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Setting: A dimly lit but vibrant lesbian bar in downtown Beacon Hills – neon lights flicker above the dance floor, and pulsing music vibrates through the floorboards. It’s pride month, the rainbow flag hangs near the DJ booth, and the place is packed. The pack decided to go out together tonight—not for hunting, but for celebration. A safe space. Everyone’s dressed to kill.
Kira’s heels clicked lightly on the floor as she spun with effortless grace, her dark hair flowing behind her like a silk ribbon.
Malia leaned on the edge of the dance floor with a drink in hand, her lips parted slightly as she watched her girlfriend. There was nothing remotely subtle about the way her eyes traced every hip sway, every little head tilt, every sharp move to the beat. She looked positively feral—but in a gay, worshipful way.
“God, I’m in love with her,” Malia muttered under her breath.
From the booth behind her, Erica Reyes laughed, the sound sharp and playful. She was sitting on Boyd’s lap sideways, long legs on display, gold heels tapping along to the rhythm. She took a sip of her drink, winked at the passing bartender (a gorgeous, inked-up redhead), and then turned back to grin at Malia.
“I’d watch her too,” Erica purred. “And I’m not even dating her.”
Boyd gave a little grunt and didn't even blink. "You’re not bringing her home."
“I don’t want to bring her home,” Erica said sweetly. “I just like to make them want me.”
“Mm-hmm,” Boyd replied, calm as ever. One arm wrapped securely around her waist, lazily stroking her thigh. "Just remember who does take you home."
“Oh, daddy,” she cooed with a smirk, and Malia rolled her eyes with a smile.
On the other side of the club, Liam was practically starry-eyed, his head tilted toward Ruby.
Ruby—wearing a shimmering silver crop top and black leather pants—pointed subtly toward the bar, where a statuesque woman in a suit jacket and boots was ordering a drink.
Liam followed her gaze, eyes wide. “Ten outta ten.”
Ruby nodded, grinning. “You think she’s into short bisexual girls?”
“Why not?”
They laughed. Ruby kissed his cheek and stole a fry from the basket on the table. “I like that we can do this,” she said, genuinely.
“Me too. You’re like… the coolest girlfriend ever.”
“Obviously.”
Allison stood near the corner booth, sipping a drink Lydia had recommended.
The drink was pink and strong and currently being ignored in favor of Allison subtly eyeing the DJ, a curvy brunette with sleeve tattoos and a killer smile.
Scott noticed. He always noticed. His eyes flicked between Allison and the DJ, then down to his glass, uncertain.
Lydia raised a brow at him.
“Are you allowed to look too?” she asked flatly.
“I don’t know,” Scott whispered, half-panicking. “I mean, she’s hot, but—like, is it rude? I don’t know how it works.”
Allison, overhearing, just laughed and leaned over to brush a kiss to his cheek.
“Babe. If she's hot to you, that’s okay. Just don’t flirt.”
Scott relaxed a little. “What if I trip and flirt by accident?”
“Then Allison will kill you,” Isabelle deadpanned.
“She really will,” Lydia added, not looking up from her phone. “And she'll make it look like an accident.”
Isabelle was perched on a barstool nearby, drinking a Pina Colada.
She was in her favorite jeans and a black tank top that showed off the new necklace Peter had picked out for her—a delicate white gold chain with a small wolf charm.
Every now and then, someone approached her to flirt. She was polite but quick to smile and say, “Thanks, but I’m straight. Appreciate the confidence though!”
The bartenders liked her. She tipped well and cracked dry little jokes. Lydia stood beside her, sipping a martini and critiquing everyone’s outfits with the affection of a supportive but ruthless fashion editor.
“She looks like a thrift store exploded on her,” Lydia murmured.
“She looks like a glitter bomb won,” Isabelle replied, sipping. “Which is honestly iconic.”
Meanwhile, in the shadows near a back booth, Peter Hale lurked like a wraith.
He was all in black, as usual—button-down rolled at the sleeves, eyes occasionally glowing with that predatory gleam.
Anyone who got too close to Isabelle’s orbit got the sense of being watched. The last girl who leaned in a little too closely to compliment Isabelle’s smile had looked up and immediately gone pale under Peter’s cold stare.
He didn’t even move. Just… existed. With menace.
Chris Argent had called it resting murder face.
Peter called it supervision.
Lydia glanced toward the shadows with a smirk.
“He’s glowering again.”
Isabelle gave a helpless laugh. “He’s being sweet. In his own feral, stalker-ish way.”
Lydia raised her martini. “To having a terrifyingly devoted Alpha Daddy.”
Isabelle clinked her glass against Lydia’s. “To being confidently straight in a bar full of gorgeous women.”
Lydia sighed. “I feel like that’s a missed opportunity.”
“Why, because I’m not flirting with everyone in sight like Erica?”
“Exactly.”
Isabelle shrugged with a grin. “I have Peter.”
Lydia nodded. “Touché.”
On the dance floor, Kira was still spinning.
Malia had finally joined her, their hands tangling together, movements synchronized. Kira’s laugh echoed over the beat, and Malia leaned in to whisper something that made her blush from head to toe.
From the booth, Erica whooped loudly and raised her glass.
“Get it, lesbians!”
Boyd just nodded approvingly before going back to the basketball game on his phone.