why this is dangerous.”

I scoff. “Talking is dangerous now?”

“Being near you is,” he says, before he can stop himself.

I blink. “Excuse me?”

He curses under his breath and rubs a hand down his face. “You do not smell like a witch,” he says. “You do not smell like anything I recognize. And my wolf has been loud since you walked in.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Your wolf needs therapy.”

He lets out a rough laugh. “Yeah. Probably.”

The tension snaps tight between us. Sharp. Buzzing. I am annoyed. Curious. Way too aware of how close he is again, even though I did not see him move.

“So what now,” I ask. “You keep dropping half answers and intense staring into my life?”

“I was hoping,” he says slowly, “we could talk again. Somewhere quieter. No yelling mothers.”

I should say no.

I should finish my drink and walk out.

Instead, I nod. “One more time.”

His eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But next time, you tell me more. Or I am done.”

“When,” he asks.

“Soon,” I say, sliding off the stool. “I will text you.”

He frowns. “You do not have my number.”

I smirk and tap his phone, face up on the bar. “You are really bad at being mysterious. Let's meet here. Same time tomorrow. Right now, I've gotta get home.”

Mother would be freaking out by now.

I walk away before he can say anything else, heart racing, head spinning, every step heavier than the last.

I do not trust him.

That is the problem.

I still want the truth anyway.