Same moment, backstage before showtime

As Thane and Gabriel exchanged that brief, tender nuzzle, a quiet ahem rumbled from nearby.

They both turned to see Mark leaning against a flight case just a few steps away, arms crossed, one brow arched in classic judgment mode. He was fully in uniform—blue polo, black cargo pants, a soda in one hand that was already half-empty. How long had he been standing there?

“Don’t mind me,” he said dryly. “Just watching the heartfelt reconciliation unfold. You two want a spotlight or should I cue the violin section?”

Gabriel laughed and flicked his tail. “Oh come on, you’re just mad no one ever nuzzles you.”

Mark took a sip of his soda. “I’d settle for people not throwing me into every emotional support situation like I’m the band therapist.”

Thane snorted. “To be fair, you do have therapist energy.”

“Yeah, well,” Mark grumbled, “next time one of you climbs a thirty-foot truss with zero gear, I’m charging an emotional hazard fee.”

Gabriel grinned and reached over to playfully nudge Mark’s arm. “You’re just jealous I got the nose nuzzle.”

Mark blinked, then looked deadpan at Thane. “He say that like it’s a bad thing?”

Thane chuckled and clapped a clawed hand on Mark’s shoulder. “You’re our rock, old wolf. You keep us steady.”

Mark shook his head with a slight smile. “Someone has to.”

Just then, the house lights dimmed, and the crowd’s roar surged like a tidal wave crashing against the back wall.

“All right,” Mark said, pushing off the case. “Time to make noise.”

Gabriel rolled his shoulders and gave his bass one last strum. “Let’s give ’em a show they’ll never forget.”

Thane cracked his neck and stepped toward the stage, his voice calm now, but full of fire.

“Let’s howl.”