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The Mug had its usual buzzing, beeping, yet strangely relaxing atmosphere as Owen sat at one of the tables nursing a Shot in the Dark. As he'd expected, the workload had piled on hard between the night he met Milt and now. He still wasn't tired enough to ruin a coffee with sugar, but a shot of espresso was definitely warranted after the sea of essays he had to write. The gentle hum of the kitchen combined with the campfire-y folk on the radio would have lulled him to sleep otherwise, and he was planning to meet with that wolf fairly soon.

And of course, his brain wasn't about to let him forget what he did immediately after their first actual meeting. He'd fantasized about topping him. This big, oddly sweet and approachable wolf, whom he'd only really just met. Sure, it had been awhile since he'd gotten any. And he wasn't prudish by any means. But to imagine banging someone he'd only talked to once, after thinking about him all week? And an Anthro, too? Since when was he so horny?

He still couldn't believe that he'd actually scared the fur off Milt by simply walking up to him. The wolf could probably take him down with a toe, and yet was somehow frightened by him. He considered that the guy was just putting on an act to keep from scaring him instead, in which case it was working. And the middle of the university coffee shop would be a bad place to rip off the wool. The fact that he'd followed him out to the forest front before was still a bit worrying, but he seemed sweet when the two were talking, and he didn't immediately fall asleep when Owen started blathering on about the university's history. That made him at least want to give the guy a chance. So here he was, somewhere a bit more populated, waiting to see-

“Can I take that for you?"

The request jarred Owen out of his thoughts and back to reality, where he was still sitting in the café with an empty mug and a half-open copy of an Edgar Allan Poe collection turned to The Cask of Amontillado. Maybe that's why he was acting so wary. Not that he thought the wolf was going to trick him with wine and immure him somewhere. After all, what kind of wine could students afford that anyone would want to drink? But before the moment got too awkward, he uttered a quick “sure" to the barista and nodded his head before she took off with the empty cup. He'd already finished one… looking at his watch, he noted that he'd spent the last hour sipping coffee and tangentially monitoring Montresor completely over-reacting to his friend being kind of an annoying drunkard because… well, it wasn't really clear. Something about being insulted? He took note to bury his professor alive next time they gave him a shitty mark.

His interest in the Totally Goth Collection eventually waned and he pulled his phone out, unlocking it and noticing he had a message. At first he was hoping it was Milt, but then he remembered that they hadn't actually exchanged numbers and, with a bit less enthusiasm, opened the message to see who it was.

Salut, Owen. Veuillez appelez-nous bientôt. Ton pére et moi tu nous manques… tu es bon? Tu as besoin de quelque chose? N'oubliez pas que nous sommes ici toujours pour toi et nous t'aimons. Bonne journ** ée!**

Oh, Mom… Trying hard as always. He figured she'd be used to him being gone by now. And he wasn't keen to waste the few daytime minutes he had talking to his parents. They'd had two decades to talk to him. Of course, knowing his mother, this was probably a test to make sure he was still using French and hadn't completely given over to the “Empire Anglophonie Tyrannique," or whatever she thought would happen. He lightly mused to himself what that would actually look like as he replied.

Bonsoir, Mama. Oui, je suis bon. Je suis dans un café attendre pour un ami.

Je vous aime, aussi, et j'appelerai à demain. Bonne journ** ée! **

There. Hopefully promising to do the Good Son Thing would keep him out of trouble. You know, as long as he followed through and subjected himself to weird looks from either his roommate or passers-by as he carried on in French.

He was tempted to get a second Shot before Milt arrived… whenever that would be. But he figured getting strung out on caffeine wasn't the best idea before meeting him. Better to keep a level head. Deciding to just go with a plain black coffee, he made it back to the line just when the doors opened and a familiar silhouette moved through them.

Not a canid one, weirdly enough, but another human. A classmate of his, and one of the few people he enjoyed talking to. Confident, curious, and always carrying a good sense of humor. When she spotted him in line a familiar friendly smirk drew across her mouth and she wandered over to him.

“Hey, Owen. What's up?"

