The diner door creaked open with the kind of dramatic, aching slowness usually reserved for westerns or horror films.
In stumbled Feral Eclipse.
Not strutted. Not walked. Stumbled.
Thane, Gabriel, Cassie, Maya, Rico, Jonah, Emily, and even Diesel—dragging themselves in like a defeated circus, each moving like their bones had been replaced with hangover cement.
Mark trailed in last, perfectly upright and looking like he’d just returned from a casual morning jog instead of a night that ended with tequila-fueled firehouse war stories and an elderly woman drinking them under the table.
They flopped into a corner booth and nearby tables, limbs everywhere. Gabriel’s ears were at half-mast. Maya was wearing sunglasses inside, clutching a water glass like it was a holy relic. Jonah just slumped forward and let his face rest on a menu.
The waitress—a chipper twenty-something with a nametag that said TINA and a lot of emotional armor—raised an eyebrow and strolled over.
“Y’all okay?”
A muffled “define okay” emerged from Thane’s side of the table.
“Let’s start with coffee,” Mark said, sliding her a twenty without making eye contact. “Bring a lot.”
Gabriel mumbled, “Also hashbrowns. A mountain. Like… Everest, but with cheese.”
Jonah groaned, lifting his head slightly. “And maybe a side of forgiveness.”
Emily offered a small smile. “Sorry. Long night.”
Tina raised a brow. “Oh, I know who you are. You’re that werewolf band. Played the arena last night. I saw y’all trending with a seventy-year-old woman doing whiskey shots.”
Cassie croaked, “We don’t talk about the granny.”
“I liked the granny,” Diesel said proudly. “She gave me a shoulder rub and called me ‘handsome trouble.’”
Tina laughed, then nodded. “Well, you’re safe here. Fans won’t mob you. They mostly don’t show up until after ten.”
Right as she said that, the door chimed.
Two young fans walked in, stopped dead, and immediately gasped.
“Ohmygod,” one whispered. “That’s them. That’s them.”
The pack groaned collectively.
Cassie waved weakly. “Hi. We are the ghosts of last night’s concert.”
Gabriel attempted a smile, then accidentally hiccupped and bonked his head on the napkin dispenser.
Thane just raised one clawed hand without opening his eyes.
“Love you. Please… lower your voices.”
The fans approached like they were entering a sacred shrine.
“Could we… get a selfie?” one asked, reverently.
Maya lifted her sunglasses just enough to give her patented you’re-brave-but-I-respect-it squint. “Sure. But no flash. We might disintegrate.”
The selfie happened. It was blurry. Gabriel’s ears were crooked. Thane blinked at the wrong time. Cassie’s eyes weren’t even open. Jonah may have been unconscious.
The fans posted it anyway.
Caption:
“Met Feral Eclipse at a diner this morning. They’re literally dying. We stan true legends. 💀❤️🐺 #HangoverHowlers #ProtectThePack”
Back at the table, the food arrived—steaming, greasy, glorious. Hashbrowns, eggs, biscuits, regret.
Gabriel stabbed a sausage patty with the seriousness of a man dueling his past.
Cassie sipped coffee and whispered, “…Okay. I might live.”
Jonah blinked blearily. “Remind me to put ‘Granny-proof’ on our tour rider.”
Thane grunted, “Make it laminated.”
Mark took a peaceful bite of toast and said nothing.
Because he’d already won.