The studio lights dimmed as the band’s clip played — that rooftop version of “Run With Me”, lit by LA starlight and raw emotion. The audience was dead silent. Not because they were bored. Because they were glued to it.

On-screen, the moment where Gabriel wrapped an arm around Rowan played again.

As the video faded, the camera swung back to the host of “The Crawley Hour Live!” — a smug-faced, salt-and-pepper-haired cynic who’d made headlines just a few weeks ago for sarcastically declaring:

“Feral Eclipse? More like Feral Ego. Give it two months and they’ll be back to busking with a cardboard sign.”

Tonight… he looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He cleared his throat and stared directly at the lens.

“Okay… so… I may have been a little harsh on the werewolves.”

Laughter rippled through the studio audience.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he said, hands raised. “I still don’t understand how a band of clawed, barefoot, howling creatures has taken over the rock charts, and Billboard’s Top 10, and late night streaming. But after watching this…” He gestured toward the screen again. “…I get it.”

He leaned forward.

“That wasn’t a PR stunt. That wasn’t a label-pushed viral campaign. That was just… a pack. A real one. Taking care of someone who once believed in them when no one else did. And if that doesn’t make you feel something?” He paused. “Then you’re the beast, not them.”

The audience broke into applause.

He waited for the sound to die down, then grumbled, “Damn it. My producer said not to cry on air again…”

More laughter.

Then, surprisingly, he leaned back and cracked a small smile. “So here it is. I was wrong. They’re not just claws and fire and noise.”

He held up a glossy still image from the rooftop shoot — Gabriel and Rowan, side-by-side under the stars.

“They’re heart.”

Gabriel saw the clip the next morning while lounging shirtless on the couch in the van, tangled in a blanket Thane had tossed over him.

“Hey,” he said, ears flicking. “Crawley’s crying on camera again.”

Thane peered over from the kitchenette, sipping coffee. “Good.”

Mark, from the driver’s seat, just muttered, “Should’ve cried the first time.”