Page 9 of Crowbar

Spencer’s head snapped up. He turned on his heels, still crouched, and his whole face lit up like somebody had plugged him into the goddamn sun. Eyes wide, mouth breaking into a grin so genuine it nearly split his face in two. But that radiant smile wasn’t for me. His gaze had locked onto Gunner on my shoulder like I was just the transportation system.

“Noodles!” Spencer scrambled to his feet, abandoning the clipboard entirely, and crossed the aisle with an enthusiasm usually reserved for airport reunions. His hands were already reaching. “Oh my god, look at you. You’ve gotten bigger. How have you gotten bigger? It’s been three days!”

Gunner launched herself off my shoulder, and Spencer caught her mid-air with reflexes that surprised both of us. She was licking his chin, his neck, the inside of his ear, and he was laughing, a bright, rapid-fire laugh while trying to hold her squirming body against his chest.

“Her name is Gunner,” I said.

“Her name is Noodles, and she loves me.” He buried his face in her fur, and Gunner’s tail was a blur. “Don’t you? Don’t you love me? Yes, you do. You’re perfect, and your dad has terrible taste in names.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but my wolf settled into a contented stillness that shut me up. Watching Spencer hold my dog, face half-hidden in black-and-tan fur, laughing like the sound had been stored up and was finally spilling over, did something I didn’t have words for.

Then he winced when he shifted Gunner to his other arm.

There was a quick tightening around the eyes and a slight hitch when he adjusted his grip. His left arm. He’d moved Gunner to his left arm and the weight had hit something that hurt.

My wolf stopped settling and started paying attention. So did I.

Spencer didn’t notice me noticing. He was too busy letting Gunner chew on his name tag while he babbled about her growth rate and ear development and something about puppy teeth that I was only half hearing. My eyes were locked on the way he was holding his left arm just slightly closer to his body. Protective.

Three days ago, that arm had been fine. He’d dragged cat litter bags with it, reached for collars, and scanned barcodes. No hitch. No wince. No careful tucking against his ribs.

Something had happened between then and now.

“So…” Spencer said, adjusting Gunner again—right arm this time, smooth, no wince. “What brings you back?”

“Pee pads.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Chewed through them.” I pulled the toothpick from my mouth and rolled it between my fingers, watching the way his eyes tracked the movement before snapping back to my face. Color crept over his cheeks. “Need the heavy-duty ones, if you’ve got ’em.”

Spencer looked down at Gunner. “You eat pee pads? That’s disgusting. I’m disappointed in you.” Gunner licked his chin. “Okay, I forgive you. But we’re going to work on your dietary choices.”

He was already moving toward the aisle, Gunner tucked against him like she’d always been there. “We have a brand that’s supposed to be chew-resistant. I say ‘supposed to’ because I personally haven’t tested them with my teeth, but the packaging makes bold claims.”

“Bold claims.” The male was amusing. And had no clue what he was doing. I’d clocked it the last time, yet he was good at faking his way through it.

“Very bold. Almost aggressive, actually. There’s a picture of a Rottweiler on the front looking very smug about it.” He stopped in front of the display, scanning the shelves with his free hand while Gunner gnawed contentedly on her collar. “Here. These ones. Triple-layer, adhesive backing, quote indestructible unquote.” He turned the package over. “They also cost twice as much, which feels like a scam, but capitalism is just organized theft with better branding.”

“You always editorialize the merchandise?”

“Guess I don’t know when to shut my mouth.” His eyes flicked to mine, held for a beat, and darted away. The color on his cheeks deepened, spreading toward his ears. “These should work. If she destroys them, bring the remains back and I’ll write a strongly worded letter to the manufacturer.”

I took the package from him, and our fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did I. His skin was soft and warm, and up close I could see a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose that the fluorescent lights had hidden last time.

My wolf pressed even closer.

“Thanks.” I tucked the pads under my arm. “Spencer.”

His name sat differently inside of me than it had three days ago. Heavier. Like it had picked up weight somewhere between the pet store and every time I’d replayed the sound of his laugh while lying awake at two in the morning with a puppy snoring on my chest.

“You’re welcome.” His voice had gone quieter. “Mr. Biker.”

The corner of my mouth pulled. Why did that nickname amuse me so much? “Name’s Crowbar.”

“I figured that out already. I saw it on your cut the last time you were here,” he admitted. “It’s displayed like a billboard.”

“I sometimes forget it’s back there.” I liked that he’d already known my name. I liked a lot of things about the human, especially how easily he blushed.