Chapter 2: Grease and Sparks
A battered delivery van, one headlight sagging like a dead eye, lurched to a stop across the street. The driver's door opened with a shriek of protest. Selena unfolded herself from the cab, a massive silhouette against the sodium streetlights.She slammed the door with a crunch that made Tommy wince.She saw him immediately. Her tail gave a single, definitive flick. She crossed the road in three long strides, traffic halting for her without a honk.Drivers just stared.Up close, the day had left its marks. Her mane was even wilder, dust and what looked like packing foam caught in the dark strands. A fresh grease smear adorned her bicep. Her tank top was darkened with sweat at the neckline and under her arms. She smelled of diesel, hard work, and that underlying, warm animal scent.“Hey,” she said, her voice a low rumble that Tommy felt in his chest. “Sorry. The truck’s a fucking diva.”
“You made it,” Tommy said, standing.He felt absurdly small, like a sapling next to an oak.
“Told you I would.” She looked past him at Mario’s facade, her amber eyes reflecting the gaudy neon.“God, it’s even shittier than I remembered. You ready to ruin your digestive system?”
“Lead the way.”
The inside of Mario’s Crusty Corner was a sanctuary of grime.Peeling red-checkered vinyl clung to the booths. The air was thick with the perfume of burnt pepperoni and yeasty dough. A few regulars hunched at the bar, their conversations a low murmur. The jukebox played a tinny classic rock song from a forgotten decade.All conversation stopped when Selena ducked through the doorway. A stool at the bar squealed as a man shifted his weight. The bartender, a wiry guy with a towel over his shoulder, froze mid-wipe. Selena ignored it, scanning the room with a practiced neutrality.“Table in the back,” she said, moving through the narrow aisle. Her hips brushed a chair, sending it skidding a few inches.“More privacy. Less… staring.”
Tommy followed.He felt the stares shift to him, a mixture of curiosity and something uglier. He kept his eyes on the broad back of her tank top, the way her shoulder blades moved beneath the fabric.They slid into a cracked vinyl booth.The table was sticky. Selena filled the entire side, her tail curling around the bench leg. Tommy sat opposite, his knees almost touching hers under the table.A young waiter approached, his eyes wide.He dropped two laminated menus and scurried away.
Selena picked up a menu, the plastic tiny in her grasp.“Okay, ground rules. We’re getting the ‘Garbage Can’. It’s every meat they have, plus extra cheese.No vegetables. Vegetables are a betrayal here.”
“I’m in your hands,” Tommy said.She glanced at him over the menu, a slow smile spreading.“Yeah? Good.”
The waiter returned, cautious. “What can I get you?”
“Large Garbage Can,” Selena said, without looking up.“Crispy crust.And two beers. Whatever’s coldest.”
“Uh, ID?”
Selena leveled a look at him.Her canines were visible. She reached into her back pocket, pulled out a worn leather wallet, and slapped a driver’s license on the table.The waiter glanced at it, nodded rapidly, and fled.Tommy leaned forward. “Can I see?”
She slid it across the sticky vinyl. The photo was terrible, her face a stern, majestic glare.The stats were listed.Height: 220 cm. Weight: 190 kg.Class: D (Special).Her name: Selena Krauss.
“Krauss,” Tommy said.“My dad’s name.Human.Nice guy. Bad back.” She took the license back.“Mom’s… not around. So it’s just the weird giant daughter and the retired mechanic with a slipped disc.”
The beers arrived, frosted mugs sweating. Selena lifted hers, holding it delicately between her thick fingers.“Cheers. To not dying in an elevator.”
“To terrible pizza,” Tommy added, clinking his mug against hers. Hers was drained in two long gulps.He sipped his, the beer cheap and bitter.
The pizza arrived on a massive, warped tray.It was a glorious, monstrous thing. A heart attack on a crust.Steam rose from a landscape of bubbling cheese and anonymous, glistening meats.
Selena didn’t wait.She grabbed a slice, folding it with a practiced motion to contain the grease. She took a bite, a low, satisfied groan rumbling in her throat. “Oh, fuck yeah.That’s the stuff.”
Tommy followed suit. The flavor was a chaotic, salty, fatty bomb.It was terrible.It was fantastic.He took another bite, then another. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.
For a few minutes, there was only the sound of chewing and Selena’s soft sighs of pleasure. The tension from the entrance began to melt away, dissolved by shared grease and carbohydrates.
“So,” Selena said around a mouthful, “you never said.Did you think about bailing?Be honest.”
Tommy wiped his mouth. “Yes.At 4 PM specifically. I almost reorganized my bookshelf by decimal classification.”
