Three Werewolves: Tour Blog

Next night, backstage at the new venue, two hours before showtime

The venue was a serious step up from the last one—high ceilings, clean dressing rooms, freshly waxed floors, and stage rigging that didn’t look like it might fall apart with a strong gust of bass. Thane was perched up on a catwalk above stage left, fine-tuning a stubborn lighting anchor while the crew buzzed below like caffeinated ants.

Mark had been uncharacteristically quiet during load-in. Not the good kind of quiet either—the intentional kind. Thane had noticed, of course, but with all the tech checks and patch corrections going on, he hadn’t had time to dig into it.

Then Gabriel’s voice crackled over comms.

“Thane? Uh… did you mess with the dressing room?”

Thane furrowed his brow. “No, I’ve been up here the whole time. Why?”

“Then… you should probably come see this.”

Thane climbed down and made his way to the dressing room, passing through the familiar backstage maze of cables, dim light, and low conversation. As he stepped into the doorway, he stopped cold.

The entire room was plastered—plastered—with Rocket Gator stickers.

They were everywhere: on the walls, the mirrors, the ceiling tiles, the backs of chairs. Even Gabriel’s prized guitar case had stickers inside it, including one right over the logo that read “RIDE THE ROCKET, COWARD.” Another one near the coffee station simply said “GATOR SEES ALL.”

Gabriel stood in the middle of the chaos, holding up one of the stickers between two claws like it was radioactive. His fur bristled as he scanned the carnage, wide-eyed.

“This is a hate crime,” he muttered.

Thane stared in awe, then slowly broke into a grin. It was beautiful. It was unhinged. It was exactly the kind of calculated, spite-fueled vengeance Mark specialized in.

And then he saw it—the crown jewel of the scene.

A framed poster, lit perfectly by a soft white spotlight, hung dead center on the wall. It showed all three of them on the Rocket Chomp Coaster, snapped mid-scream by the on-ride camera. Gabriel’s ears were pinned back. Thane looked mid-howl. And Mark?

Mark looked dead into the camera.

Expressionless. Unbothered. Like the gator ride was a business meeting he didn’t schedule but had shown up to anyway.

That broke Thane. He doubled over, wheezing with laughter.

Just then, Mark walked in, clipboard under one arm, casual as ever.

“Sound check’s in twenty,” he said, brushing past them. “Oh—and Gabriel, I added Rocket Gator charms to your guitar strings. Gotta keep the theme consistent.”

Gabriel sputtered. “You touched my guitar?!”

“I wore gloves.”

Thane leaned on the wall, tears in his eyes. “You magnificent bastard…”

Mark glanced over, tail flicking once. “That’ll teach you both to drag me to a cursed neon gator hellscape.”

Gabriel pointed at him, incredulous. “This means war.”

Mark simply nodded, already turning to leave. “I look forward to it.”

One hour later, somewhere between Amarillo and nowhere useful

Thane should’ve known it was coming.

The moment Gabriel pressed his muzzle to the van window and let out a howl of pure delight, the possibility of peace vanished into the Texas wind.

“GUYS—‘Gatorland Galaxy: Home of the World’s Largest Taxidermy Reptile Rocket Ride!!’—EXIT 247! WE’RE GOING.”

Thane was halfway through checking rigging supply emails and coasting in a haze of post-diner exhaustion. Mark sat beside him, sunglasses on, arms crossed, looking like a furry, very dead executive en route to the underworld.

“We’re what now?” Thane asked flatly, not even bothering to hide the dread in his voice.

Gabriel was already unbuckling and leaning between the seats like an overgrown puppy. “Thane. Thane. The sign has a gator in a space helmet. I need this in my soul.”

Mark, still unmoving: “Leave me behind. Tell my story.”

But it was already too late. Gabriel took the exit like a man on a mission from chaos.

---

Fifteen minutes later…

The three of them stood before the gates of Gatorland Galaxy, a roadside atrocity that hadn’t been updated since 1993 and looked like it had survived a small tornado and a government coverup.

