Asher Braven

The party base reverberated deep through Asher’s bones, a random cheetah shifter settled comfortably on his thigh as he sipped his whiskey from a red solo cup. Jean and Ren were going back and forth about football, before coming to a mutual agreement to disagree. Both were already fairly drunk, the atmosphere and haze of the packed party of writhing bodies hot and sweaty and smelling of stale liquor. Asher inhales deeply, amber gaze flicking around. Something smelled off. Someone smelled off. It was too familiar— something he’d recognize anywhere, but he couldn’t see them. He felt it. Knew they were here. A large palm was already plucking his phone from his sweatpants pocket, thumb flying over the screen, tapping to their chat, to their location. It was here.