"You're awfully quiet," Caleb remarked, his observation cutting through the silence as we stood at the grocery counter. Attempting to contribute, I reached for my card, but he swiftly intercepted it, slipping my card into his pocket. In a decisive move, he produced his own card, taking charge of the payment for the groceries and the twelve bottles of beer. Twelve bottles—enough to elicit a reaction in humans, but not nearly sufficient to affect a werewolf.
I gathered from his purchases that pasta was on the menu, along with thoughtful treats for Pixie. Throughout the entire process, from selection to payment, I remained mostly silent, speaking only when necessary. His astute observation lingered in the air, a reminder of my unusually muted presence. He is right, I admitted internally, ack