The attractions included:

• A six-foot animatronic alligator in a foil jumpsuit that wheezed “WELCOME TO SPACE!” every few seconds.
• Faded posters advertising a live gator feeding that turned out to be a sunburned man tossing hot dogs into a kiddie pool.
• A ride called the Rocket Chomp Coaster, clearly made from repurposed barn parts and sketchy ambition.
• And a cotton candy stand that, for some reason, also sold boiled peanuts and used VHS tapes.

Mark stared up at the rickety “space rocket” ride, arms crossed, completely deadpan. “This is how we die. This is my final form: pancaked by a neon gator rocket.”

Gabriel, naturally, was already dual-wielding a souvenir gator-head drink cup and two massive bags of neon green cotton candy. “THIS. IS. AWESOME.”

Thane just sighed. “We’ve got load-in at 4:00.”

Gabriel tossed him a gator hat without breaking stride. “We’ve got memories now.”

Mark tried one of the boiled peanuts, chewed once, stared into the void, and muttered, “I think this is how time breaks.”

Eventually, Gabriel talked them both into riding the coaster. Thane sat in the back, holding his rigging bag like an emotional support pack. Mark screamed once. Just once. And Thane made a mental note to never let him live it down.

---

Later, at the exit…

The three of them stumbled out of the Galactic Gift Barn like shell-shocked survivors, clutching knockoff T-shirts, gator-shaped stickers, and a deep, lingering sense of regret.

Back in the van, as Gabriel climbed behind the wheel with manic glee and fired up the engine, Mark leaned over to Thane, eyes hollow.

“I take back every complaint I’ve ever made about load-in days,” he said, voice flat. “I didn’t know true suffering until I met Rocket Gator.”

Thane laughed so hard his claws cramped.

Early morning, roadside diner just outside Amarillo

The sun hadn’t fully cleared the horizon yet. A faint pink glow spread across the dusty Texas sky like a tired yawn. Thane, Gabriel, and Mark sat huddled in a cracked vinyl booth inside The Saddle & Griddle—an ancient greasy spoon that smelled like burned bacon, black coffee, and twenty years of crushed dreams.

The waitress had called everyone “honey,” hadn’t blinked at Gabriel’s claws, and had already brought a full pot of coffee before anyone even asked. She clearly knew the type.

Mark sat across from the other two, fur slightly rumpled, blue polo shirt wrinkled from the long drive, and a sour look on his muzzle that screamed he’d been awake since before the concept of mercy. He stirred three creamers into his coffee with the lifeless precision of a man surviving on sheer caffeine and spite.

Gabriel, bright-eyed as always—even after a full night riding shotgun in the van—flipped through the laminated menu like it was a treasure map.

“Ooh, hey! ‘Lone Star Stack’—eight pancakes, eggs, sausage, hash browns and toast. You think it’s named after an actual star or just the state?”

Mark didn’t even glance up. “It’s named after the inevitable heart attack.”

Thane smirked behind his chipped mug. “He’s not wrong.”

Gabriel grinned at Mark. “Come on, old wolf. You need something greasy to bring you back to life.”

Mark sighed with the weight of the world and set down his spoon like it had personally wronged him. “I’m beyond saving. Just let me fade into the booth upholstery.”

Their waitress—name tag Ruby, hair up in a shellacked bun that looked structurally reinforced—returned with a pen poised. “Y’all figured out what you want?”

Mark pointed at the menu without lifting his head. “Whatever has the fewest moving parts and the lowest emotional investment. And no melon.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “So… eggs, toast, bacon. Black coffee. No drama.”

Mark finally looked up and gave a single solemn nod. “That. Exactly that.”

Gabriel ordered the Lone Star Stack, obviously, and Thane went for the skillet scramble with extra hot sauce—because sleep-deprived werewolf techs run on protein and spite.

As Ruby walked off, Mark leaned back in the booth and looked at both of them. “You know what’s sad? This isn’t even the worst diner we’ve ever been in.”

Gabriel snorted. “You mean the one in Tulsa where the table collapsed under your plate?”