She snorted, a piece of pepperoni almost escaping.“Nerd.I thought about it too. I was like, ‘Selena, this is a dumb fucking idea.He’s normal. You’ll knock over his furniture and scare his cat.’ But then I figured, free pizza is free pizza.And you didn’t seem… scared.”
“I was nervous,” Tommy admitted. “Not scared of you.Scared of… fucking it up. Saying the wrong thing.”
“You say the wrong thing, I’ll tell you.” She licked grease from a claw tip. “Like, if you asked me if I roar when I, y’know… I’d probably walk out.”
Tommy almost choked on his beer.“Duly noted. And no, the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”
“Good.” She took another slice.“Your turn. Ask me something.”
He thought for a moment.“The fur. Is it… soft?”
She blinked, then grinned.“Not a weird question.Yeah.It’s soft. Like a deer’s coat, but thinner. Wanna feel?”
Before he could answer, she extended her forearm across the table, turning it so the inner side faced up. The brown fur there was shorter, a velvety-looking patch amid the powerful cords of muscle.He hesitated, then reached out. He touched her wrist, just above the claw.The fur was incredibly soft, warm from her body heat. The skin beneath felt surprisingly human.He moved his fingers slightly.It was soothing.
Selena watched his face, her expression unreadable. Her tail, hidden under the table, thumped once against the bench leg.Tommy pulled his hand back. “It is soft.”
“Told you.” She withdrew her arm, but the atmosphere had shifted, charged with a new, quiet intimacy.
They finished the pizza, talking in fragments—about her truck’s many ailments, his orchid that was inexplicably blooming, the peculiar smell of the third-floor bathroom at his office. The conversation was effortless, a meandering stream with no destination.
When the last crust was gone, Selena leaned back, patting her flat, muscular stomach.“Okay.I’m no longer hangry. Now I’m just… content.It’s a weird feeling.”
The waiter brought the check. They both reached for it.Their hands collided over the cheap plastic tray.
Selena’s hand was immense, her claws curled inward.Tommy’s fingers brushed the coarse skin of her knuckles. Electricity, simple and stark, shot up his arm.They both froze.
Selena looked at their hands, then at him.Her gaze was intent, searching.She didn’t pull away.
Tommy didn’t either.The noisy pizzeria faded to a dull buzz. He turned his hand, letting his palm rest against the back of hers.The sheer scale of her was breathtaking.
She flipped her hand over, slowly, and laced her thick fingers through his. Her grip was gentle, mindful, but he could feel the devastating strength in it, held carefully in check. Her palm was calloused, warm, alive.
“So,” she said, her voice quieter now, a rumble meant just for him.“My place isn’t far.It’s a mess. I have a huge couch. And a TV that only sometimes works.” She paused, her thumb brushing across his knuckles.“We could… watch a movie.Or something. If you want.”
Her eyes held his, bright amber and suddenly vulnerable. The invitation hung in the greasy air, thick with implication and a simple, terrifying hope.
Tommy’s rational mind, usually a cacophony of pros and cons, was silent. All he felt was the warm weight of her hand in his, and the memory of the elevator, and the milkshake story, and the feeling that for the first time in months, he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
He squeezed her hand, a fraction of her pressure returned.“Yeah,” he said, his voice firm. “I want.”
The word hung between them, solid and real. Selena’s grip tightened minutely around his hand, a silent, thrilling acknowledgement. She nodded, almost to herself, and slid out of the booth, pulling him gently with her.
She paid with crumpled cash from her pocket, waving away his wallet with a flick of her tail. Outside, the night air was cool, washing away the grease-heavy warmth of the restaurant. “Truck’s this way,” she said, her voice rough.They walked in silence, hands still loosely linked. Her pace was a slow, rolling stride he had to consciously match.The city sounds felt distant, filtered through the bubble of their connection.
The van smelled intensely of oil, old fabric, and her. The passenger seat was buried under a catalog, a pair of heavy work gloves, and a dented water bottle. “Just… shove that shit on the floor,” she mumbled, starting the engine with a grinding roar.
She drove with a surprising lightness, her large hands deft on the wheel. They didn’t speak, but the quiet wasn’t empty. It was full of the van’s rattling complaints and the unspoken thing stretching between them.
The neighborhood shifted from commercial to residential, then into an area of older, industrial buildings converted into lofts. She pulled into the cavernous ground floor of a refurbished factory, parking beside a concrete support pillar. “Home sweet shithole,” she announced, killing the shuddering engine.The silence that followed was sudden and profound.Tommy could hear his own heartbeat. Selena sat for a second, staring at the cracked concrete wall ahead. “Just… it’s not fancy, okay?”
