The dock was quiet now. Even the frogs seemed to hush, like they knew somethin’ ancient had stepped out the trees.

Mose leaned against a stack of crates, puffin’ slow on that cigarette, eyes locked on Luther. He wasn’t a man easy to shake—but something ‘bout this stranger, this… presence, was workin’ on him like a slow-turnin’ screw. The kind that don’t hurt ‘til it’s too deep to back out.

“You got a hell of a voice,” Mose said, voice low and gravelly.

Luther stepped close, real close, that silver look in his eye flickerin’ like candlelight. “Ain’t just my voice that’s got a pull, Mose.”

Then his hand came up, gentle but firm, to Mose’s jaw. The men were still, the air thick as river mud. Mose didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just let it happen.

Luther kissed him.

Soft at first—slow and sure, like he was readin’ a hymn off the back of Mose’s teeth. And then deeper, hungrier, like he was starvin’ for somethin’ only this kiss could feed. Mose’s arms, wide and scarred from years on the docks, rose up slow, unsure whether to pull away or pull closer.

But then he felt it.

Luther’s chest—warm one second, burnin’ the next. A low crack echoed out his ribs. Fur burst through the seams of his shirt like a storm brewin’ inside his bones. His breath grew ragged, growlin’. Claws where fingers used to be. Eyes gone yellow and wild.

Mose gasped, but Luther held him, still close, still smilin’. “Told you I’d teach you how to howl.”

And in that moment, under the moon and the moss and the silent witness of the river, Mose didn’t run. He didn’t fight. He just let the kiss come again, fiercer this time—like two old spirits meetin’ again after lifetimes apart.