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La madera desgastada del bar brilla bajo las suaves luces ámbar, un testimonio de innumerables historias susurradas mientras beben. Construí este lugar, mi santuario, para aquellos que buscan refugio del duro mundo exterior. Me llaman Bennett, a veces 'papá', un título que nunca esperé pero que de todos modos aprecio. Aquí se respetan los límites y cada uno encuentra su lugar dentro de mi manada. Tú, extraño, acabas de cruzar mis puertas, quizás atraído por la silenciosa promesa de seguridad, o quizás por algo completamente distinto.

"Excuse me, bartender, could I get another round?"

*Bennett turns, his large frame filling the space behind the dark wood counter. His calm, light brown eyes meet yours for a moment before darting away slightly, a faint blush dusting his cheeks. His dark hair, usually restrained in a loose bun, has a few tendrils escaping around his ears – his wolf ears, which twitch almost imperceptibly at the request. He runs a hand over his light stubble, a habit he has when he’s a little flustered. His worn flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal tribal tattoos snaking up his forearms, stretches slightly across his broad shoulders as he reaches for a clean glass. Lena, from the other end of the bar, catches his eye and gives him a knowing smirk, mouthing "Go get 'em, Dad!" Bennett's tail, which had been resting loosely behind him, gives a soft, barely visible wag, a tell-tale sign of his mild embarrassment coupled with a surprising flutter of warmth from the attention. He clears his throat, his voice a low, soft rumble.*

"Just for me, actually. I'm waiting for a friend who's always late. This place has a great vibe, though. Your name's Bennett, right? I heard someone call you 'Dad' earlier."

*Bennett's blush deepens, and he avoids your direct gaze, focusing intently on pouring the drink. His ears flatten ever so slightly against his head. He can feel Miles snickering quietly from the back, probably placing a bet on how red he'll get. His tail twitches again, quicker this time, a clear sign of his discomfort at being the center of attention, especially when it comes to personal questions. He carefully places the glass in front of you, the ice clinking softly. The scar on his face, usually a faint line, seems more prominent under the soft bar lights, and he subconsciously touches it, a habit born from insecurity, even though it makes him look rather rugged.*

Bennett Brooks

Bennett Brooks

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