Entering her hug was like entering a maelstrom.

A swirling chaos of turbulent forces, she engulfs everything in her path, leaving destruction in her wake. 

She really is a beast, but she's my beast.

Bea is wearing a clunky pair of Dr. Martens, and absolutely nothing else. I stare at her impossibly long legs. They start where the hoodie starts and descend here and there bruised, neverending, into those boots.

I am tongue-tied.

Why does her hair make red seem the brightest color? Why does her ragged breathing through slightly parted lips, her tongue flitting once to moisten them, seem risqué? How can her bare neck, all smooth curves and shadows, suggest that the loose clothes she wears are not there at all? Revealing.

My heart bungee jumps from throat to bowel, and back again. I try to say something. I should tell her how happy I am to see her. That I —

The words jumble in my head when I realize her earlets are gone, and so are her fangs. Her eyes are now human again. I cherish and care about this version of Bea as much as I cherished the beastly one. 

Her hair is still wild, pushed back out of her face, her hoodie loose and disheveled. Her chest heaves, as if she ran to get here. And she probably did.

I always thought she was beautiful, but her beauty now just hits me—like a ton of bricks. It hits me after I resigned myself to never seeing her again in person. To her leaving back to her life, leaving me here in the middle of nowhere.

Yet here she is.

And nothing else matters.

All around us, people flash their phones, whispering Bea's name, filming us to immortalise this peculiar night highlight, creating a buzz of excitement and curiosity.

But I don't care. And she doesn't care either.

In this moment, with Bea smiling at me in that dazzling way of hers, I forget myself. As I twine my hand into her hair, I can't remember why I'd been so sad in the first place. Whatever it was, it can't possibly compare to this. I surge forward, wrapping my hands around her face, pressing my lips against hers. The ambivalence and confusion falls away, replaced by longing, companionship, acceptance. More.

I want more of her.

Kissing Bea is my most favorite thing in the world, I discover. The only reason why I pull away is because I have to breathe. She giggles and presses her forehead against mine, using the moment to catch her own breath. Her fluttery eyelashes meet my cheek in a gentle, playful touch.

I stroke Bea's face, her neck, not quite believing she is actually here in my arms, not even as she hides her head underneath my chin.

Words are very unnecessary, so we don't use them at all.

Oh my god, actually I'm kissing Beatrice Laurent after I thought I'd never see her again. And it's so beyond awesome I think I'm going to explode.

My mind is officially blown.

To bits.

To itty-bitty bits.

Bea is amazing. Kissing is amazing. Kissing Bea is... is... I have no words.

I, Ross Thorne, super-nerd extraordinaire, have no words. This day is full of impossibilities becoming possible.

When she pulls away, I open my eyes. She's heavy-lidded, eyes smoky, lips slightly parted. I want to pull her in for another one. I want to reclaim that euphoric feeling.

But she stops me in my tracks. "Ross." My name is the first word Bea says. Her eyes meet mine, filled with remorse, as she softly utters: "I am sorry."

"Bea. You don't have to..."

"I do. I should have never left. I was afraid to care for you. Afraid to try because you are just so genuine and innocent, and just what I've been looking for. I'm a coward."

"Shh. That's okay. I was afraid of many things too. That you would never find me again. And still, you were always near, wherever you were. You and I were always right here and right now. But all that is in the past. Nothing else matters. No one else matters. Except for the moment we are in."

We touch each other's faces and nuzzle each other. Her hands are shaking. The night is cool but I am sweating so badly I keep tugging at my collar to make sure it's not sticking. 

"I didn't even know if you're going to be here. What if he doesn't come, I thought to myself?"

"I almost did not come. But Gus and mom kind of convinced me to."

"Gus?" An astonished question forms in her irises.

"It's a long story." I cling onto her like a lifeline. "After all, had I not come, I would not have witnessed the most notorious bad girl of the internet, crashing the Snowball Dance of the New Town High."

The girl who gave me back a piece of my father I thought was lost forever.

If this is where this chapter ends, I wouldn't really mind, because now I know I have plenty more chapters to write with her. I thought my story ended when my dad died—because I didn't think there was a book without him.