“Hey, Esther." He shifted over slightly, inviting her to stand and chat. “Nothing too crazy. Just trying to recover from the week."

“Oh God, tell me about it. I was up to my ears in Plath and Sexton for three days straight. Not just the poems, either."

“You read The Bell Jar, too?"

“Yeah. And you were right. It really did feel unfinished. But maybe that's not a bad thing."

His head gave a slight tilt. “How so?"

“While it's true that we typically expect the final act in a story to tie up every plot line and leave no loose ends, in this case it's weirdly poetic. Her book, like her life, is cut short. And we never really get to know what could have been."

“Was the book really cut short, though? We have no indication that she ever planned to do a sequel."

Esther took a pause to mull that over before responding. “But she was writing it under a fellowship that got withdrawn when the publisher wasn't happy with it. You could make an argument that this led to the book being cut short and there being no sequel." Another rather important detail then occurred to her. “Well, that and she died."

“I'm not sure there's an argument to be made that this was intentional on Plath's part, even with her crazy high I.Q. and the tendency for her poetry to be autobiographical. But yeah, it's interesting how a roman à clef can reflect the author in unintended ways."

“She'd also attempted suicide before the book was written, so maybe she was at least wary that things could end that way. But yeah, nothing really solid." With their light autopsy of the author's life and work concluded, Esther opted to switch topics. “Anyway, what brings you here?"

“Oh, just reading some Poe. Felt like getting sad, you know?"

“I was just reading Plath, so yes." The two shared a light giggle. “Didn't take you long to start reading in public again."

“What do you mean?"

“I thought you'd be wary of that wolf guy falling on you."

He raised a brow at that. “…in a coffee shop?"

“If he still had his headphones in, maybe." That got a short laugh out of Owen, much as he didn't want to admit it was true. After all, he was standing there with said headphones in his pocket.

“Nothing gets between me and a book."

“How about your coffee?"

The two of them turned to see a different, rather haggard-looking barista staring back at them, clearly just wanting them to get their drink and move on. Probably some poor grad student who was TAing on top of it. “Can I take your order now? Or do you need to analyze Tolstoy first?"

“I could, for the record." He chose not to see the barista roll their eyes. “But for now, I'll just have a black coffee. Dark roast, please. You want anything, Esther?"

“No, I'm good." That smirk reappeared. “Was just waiting for this exact moment."

Owen shot her a jocular sneer. “You bitch."

“And I'll never change." They both laughed and Esther turned to leave, giving Owen a pat on the shoulder. “Later, Owen."

He waved her off before paying for his coffee and stepping to the side to wait for it. Thoughts of where Milt was started to return to his head when the barista knocked on the counter behind him, placing his coffee.

“Here's you drink."

“One sec. I'm analyzing Tolstoy."

“Very funny." They pushed Owen's cup toward him, the jerk of it almost spilling some on the counter. “Have a nice day."

“You, too, coffee drone." He lifted his coffee up slowly in front of him and then turned around to head back to his table. What he ended up doing instead was giving a slight jump when there, before him, was the wolf of the hour. A splash of coffee leapt from his cup in that moment and dampened the front of his shirt. “Oh, geez…" He looked back just in time to catch that same barista turning away with a satisfied smile.

Milt donned what was becoming a typical sheepish frown and rubbed the back of his head, his ears going flat. “Sorry… didn't mean to scare you."

Owen, with an embarrassed pout, grabbed a whole fistful of napkins from the counter and started wiping his shirt. “It's fine. In a cosmic way, I sort of had it coming." Unlike their incident on the bench, he resisted the urge to gauge how many eyes were on them. “You getting anything?"

“Oh. Yeah. I will be." The wolf dropped his arm down again. “Just wanted to say hi first. And sorry for the wait. That assignment dragged on forever…"

“You're preaching to the choir." He pointed in the direction of his table. “I'm just sitting over there. Come on over when you've got your drink."

“Oh. Okay."