“No,” Mark said, deadpan. “The one in Kansas where the ‘meatloaf’ tried to bite me back.”

Thane chuckled. “I still say that wasn’t meatloaf. That was punishment.”

“Whatever it was,” Mark muttered, “it had an agenda.”

The food arrived fast, clearly slapped together by a cook who didn’t care if his customers were famous, cursed, or undead. The bacon was crisp, the eggs hot, and the toast didn’t scream when stabbed. Honestly, that was good enough.

As they ate, conversation drifted into that cozy, blurry space between exhaustion and the next caffeine hit. Mark stayed quiet, as usual, but every now and then dropped a one-liner that had Gabriel snorting coffee or Thane choking on toast.

By the time plates were cleared, Mark was still tired, still cynical—but his shoulders had eased. Just a little.

Ruby returned with the check and a wink. “Y’all drive safe now. And you,” she said to Mark, “smile once in a while, huh?”

Mark, unblinking: “I’ll put it on the schedule.”

Gabriel leaned toward Thane and whispered, “He’s actually in a great mood.”

Thane grinned. “I know. He only made two apocalypse jokes today.”

Mark, already sipping his refill, mumbled without looking up: “The day is still young.”

Later that night, parking lot empty, the venue silent

The last road case clicked shut.

The gear truck was locked and latched, rigging tools stowed, cables coiled tight. The venue lights had gone dark, and the world felt hushed in that strange, sacred way it only does after a storm — after noise, lights, and fire have all faded.

Thane stood beside the truck, arms resting on the lift gate, fur still ruffled in places from the long night. Gabriel leaned nearby, one bare clawed foot propped up on a low bumper rail, absently picking at the edge of a backstage wristband. The lot was empty except for them, washed in pale moonlight and the faint orange glow from a distant security light.

Neither spoke for a while.

There was no need.

Eventually, Gabriel glanced over. “You good?”

Thane nodded slowly, then sighed. “I am now.”

Gabriel tilted his head slightly. “Rough show?”

“Rough gear,” Thane corrected. “Rough crew. Rough venue. But the show was fire. You were fire.”

Gabriel gave a half-smile. “We all were.”

“Maybe,” Thane said, turning toward him. “But you were the spark.”

Gabriel met his gaze — icy blue locking with icy blue. “Only because you made sure everything around me didn’t fall apart.”

A soft wind moved through the lot, brushing their fur, carrying the faint scent of hot asphalt and fading applause. Gabriel stepped closer, arms loose at his sides. His nose brushed Thane’s again, slow and tender this time. Thane closed his eyes and leaned into it, one clawed hand lifting to rest gently against Gabriel’s side.

The moment lingered.

No music. No roar of the crowd. Just the quiet rhythm of two hearts cooling down from the same storm.

“I love you, Thane” Gabriel murmured.

Thane’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I know. I got you. Always.”

They stayed there, pressed together in the silence, no longer stage tech and rockstar, no longer gearhead and headliner — just two wolves under the moon, leaning on each other, holding the night still for just a little longer.

And when they finally pulled away, they didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

They just walked, side by side, claws softly tapping the pavement, fading into the darkness together.

Outside the venue, behind the gear truck, well past midnight

The energy from the crowd had finally faded into the distance, replaced by the low rumble of road cases and the clack of boot soles across the pavement. The crisp night air carried a mix of ozone, diesel exhaust, and faint traces of sweat and fried food from the nearby concessions that hadn’t been cleaned up yet.

Thane stood at the open tail of the Feral Eclipse gear truck, clipboard in one clawed hand, grease pencil in the other. The rigging box sat open beside him, tools neatly arranged despite the chaos earlier. A pair of damaged cable runs lay across the loading ramp like limp snakes, and one of the rear par cans was hanging crooked in its cradle, waiting to be logged.

His fur was still slightly damp along his shoulders, light gray strands catching the moonlight. He jotted a note with practiced efficiency:

– Replace left-side lift chain (sticking again)
– Re-wire rig 4 junction, possible short in DIN plug
– Gabriel’s main vocal input channel: intermittent dropout under heat

A familiar set of footfalls crunched lightly on the gravel behind him.

