The chaos of the meet-and-greet was winding down. Staff were stacking chairs, the velvet ropes were being gathered, and the energy in the room had shifted from wild electricity to a soft, glowing warmth. Fans were still outside chanting under the arena lights, but backstage… it was quieter.
Gabriel stood near the edge of the stage ramp, bass still strapped over his shoulder, the weight of the night finally catching up with him in a deep, satisfied breath.
“Hell of a show.”
The voice came from behind — calm, warm, unmistakable.
Gabriel turned.
His dad stood there, wearing an old flannel shirt over a tour tee from some ancient band, jeans worn but clean, and a look in his eyes that could only be described as proud.
“Hey, Dad,” Gabriel said, and for the first time all night, he looked just a little bit like a kid again.
His father stepped closer, eyes roaming over the rig, the lights, the crowd still visible through the back tunnel screen.
“I used to sit right up there,” he said, pointing toward the 300-level seats. “Watched Megadeth, Anthrax, even Slayer once. All those nights, I never imagined I’d be standing here… looking at my own son from the wings.”
Gabriel’s breath hitched, just a little.
“You were on fire out there, kid. Every note. Every stomp. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Gabriel chuckled and looked away, tail swaying gently. “I kept thinking about you. You’re the one who taught me to love this. Even before I picked up my first bass.”
His dad tilted his head, smiling. “You didn’t pick up your first bass. You hunted it down. I just got out of the way and gave you the ammo.”
He nodded toward the instrument still slung across Gabriel’s chest.
“You play with your whole soul. I see pieces of every lesson we ever shared in your hands. But most of all? I see you.”
Gabriel looked down at his claws on the strings, then back up at the man who had never once tried to change him — even after the fur, the eyes, the claws.
“Thanks, Dad. For not freaking out when I became a werewolf. Or a bassist.”
His father barked a laugh. “Hell, I’m a bassist. You just got the better claws.”
They both laughed — a quiet, warm, shared joy that only two bassists could understand.
Then his father reached into his back pocket and pulled out something small — a folded slip of paper.
“I was gonna mail this to you one day,” he said. “But tonight felt right.”
Gabriel opened it. It was a setlist.
From twenty-five years ago.
His dad’s first show at a tiny dive bar in Cape Cod. Handwritten, dog-eared, and taped together in the corners. At the bottom was a scribbled note:
“One day, we’ll both take a bow.”
Gabriel blinked hard.
“Well,” his dad said, clearing his throat. “I guess tonight was that night.”
They embraced — not a brief hug, but a long, soul-settling one. No words. No need.
When they pulled apart, Thane stood a few steps away, arms crossed, quietly watching.
His dad glanced at him, smiled knowingly, then back at Gabriel.
“You’ve got a good pack, son.”
Gabriel looked back at Thane — his anchor, his wolf.
“Yeah,” he said, “I really do.”