"The Seattle wolves are coming into town," I told her. My flip flops made satisfying thwacking sounds against my feet. I walked silent so often that when I could make noise, I rejoiced in it. "I might be late."
"I'll call in delivery on my way home," she offered, and then, before I could remind her, "and I'll make sure to get extra, just in case."
"I'll try not to need it," I promised, and she grinned. She hated it when I brought my work home. I didn't blame her; she'd lost three coffee tables to it and a gorgeous wolf sculpture. I was still trying to find a suitable replacement.
Her ride was waiting, so she gave me a quick, chaste kiss. We weren't out to upset anyone, but I saw no reason at all we couldn't indulge in some of the same discrete public displays of affection that straight couples did.
After all, I wasn't humping her leg in the middle of the street. What more could they want?
I waited until the shuttle was out of sight, carrying her away from my world and into the human one, and then headed back to the house. The Seattle wolves weren't arriving until early afternoon, but that meant I had to compress an entire day's session into one morning to clear my schedule for them. I had a lot of audiences scheduled, too, just my luck.
Sometimes it was a pain in the ass—usually mine—to be pack leader.
-- from "The Fullness that Love Began" by Marie Carlson