“Hey,” Gabriel said quietly.

Thane didn’t turn, but the twitch of his ears said he heard him.

“You hiding out?” Gabriel added, stepping closer. He had changed into a dry black tee and was barefoot now—large clawed feet quiet as they padded across the asphalt. His bass was nowhere in sight, finally tucked away in its case.

“Not hiding,” Thane replied, still scribbling. “Just trying to stay ahead of next week’s meltdown.”

Gabriel gave a soft chuckle and leaned his shoulder against the side of the truck. “You really don’t slow down, do you?”

“Only when things aren’t on fire.”

There was a beat of quiet.

Then Gabriel said, “I saw you shield me back there. With the fans.”

Thane finally paused, pencil hovering in midair. “Yeah, well… I didn’t do it for applause.”

“I know. That’s why it means more.”

Thane glanced over at him now, eyes softening.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said. “Even with the mic going out, even with half the rig misbehaving—you held it together.”

Gabriel looked down briefly, then back up with a small grin. “Because I knew you and Mark had me. Like always.”

A low hum rumbled in Thane’s chest—a sound not quite a purr, but something close. He stepped down from the loading ramp and came to stand beside Gabriel, clipboard tucked under one arm.

Without a word, he reached out and nudged Gabriel’s nose with his own—just a slow, warm press, fur to fur. Gabriel closed his eyes and leaned into it, their foreheads touching for a brief moment in the hush of the night.

“I don’t say it enough,” Thane murmured, “but I’m proud of you. Every damn night.”

Gabriel smiled, one arm slipping briefly around Thane’s back. “And I’m proud to have my wolf out here with me. Even if you do snarl at everyone.”

Thane chuckled, then tapped the clipboard against Gabriel’s chest. “Help me finish logging this gear and I’ll consider not snarling at you for the rest of the night.”

Gabriel laughed. “No promises. But I’ll carry the rigging box if you buy me a pizza.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

They turned back to the truck, claws clicking softly on the metal ramp, working side by side under the soft yellow glow of the loading dock light—tired, a little sore, but grounded in the quiet kind of love that didn’t need an audience.

Backstage, moments after the final encore

The house lights came up to a roar. The crowd was still buzzing—sweaty, wide-eyed, and euphoric from the thunder Feral Eclipse had just brought down. Gabriel had just walked off stage, sweat-drenched and grinning, his bass slung over his back like a war trophy.

Thane was already waiting at the bottom of the ramp, towel slung over one shoulder, headset around his neck, his fur a little singed-smelling from too much time near the dimmer racks.

Mark stood nearby with his clipboard, watching the lighting rig slowly return to standby mode. He already had a soda cracked open and looked ready to throttle the next intern who bumped into the patch bay.

Before anyone could say a word, the side door to the loading area burst open.

A human fan—probably late twenties, glitter-streaked and wide-eyed—barreled straight toward Gabriel.

“OH MY GOD,” she gasped, waving a homemade sign that read “FERAL DADDY” in neon paint. “YOU’RE REAL. YOU’RE ACTUALLY REAL.”

Gabriel froze mid-towel swipe, eyes going wide. “Uh—hey?”

More fans followed. Dozens of them. Word had clearly spread backstage like wildfire.

“He was playing with CLAWS!”

“He howled into the mic during the solo—I swear I felt that in my soul!”

Security was late to react, caught between amusement and chaos. A few crew members tried to redirect the surge, but it was too late.

Gabriel, overwhelmed, looked to Thane and Mark like a cornered animal.

“Uh… guys?”

Thane stepped between Gabriel and the fan hoard like a brick wall, claws flexed just a little—not threatening, but clear.

“All right, everybody take a breath,” he said, projecting full Dad-Wolf energy. “You want autographs, line starts over there. If you want a chunk of fur, try eBay. And if you even think about touching his tail, I will bite back.”

The crowd actually listened—somewhat stunned, definitely impressed.