Without saying anything else Owen hurried back to his table, careful to keep his coffee from going anywhere else. He felt the familiar unpleasant heat spread through his cheeks and forehead. Between his previous confusing fantasies about the guy and now getting startled by him in turn he just wanted to sink into the floor. When he got back to his table he sunk into his chair instead and hid his face behind his Poe collection. Now he almost wished Montresor would bury him.

Eventually he got past the small humiliation of Milt startling him into spilling his coffee, and he heaved it out of himself with a big sigh. Milt would probably be back any minute… hopefully, and sulking behind a book wasn't the best way to start their… meet-up. Yeah. That worked. So he pulled himself upright, marked the page in his book before setting it down, and took a swig from his coffee until he felt that masochistic scald. As always, the slight burn melting to warmth was incredibly soothing, and he was nearly his usual self when the wolf finally made his way over and sat down.

There was an unmistakable look of discomfort on Milt's face, and Owen had a fairly good idea why that was. He really wasn't good at this first impression thing, was he? “So, uh…" Milt looked up and directly at him, and that stare once again caught him off-guard for a second before he continued. “…how are things going?"

“Umm, fine I guess." The wolf was stirring some milk into his coffee, looking like he just wanted to occupy himself with something. “Just been busy. You?"

“Also drowning in assignments. And some light reading, of course." He lightly pointed to his book. Like your typical collection, it featured the author's name below surrounded by an ornate display of symbols found through their work. In this case, those included swirling vines with thorns, skulls, and the ever-famous avian.

“Huh. I think I read one of his stories for my English class. It had a talking bird or something?"

“A raven?"

“Yeah, that was it."

“Yep. The raven known as 'Nevermore.' Who basically dropped by to tell the narrator that his woman isn't rising from the dead." The wolf gave a perplexed look at his description. “What? Just because it has a bunch of gilded language doesn't mean it's deep. Far as we know, he didn't write it to be. He wrote it to be haunting."

“Isn't being deep the whole point, though?"

“No, not necessarily. It is for a lot of authors, sure, but others were more concerned with the way things made you feel than whether they were touching on some great metaphysical truth. Poe was one of the 'feels' people, generally. Get in, leave a lasting impression, and get out."

Milt spooned some of his milk-coffee mixture into his muzzle after letting it cool for a bit. “What impression was I supposed to get?"

“According to Poe himself, the bird is meant to act as a symbol of 'Mournful and Never-Ending Remembrance.' So a bad memory, basically. In this case, the death of the narrator's lover. It parrots 'nevermore' as a reminder that she will, 'nevermore,' come to see him because she's, you know, dead. And there's some loose reference to Athena and Satan. The main thing driving the poem is really the way it sounds. The rhyme scheme, the meter, how many different things he can rhyme with 'nevermore' without referencing 'whore.' That kind of thing."

The wolf let out a small laugh at the last bit. He remembered finding the poem dreary and depressing when he read it, but this guy was somehow finding humor in it. “So the bird was just telling him that death doesn't reverse itself?"

“Basically. And Poe uses rhyme to keep you reading about it." He took a light sip of his coffee. “And people still read that poem almost 200 years later, so now I have to write essays about it. Along with The Cask of Amontillado."

“I've head of that one before. What's it about?"

“A guy gets really mad at his friend for some reason and buries him alive." He made a waving gesture with his hand. “Been there, done that." Milt shot him a look somewhere between surprise and trepidation, and he couldn't hold back a snort of laughter. “I'm kidding, Milt. Do I look like I'm in the Mafia?"

It hadn't crossed his mind when he first saw him, but Milt did note that Owen's shirt was pretty similar to the one he was wearing before. He really seemed drawn to black for some reason, down to the rims of his glasses. The look definitely suited him, or at least he thought so. Far as the question was concerned… “Don't know much about the Mafia, to be honest. Do they have a look?"

The fact that such a well-known cultural reference was lost on the wolf was a bit surprising to Owen. “Have you ever seen The Godfather?"

“I've… seen the poster for it." Aside from the obviously different attire, something else caught his notice. “You don't have the same face fur."

“The same what?"

“That… fur over your lips?"