“I don’t need fancy,” Tommy said.
She looked at him, her amber eyes catching a sliver of security light.“Yeah. Okay.” She pushed her door open and led him to a freight elevator at the back of the garage. The door was wider than standard, the interior spacious enough for her to stand comfortably without ducking.
“One of the reasons I took the place,” she said, pressing the single button. “Regular doors are a fucking nightmare.” The elevator clanked upwards, opening directly into her apartment.The space hit him immediately. The ceiling was high, supported by exposed steel beams. The doorframes were wide, arches of reinforced steel without doors.Everything was scaled up. A couch, deep and long enough for her to sprawl, dominated the living area, covered in a faded, durable canvas. A massive, low table made from a thick slab of salvaged wood sat before it.
But it was the disorder that told the real story.It wasn't human clutter.It was superhuman adaptation. A set of custom-made free-weights, disks the size of car tires, sat in a corner next to a tangle of resistance bands thick as his wrist. Tools lay on a kitchen counter that came up to his chest—a wrench, a hammer, all with handles thickened with grip tape.
The air smelled of sawdust, lemon-scented cleaner, and that warm, animal musk that was purely her. A large dog bed lay by the couch, empty.“Where’s your…?” Tommy started.“Mr. Wiggles?He’s with my dad this week. Dad gets lonely.” She toed off her heavy boots, the claws on her feet scraping against the polished concrete floor. “Want a drink?I have beer.Or water. Probably some milk that isn’t totally suspect.”
“Beer’s good,” Tommy said, stepping further in.He saw the modifications everywhere now. Light switches were lower, heavy-duty.The refrigerator was commercial-sized, stainless steel. The shelves were reinforced steel brackets drilled directly into the brick.She grabbed two bottles from the fridge, opener built into a drawer pull. She handed him one, her fingers brushing his. “Let me, uh, give you the five-cent tour.” She gestured loosely.“Main room.Kitchen. That door is the bathroom—toilet’s a throne, seriously, it’s industrial.Showerhead’s up high. That’s the bedroom.”
She didn’t open the bedroom door. She took a long swig of her beer, watching him take it in. “It’s a lot,” she said quietly. “I know.”
Tommy walked to the couch, running a hand over the tough fabric. He looked at the deep impressions where she clearly always sat, the faint, fine brown hairs caught in the weave.It was intensely personal. He saw a movie case for a cheesy-looking action film on the table, a blanket folded haphazardly over the arm. This wasn’t a showroom.This was her life, uncompromising and unedited.
“It’s you,” he said finally, turning to face her. “It’s perfect.”
A ripple went through her tail.Her shoulders, which had been tensed, dropped a little. “Really?”
“Really.” He took a drink.“You built a space that works for you. That’s the opposite of a shithole.”
She smiled, a slow, relieved thing that crinkled the corners of her eyes.“Okay.Good.” She nodded toward the couch.“Movie? I have… well, mostly crap.Explosions. No sad shit.”
“Explosions are perfect.”
She flipped on a massive TV mounted to the brick wall.The remote was a thick, rugged thing. She sank into her spot on the couch with a heavy, contented sigh, the entire frame settling. Tommy sat beside her, a respectful foot of space between them.The cushion dipped sharply toward her.
The movie started, a blur of gunfire and screeching tires.Tommy watched none of it. He was hyper-aware of her heat, the sound of her breathing, the occasional twitch of her tail. She took up so much space, but he didn’t feel encroached upon. He felt… nestled.
Twenty minutes in, during a lull in the digital cacophony, she spoke without looking at the screen.“You’re the first person I’ve had here.Besides my dad. In two years.”
The confession landed in the dim light.Tommy let it settle. “I’m honored.”
She turned her head, her profile outlined by the TV’s glow.“Yeah? Why?”
“Because you’re letting me see you,” he said simply. “Not just the… the package.This.” He gestured around the room. “The real stuff.”
Selena looked down at her hands, at the lethal claws resting against her thigh.She flexed them slowly. “The real stuff is sharp.And messy. And kind of a lot.”
Tommy didn’t think.He just moved. He bridged the gap between them, his hand covering hers, his fingers sliding between her claws to touch her palm.Her skin was calloused, warm. Her breath hitched.“I like sharp,” he whispered.“I like messy. I’m starting to really like a lot.”
She turned her hand over, lacing her massive fingers through his. She pulled their joined hands into her lap, her other hand coming to rest atop his, enveloping it completely in a warm, powerful cage.Her thumb stroked the back of his hand.
On screen, a car flew off an overpass in a fiery ball. Neither of them glanced at it.