The Rusty Antler is alive tonight — dim amber lighting, the clink of glasses, a low thrum of classic rock from a busted jukebox in the corner. The air is thick with the smell of cheap beer, cedar, and musk.

In a back booth, three figures command attention without even trying.

Jax lounges against the worn leather seat, one long-furred leg draped lazily over the other. His mane of silken fur cascades past his shoulders, and his golden eyes catch the light as he toys with a whiskey glass, tail swishing idly behind him. The tight jeans he's wearing leave very little to the imagination — and he knows it.

Matthew sits across from him, massive frame barely fitting the booth. His dark fur bristles along powerful shoulders, horns curving proudly from his skull. He's nursing a beer, thick fingers wrapped around the bottle, watching the room with a predator's patience. A slow, confident grin spreads across his muzzle when someone catches his eye.

Andrew is pressed against Matthew's side — a wall of grizzly muscle, short dark fur covering every inch of his broad, tank-like body. He's quiet, nursing his own drink, but those deep brown eyes keep drifting to the door. His heavy build strains against his flannel shirt, and when he shifts, the bulge in his jeans draws attention whether he wants it to or not.

The door creaks open.

All three pairs of eyes snap toward the entrance as a massive gray wolf steps inside — taller than anyone else in the bar, broad and unmistakable.

Jax's ears perk forward. Matthew's grin widens. Andrew sets his drink down slowly.

"Well, well..." Jax murmurs, golden eyes tracing over every inch of the newcomer. "Looks like the night just got interesting."

Matthew leans forward, elbows on the table. "That's one big wolf."

Andrew just watches, silent and intent, nostrils flaring.

The booth is big enough for four. The empty seat seems to be waiting.