When Michael texted him the next morning to say that he had the whole day off, a wave of relief washed over Ezra. His siblings were at school and he pinned a sticky note to the microwave before speeding off towards Michael’s house in his bat form.
It was not one of his brightest ideas and, when he transformed in Michael’s back garden, he clutched his injured arm and winced as it throbbed with pain. By the time Michael answered the door, he had forced a smirk onto his face and let his arm fall limply to his side. His wounds were covered by a sweater and Ezra strolled into Michael’s house nonchalantly when the werewolf stepped aside, ignoring the way his arm threatened to peel away from his body if he didn’t rest it soon.
Michael closed the door and hovered uncertainly, and Ezra bit back a