“Fur over… OH! You mean the moustache." Wow. He really hadn't been around humans much. “Yeah, I don't really grow out my facial hair. Makes me look ancient with the glasses."

Facial hair. That's what it was called. So why wasn't the stuff on his crown called head hair? Or crown hair? “Ah. Well, do you… grow anything else out?"

That stopped Owen midway to another sip of his coffee. “Umm, what?"

“Err, I mean, umm… well… it's just, it seems like humans… grow it in… other places?" The wolf shifted in his chair, increasingly aware of how awkward this was sounding.

“Like… my hair?"

Hoping whatever he meant wasn't too embarrassing, Milt replied. “…sure."

“Oh. Okay, then." He wasn't convinced that this was what Milt actually meant, but he decided to humor the poor wolf. “The longest I've ever had it is a few centimeters, and it was a pain to manage. I prefer it this way. Saves me money on shampoo and keeps my hair out of my eyes."

So 'hair' is what he called headfur… and all the other hair was specific? Weird. “Makes sense, I guess." But now he was curious about another aspect of the human. “Mind if I ask you something else?"

“Go for it."

“I hope this doesn't sound rude or anything, but… I've noticed you're a bit… umm…" Milt began lightly scratching his knuckle, nervous he was going to say something wrong... again.

“'A bit' what?"

“Erm… darker? Than some other humans? But, like, lighter than others…?" The nerves collected in his stomach and sunk to the bottom. He felt like he was walking over a mine field, and Owen's reaction wasn't giving him any hints on where to move. So he just threw in the towel and asked. “Is that the right way to say it?"

“No, not really." The petrified stare from the wolf prompted a quick follow-up. “But I know what you're trying to ask. And you're not wrong. I'm not completely white."

“Oh, um… what are you, then? Or, well… w-where-“

“Milt, relax. I'm not about to castigate you for being curious." Milt gave him a confused look at that word. “It means punish. Anyway, my mother is a French immigrant and my father is half-Lebanese. They met when he was in Marseille for university."

“Oh, okay. Do they speak French?"

“Oui, et je peux le parler, aussi. Et toi?"

“What?"

“I'll take that as a 'no.' But yes, we can all speak French. I spoke it all the time growing up." And he never really escaped it, if the earlier texts from his mother were any indication. “What about you? Do you know any other languages?"

“We have an old writing called Scratch, and I know a little bit of it. And canines sometime howl to each other. Nothing beyond that."

“Scratch, huh?" The term caught his attention. “There's a feline girl in one of my classes who talked about that. She found an old book in her grandmother's basement and she's working with one of the Language professors to translate it for a thesis project."

“Oh. Any idea what the book is?"

“She thinks it might be an old recipe book. It had her grandfather's name on it, and apparently he was a chef."

“And she's just translating it for her thesis?"

“'Just translating' is harder than you might think, especially if you can't just throw it in Google or DeepL and call it a day. She has to become fluent in an uncommon script, to the point where she can fill in gaps and make out messy handwriting. It's not that easy." He flexed a brow at the wolf. “Unless you can, let's say, spit out Bible verses in it?"

“…okay, point taken." Like a thorn in the side. “Not sure I appreciate the lecture, though."

“We don't appreciate being condescended to constantly."

“'We'?"

“Arts students, Milt."

“That's… not what I was doing?"

Owen made air quotes to emphasize his point. “'Just translating' made it sound like you thought it was too easy. I've translated book passages from French, a well-known language, and even that's hard at times. I can't imagine trying to do it with an underused script."

“I really didn't mean it like that…" Milt was swinging between hurt and confused as this went on. He'd asked about his hair and his skin, but somehow THIS is what he got prickly over?!

Owen was about to keep ranting until he registered the growing discomfort in the wolf's face, and then heard what he said. He was reading his own frustrations into the wolf's words… when he was more than likely just curious. Taking a pause to collect himself, he raced for something to defuse the bomb he'd built like an idiot. “I… sorry about that." At this point, even he was struggling for the right words. “I'm just used to being dismissed, is all."