Mark, from off to the side, muttered, “You should’ve put that on a T-shirt.”

One brave kid in a band tee pointed at Gabriel, eyes wide. “Is he, like… a real werewolf?”

Gabriel tilted his head and gave them a sly grin, one fang just showing. “What do you think?”

The kid’s jaw dropped. “COOLEST. BAND. EVER.”

Thane rolled his eyes, but he was grinning now. “Yeah yeah, move along, rockstars. Some of us gotta strike the stage.”

As the crowd began to shuffle into selfie mode and merch tables, Mark took a long sip of soda and muttered, “Remind me to triple up the barricades next time.”

“Or just bring silver rope,” Thane replied, deadpan.

Gabriel looked over, still catching his breath, tail flicking behind him. “I think I’m gonna need a nap.”

Thane clapped a clawed hand on his shoulder. “You earned it, my wolf.”

Mid-set, peak energy, trouble brewing

Feral Eclipse was tearing it up.

The human band was in full beast mode—drums pounding like war calls, guitar riffs slicing through the summer air. Gabriel, the only non-human on stage, was a storm of muscle and motion. He moved like a force of nature, claws gliding over the neck of his bass, sharp teeth flashing every time he threw his head back into the lights.

From the sound booth near stage right, Thane stood with claws poised over the console, eyes narrowed behind a pair of monitor glasses. Everything was running smooth—until it wasn’t.

A light sizzle in the left sub. Then a loud pop in the drum overheads. And suddenly, Gabriel’s vocals dropped out of the front mix.

Thane’s ears snapped forward, fur bristling. “Oh, hell no.”

His claws flew across the board, fingers dancing through the aux sends, rerouting gain, isolating the dead channel. But before he could patch it through a backup, one of the rear rig lights popped—right above Gabriel.

Whumph.

Backstage, on the elevated lighting riser, Mark was already on it. His brow furrowed as his clawed fingers flew over the digital board, killing the voltage to the back rig to prevent a cascade. His voice crackled in Thane’s headset.

“Thane—overhead rig four just shorted. I’ve got backup spots online. You good on your end?”

“Trying to reroute lead vox now,” Thane growled back. “He’s dry in the mains. I’m sending him up on a side mix. Hang tight.”

Back on stage, Gabriel didn’t miss a beat. Despite the sudden loss of lights and lead mic, he adjusted like a pro—drawing even more energy from the crowd, switching to backup mic mid-verse with a practiced snarl.

From the booth, Thane routed the new path just in time for Gabriel’s voice to cut through the house again, raw and glorious, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

Mark dimmed the rear wash, brought up a cool amber chase on Gabriel, and sighed. “That’s better.”

Thane exhaled, claws flexing as the levels steadied. “Remind me to buy that wolf a drink later.”

From his post, Mark smirked. “He just saved our asses with style. Crowd thinks it was part of the show.”

As the band surged into their next track, both wolves leaned back for half a second—just enough to catch their breath.

Thane: “You see the power rack flicker earlier?”

Mark: “Yeah. We’re running hot. We need new distro before next tour. Or a miracle.”

Thane (grinning): “Gabriel might be the miracle.”

They both chuckled—then got right back to it, because the beast never rests, and the show always goes on.

Same moment, backstage before showtime

As Thane and Gabriel exchanged that brief 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.”

Backstage, moments before the lights go up.

The rigging was fixed, the cables coiled, and the stage lights hummed back to life — finally. The crew had mostly scattered, retreating to their posts or melting into the dark corners where they could do their work unnoticed.

But Thane lingered in the wings.

He stood there, arms crossed, ice-blue eyes flicking across the stage where Gabriel adjusted his tuning in quiet concentration. That red bass gleamed in the glow of the fixed spotlight, and Gabriel — back turned — was nodding faintly to the beat in his head, tail swaying ever so slightly.

Guilt pricked at Thane like a thorn in his paw.

With a slow breath, he padded forward. His clawed feet made the faintest clicks on the wood floor, but Gabriel didn’t look up. Not until Thane stood beside him.

