Bride (Ali Hazelwood) by Ali Hazelwood

            Lowe’s face doesn’t move a millimeter, but I know that I could fill a Babel tower of notebooks with how little he wants to have this conversation. “No way.”

            “Why?”

            “No.”

            “Come on.”

            His jaw works. “It’s a Were thing.”

            “Hence, me asking you to explain.” Because I suspect that it’s not just the Were equivalent of marriage, or a civil union, or the steady commitment that comes with sharing monthly payments to multiple overpriced streaming services one forgot to discontinue.

            “No.”

            “Lowe. Come on. You’ve trusted me with far bigger secrets.”

            “Ah, fuck.” He grimaces and rubs his eyes, and I think I won.

            “Is it another thing I don’t have the hardware for?”

            He nods, and almost seems sad about it.

            “I understood the whole dominance thing.” We really made some strides in the past fifteen minutes. “Give me a chance.”

            He turns to me. Suddenly he feels a little too close. “Give you a chance,” he repeats, unreadable.

            “Yeah. The whole rival-species-bound-by-centuries-of-hostility-until-the-bloody-demise-of-the-weakest-will-put-an-end-to-the-senseless-suffering thing might seem discouraging, but.”

            “But?”

            “No buts. Just tell me.”

            His lips quirk into a smile. “A mate is . . .” The cicadas quiet. We can only hear the waves, gently lapping into the night. “Who you are meant for. Who is meant for you.”

            “And this is a uniquely Were experience that differs from Human high schoolers writing lyrics on each other’s yearbooks before heading to separate colleges . . . how?”

            I might be culturally offensive, but his shrug is good-natured. “I’ve never been a Human high schooler, and the experience of it might be similar. The biology, of course, is another matter.”

            “The biology?”

            “There are . . . physiological changes involved with meeting one’s mate.” He’s choosing his words with circumspection. Hiding something, maybe.

            “Love at first sight?”

            He shakes his head, even as he says, “In a way, maybe. But it’s a multisensory experience. I’ve never heard of someone recognizing their mate just by sight.” He wets his lips. “Scent is a big part of it, and touch, but there’s more. It triggers changes inside the brain. Chemical ones. Science articles have been written about it, but I doubt I’d understand them.”

            I’d love to get my hands on Were academic journals. “Every Were has one?”

            “A mate? No. It’s fairly rare. Most Weres don’t expect to find one, and it’s by no means the only way to have a fulfilling romantic relationship. Cal, for example, is very happy. He met his wife on a dating app, and they went through years of push and pull before getting married.”

            “So he settled?”

            “He wouldn’t consider it that. Being mates is not a superior kind of love. It’s not intrinsically more valuable than spending your life with your best friend and getting to love their quirks. It’s just different.”

            “If they are so happy, could his wife be his mate? Could he have overlooked the signals when he met her?”

            “No.” He stares at the moonlit water. “When we were young, I was there when Koen’s sister met her mate. We were on a run. She smelled her, suddenly went real still in the middle of the field. I thought she was having a stroke.” He smiles. “She said that it felt like discovering new colors. Like the rainbow had gained a few stripes.”

            I scratch my temple. “It sounds like a good thing.”

            “It’s . . . really good. Not always the same, though,” he murmurs, as if he’s talking to himself. Processing things through his explanations. “Sometimes it’s just a gut feeling. Something that grabs you by the stomach and doesn’t let go, not ever. World-shaking, yes, but also just . . . there. New, but timeless.”