That sounded like a weird way to put things, and the wolf had to ask. “What do you mean?"

“I mean people assuming that anyone in Arts is just there because they can't do a 'real' degree."

“I'm sure it's not THAT bad-“

“I've been flat out called a retard for no reason, talked down to like a child, told I'll never get a job or amount to anything, and even told that I'm 'genetically inferior.' Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean." He took another pause to let out a breath. “So yes, it IS that bad."

“Who called you retarded?"

“Some dickhead in Engineering. Made some stupid crack about 'your mother swallowed your brother' and then called me retarded when I had no clue what the fuck he was talking about." The memory of feeling insanely frustrated with the guy talking in circles and mocking him stoked the growing heat in his chest. “Something about gametes or some shit."

“…so they're jerks to you, too."

“What?"

“I think I know the guy you're talking about. Really skinny? Always in a jean jacket? Kind of looks like he eats babies for fun?"

“Wow. You really captured his essence there." The only thing he would have added was a mind narrower than a straw. After a brief giggle at the description, they continued. “I never even got his name, just the fact that he's an asshole."

“It's Dustin. And 'asshole' is way too nice." Owen shot him a surprised glance, not really expecting this from him. “No, seriously. The guy's a massive fucking prick. Just… all the time. And he hates Anthros, too. Loudly." Without realizing it he was adding a heavy dose of vitriol to his description. “I'll be at a computer minding my own business and he'll tell me to 'stop drooling on the keyboard.'"

With the appropriate amount of sarcasm Owen replied. “He sounds delightful."

“Like getting gum stuck in your fur…" Only he was harder to clip out in the end. “Sorry you had to deal with him, too."

“I'll live. He's far from the first person to be a dick to me." It struck him that he was feeling better about what happened after their exchange. Like he'd just dropped the weight of it suddenly, or at least some of it. And he'd just shared this with the wolf he was trying to be wary of. A sudden pang of guilt followed. “And, uh… sorry again for unloading on you there. Guess I read your question wrong."

“Huh."

“What?"

“You got mad at the thought that I was dismissing you for being an Arts student, but not at how I asked about your skin?"

“Well, you seemed genuinely curious. And from what you told me before, you haven't met many humans." Which raised another question. “I'm curious, though. Why did you think I'd get mad about that?"

“It just… seems like a touchy subject from what I've gathered. Kind of like canids and their fur."

“Hm." Having only heard bits and pieces about this back in high school, Owen found himself curious. “Do tell."

With the atmosphere between the two a bit more relaxed, and Owen forgetting the coffee stain on his shirt, the two settled into an exchange similar to the one they'd had before. Only this time they found themselves sharing more about what their respective worlds were like. Owen found himself surprised that some canids felt odd or mixed fur patches were a sign of impurity of breed, and that wolves were sometimes looked down on as being less civilized. He naturally wondered what that meant for Milt, being a wolf with a white patch over one of his eyes. While he didn't find his own story all that interesting, Milt certainly did.

“Wait. Someone actually called you a terrorist?"

“I was surprised, too. Thought I hid it pretty well." Hehe, another surprised look from him. “I'm kidding again. But yeah, it doesn't take much to inspire stupid people to harass you. Just be a bit different from them and you're fair game."

“That's crazy, though. Why would they even think that?"

“I'm slightly darker and I had a French accent for awhile. That's all they needed."

“You had an accent?"

“Up until middle school, yeah. I didn't really use English that much until I started elementary, and we STILL speak French at home. So the accent stuck around for a bit. Long enough to land me the name French Boy all through high school." When he heard the wolf snort out a laugh he just looked at him. “What's so funny?"

“I think you're more insulted by how bad the name was."

“Well, yeah. 'French Boy.' I'm a boy and I speak more languages than they do. The insult is lacking so much I had to find one myself."

Milt found himself genuinely amused by the human across from him, handing over a few more chuckles. Even more, he was finding himself intrigued by what the guy had told him. Whether you were human or anthro, people looked for ways to scrutinize you. The only change was the focus. When it wasn't your species, it was everything else about you. Or even something they'd invent. Lately, he found himself dealing with both, and also really missing his way of dealing with them-

“OH! Right! Before I forget." Milt was jarred from his train of thought just in time to see a familiar electronic make its way to the table. “I think these are yours?"