“Hey,” Thane said, voice low — quieter than usual.

Gabriel glanced up, his expression unreadable at first. Then came that slight tilt of the ears, the same look he always gave when he was trying to decide if he should be mad or amused.

“I was out of line earlier,” Thane muttered. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Gabriel blinked, slowly resting his clawed hand over the strings to silence them. “No,” he said, gently, “but I get it.”

Thane scratched behind his neck, visibly uncomfortable. “I wasn’t just pissed about the light. It’s everything. The venue’s understaffed, we’re down a fog unit, and I haven’t even checked the comms board. I snapped. I shouldn’t’ve snapped at you.”

Gabriel gave him a long, slow look… then reached up and pressed his nose softly to Thane’s.

Just like that.

A quiet nuzzle. No words. No dramatics. Just warmth.

Thane let out a low rumble of relief and leaned into it, his claws brushing Gabriel’s arm in return.

“You always make it through,” Gabriel said, voice barely more than a whisper. “Even when you’re claw-deep in chaos.”

“Yeah,” Thane said, with the faintest smile, “but it’s easier when I’ve got my wolf.”

That drew a grin from Gabriel. “Damn right.”

A stagehand’s voice crackled over the comms: “Feral Eclipse, five minutes to go time.”

Gabriel backed off just slightly and gave Thane’s chest a soft tap with the back of his hand. “Let’s go melt some faces.”

Thane chuckled, his earlier tension finally breaking. “Just don’t fall off the stage this time.”

Gabriel smirked. “Only if you promise not to fall off the ceiling.”

By the lights of Feral Eclipse

The backstage world was always a chaotic hum before a show, like the quiet seconds before a thunderclap. Lights buzzed, cables coiled underfoot like restless serpents, and the air carried the metallic scent of sweat, amps, and electricity.

High above the stage, Thane clung to the truss like it was part of him — muscles taut, clawed feet gripping the metal framework with casual confidence. A busted lighting fixture hung limp in his hand like a broken tooth, its glass eye dark against the glow of the surrounding rig. The house was already filling with fans, their muffled roars building like a tidal wave behind the curtain.

Thane growled low in his throat, fur bristling as he twisted a stubborn bolt with one clawed hand. “Damn thing better not short again…”

Down below, Gabriel stood near the monitors, his sleek black fur glinting in the ambient lighting. His bass guitar hung comfortably from his shoulder, crimson and fierce. But his eyes — icy blue and sharp — weren’t on the instrument. They were fixed upward, locked onto Thane.

“No harness?” Gabriel called, ears twitching back nervously. “You’re seriously just hanging up there?”

“I’m fine,” Thane shot back without looking.

Gabriel took a step closer, voice rising just enough to draw glances from the rest of the crew. “Thane, seriously — just… be careful!”

That was the last straw.

With a huff, Thane spun around on the truss, teeth bared in a scowl. In a single, fluid leap, he dropped to the stage floor like a thunderbolt—boots absent, clawed feet slamming onto the wood with a thud that shook the rigging. The sudden movement made a few humans nearby flinch.

He stalked toward Gabriel, tail lashing behind him.

“Don’t you start!” he snarled, fangs flashing. “Not when I’m already up to my ears in busted gear and late cues!”

Gabriel stepped back, momentarily wide-eyed. “Woah — hey — I was just worried, alright? You’re halfway to a nosedive and I —”

Thane’s ears flicked, and for a moment, silence hung between them like a tightrope.

Gabriel softened, his claws curling around the neck of his bass. “You scared the crap outta me. That’s all.”

The tension cracked, just a little.

Thane’s shoulders lowered, his brow easing—but only slightly. “Yeah, well… it’s not the lights I’m mad at. Just everything else.”

“Then come back up with a harness next time, genius,” Gabriel smirked, tail flicking once.

Thane grunted, turning back toward the truss. “Fine. But only because if I fall, you’re the one cleaning up the fur and guts.”

“Deal,” Gabriel chuckled. “But I’m not holding the mop.”