“My headphones!" His ears perked up in excitement, followed by his tail wagging happily. “I thought they were gone for good! Where did you find them?"

“They got caught in the bench when you took off running that day. Figured I'd hold onto them in case I ran into you again."

“Thank you so much!" Without thinking about it much… at all, he reached out across the table and gave Owen a hug. Owen, in turn, started blushing furiously. Along with that slight musky smell and soft fur from before, he was keenly aware that there were definitely eyes on the two of them now. Not to mention the wolf's tail wagging again… in that cute way. He took too long to respond, it seemed, since the wolf bounced back in a flash before Owen could even start raising his arms up.

“SORRY, sorry about that! I got excited and-“ He was cut short by Owen putting his hand up.

“It's… fine." No point in drawing more attention with a frantic apology he didn't need. “Just don't run away this time."

Milt felt his own cheeks burn slightly and his ears flattened as he sat back down casually as he could manage, picking up the coffee cup he somehow managed to avoid knocking over and spooning some more of it into his mouth. It had gone lukewarm by that point, giving him a hint of how long they'd been sitting there. He'd also heard a few people laugh, which wasn't making him feel any better.

Owen had also caught the sound of sardonic laughter. He couldn't make out the whispers, but he had a horrible suspicion that Milt could given how his ears twitched. Well, fuck… that didn't help. He could practically taste his own toes at that point. Seeing the wolf slowly trying to vanish from the world, he figured broaching the subject was better than stewing in it instead. “…sorry. I didn't mean to-“

“Don't worry about it." With a huff and a puff, but no property damage, he looked up and blew out an answer. “I'd rather stay here, anyway. Be embarrassed together."

It was an oddly sweet sentiment, to endure their self-inflicted humiliations together. For a moment, Owen didn't even know what to say. All he managed was a perplexed and slightly admiring stare back to the wolf. In spite of him managing to both start and end things on some sour or awkward note, Milt stuck around and was even playing into it. At this point, he was starting to feel like Rocky… only not that ripped. Lightly shaking off the blush from what that implied, he noted that he hadn't gotten through much of his now-tepid second cup. Like the student he was, he gulped it down anyway before getting back to the wolf. “Actually, let's head out. I think I'm good on coffee now." Words I never thought I'd say…

“Oh. Okay, then…" Not exactly how he was hoping to end things… but he finished off his coffee, too, not wanting to stay in the café alone after what had just happened.

The two of them, trying hard as they could to ignore anyone staring at them, put their cups in the designated bin and finally made their way to the exit. After sitting in the warm aromatic space for that long, both welcomed the briskness of the fresh outside air blowing by them. The sky was clouding over and was now a gradient of navy, orange, and violet compared to the earlier blue. They'd been in there longer than they thought… good thing they were both were done with classes for the day. When they were finally a comfortable distance from the building, Milt was preparing to bid Owen a good night when the human suddenly turned to him, looking genuinely upset.

“I'm so sorry!"

“What?"

“This isn't how I wanted this to go at all. I just wanted us to have a normal talk this time, without me scaring you or ranting like a drunk professor. And…" He released an exasperated sigh and brought a hand to his face. “And all I did was make you uncomfortable…"

“I wasn't uncomfortable."

“Yes, you were. I could see you hunching over and your ears were flat." And just like that, peeking through his fingers, he saw the wolf's ears press down again as he looked away. With a lesser heave he dropped his hand. “I'm just… really sorry I come off like an asshole so much. I didn't-"

“I don't think you're an asshole."

“You wouldn't be the first one to think it, so you don't have to patronize me."

“I'm not. You're actually pretty cool when you relax a bit. Besides." The wolf reached into his pocket and pulled out his rescued earphones, missing how being called “cool" made Owen's face flash red. “You didn't have to give these back to me. And I'm really happy you did."

“Oh. I, uh… just thought you'd want your stuff back. Are they really that important to you?" He thinks I'm cool?!

“I get really anxious in crowds, and they help keep me calm. And money's tight, so I didn't want to get new ones." He plugged them back into is phone as he spoke. “Been missing them like crazy. Thanks again!"

“Ah. Well. Happy to help, I guess." His mind briefly housed the thought of such an attachment being weird, but really, it wasn't much different from him and his books. “And… I'm really sorry for what I said back there. I didn't mean to embarrass you like that."

“With the headphones and the hug, we'll call it even." That familiar abashed look fell over him, complete with an arm across his torso. “And uh… sorry again for that. I just got excited."

Much as he wanted to be mad about it, and the coffee on his shirt, Owen became acutely aware that he was surprisingly tranquil about both ordeals. More than that, he was less concerned with his own feelings and more with how the wolf was faring. If said wolf was wearing wool right now, it was some quality stuff. Straight from Helios' flock. “It's fine." Maybe he'd get abducted. Or maybe buried in Paris, which would honestly be cool. But something about this guy made the human want to know more. So, tossing his caution aside, he pressed forward. “Anyway, there are better places to be embarrassed together. If you want."

Milt's arm fell back down and he couldn't stop his tail from moving. “Sure! What did you have in mind?"

He was about to propose watching some hilariously drunk dancing at the campus pub, but then he had an even better idea. “I know you said you're not fond of crowds, but… out of curiosity, how do you feel about a theatre?"

“Umm, fine I guess?"

“In that case, ever see the Rocky Horror Picture Show?"

“No. What's that?"

Just the thought of trying to explain that whole affair made Owen laugh a bit. “It would be easier just to show you. But it's a good time, I promise. And I have an extra ticket…"

Milt had zero idea what he was about to sign up for, but the thought of getting to hang out more with Owen was enticing. “Okay, sure. When is it?"

“Two days from now, in the evening. And just so we can touch base…" He pulled his phone out. “Let's swap numbers."

The act of sharing their phone numbers wasn't in itself a long or arduous task, but it did fill the two of them with an eager anticipation of what it meant. Once they put their phones back in their pockets Owen continued. “Cool. So, see you in two days?"

“Sure. Unless… you're open to chatting before then?" Milt ignored his furious urge to wag his tail again.

Owen, meanwhile, couldn't stop a smile from forming. Even after whatever that previous meeting would be called at this point, he still wanted to talk more. A weird, but rather pleasant, sensation built up in his chest and had to be pushed down a bit before he responded. “Yeah, definitely. We can sort out who brings the squirt guns and toast." A blush managed to break through and redden his cheeks again. “And… just chat. Yeah. That sounds… kinda nice."

Opting to put a pin in “squirt guns and toast," since he didn't even know where to start with that, the wolf beamed lightly and let his tail do its thing. “Great! So, uh… we'll talk later, then?"

“Sure will." He reached his hand out toward the wolf, the light from the setting sun giving it an almost golden hue. The feeling in his chest swelled a bit when he felt soft fur encompass his hand. “And… thanks again for this. It was… actually pretty fun."

“Yeah. Can't wait to do it again." With a bit of hesitation, he managed to let the human's hand go and finally start turning to leave. “So… have a good night, Owen."

“You, too, Milt… talk to you soon."

After the two managed to part ways despite whatever mystical force kept holding them together, they strode off to where the remainder of their evenings would take them. At around the same time, though, a thought hit that had the two stop in their tracks. Did they just agree to a date? After talking to each other twice? Granted they never said the word “date," but even with all the chaos and even the bit of friction they'd just had, it felt like there was more than just a friendship growing. They'd also just exchanged numbers, which made it feel even more formal. Neither one really made an actual conclusion in the end, with Owen opting to avoid adding labels on top of taking in Rocky Horror while Milt opted to treat it as a friendly outing until proven otherwise. Whatever they decided it was, both of their evenings were tempered with a quiet, warm eagerness to see what it actually became. As long as no bricks or Parisian catacombs were involved.