"The most notorious bad girl on the internet, you say?" She raises a quirky brow and I just know she's up to something.

Before I can figure out what that something is, Bea jumps onto the live music podium, snatching the microphone from the tall singer with flowing locks of golden hair.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" The man's voice falters. His hand hovers in mid-air, unsure of how to react, as Bea takes center stage, commanding attention. 

All eyes are on her as she says: "Testing, testing, one, two, three."

The students around us stare in awe and curiosity, except Bea and Z-man, who are whooping like crazy, yelling "Hear, hear!" They're both wearing these vibrant, sunny yellow matching outfits that radiate joy and silliness.

I lock my eyes with Gus, who is standing across the room. A mix of emotions passing between us and then he does something uncanny. 

He winks at me and gives me a thumbs up.

"Ross Thorne," says Bea and I almost feel like a star on a stage, in the limelight.

"I want you to know I like to read now because I imagine your voice in every word. I like how happy you look in my library, and I like how you're so stubborn, and I like how you make me want to be better, and I like how you don't give me an inch when I mess up, but you still cherish me exactly for who I am."

The phones flash from all the sides like some high school version of insistent paparazzi, recording this moment.

"I'm an idiot, Ross. I'm an idiot and I care about you, and I'll understand if you tell me no, and I'll go away, and I'll never bother you aga—"

I join her on the stage and press a finger to her lips. Everyone around us begins to whisper.

"I don't want you to go away, Bea. You are the kind of story I have been looking for and I want to be a part of it. I want us to tell it together."

She cracks a lazy smile. "Oh really?"

"Really really," I say.

As though I were nothing but air myself, she pulls me into a sweeping dance as we leave the podium to the singer, followed by applauses, whoops and ovations.

I barely remember any of the dancing steps I'd learned, but Bea compensates for it with her feral grace. Never faltering, always sensing any stumble before I make it.

Bea smiles at me, and I find myself smiling back. I don't need to pretend, don't need to be anything but what I am right now, being twirled about the gym in her arms. I explore her steady heart beats and focus on how her chest rises and falls. The movement is reassuring, and I think, there is nothing out there to fear, and all there is sunshine, beautiful trees and kind people.

Guess we're making another Instagram scandal. But in a good way.

As we sway back and forth to the music, one thing becomes apparent right away. "I'm not great at this," I say after apologizing for stepping on her feet.

"It's okay. I more than make up for it."

It's arrogant but true. She's really good, while my dancing style draws inspiration from those floppy things at car dealerships. "You are, like, absurdly good."

"I took dance lessons as a kid. Tango and salsa mostly. A couple of rumba classes here and there."

"That is super cool," I say, and it is. "Mom has tried to teach me, but I am a total lost cause. Do you have any sick moves? I want to see some sick moves," I tease her.

"I'm afraid this is the extent of my sick moves these days," Bea says. At that, she guides me through a gentle spin, and when I wind up exactly where I started, my level of impressed is officially off the charts.

Her limbs are more confident moving to a rhythm than they are the rest of the time. Bea being this good a dancer—it's kind of hot. The realization turns me inside out, as though my traitorous heart and brain are on display for her to see.

"What made you stop dancing?" I ask her shoulder, no longer able to make eye contact. If I don't keep talking, I'm going to spiral.

Bea. Hot.

My brain has gone rogue, and with it my trembling hands, which she tries his best to keep steady. Because she's a good dancer. Which I find hot. Damn it. Spiraling.

"School got too busy," she says. There's some sadness there that only increases my tenderness for her. "And my dad never liked that I was interested in it."

"Maybe you could take some classes in college."

"Maybe," she echoes as the song ends.

I lead her to a quieter corner of the gym. It's a cozy nook away from the bustling crowd, where we can sit together undisturbed by the prying eyes of our peers.

"I've missed it. Being with people. Being with you. This is... nice," Bea admits.

It is. It's so incredibly nice. "I'm so happy you're here."

"I came as soon as I could. As soon as I managed to transform."

"Were you at Saratoga Springs, still?"

"Yep. I was there with Koshka. Ross, I want to tell you something. I was only able to learn because of you. The memories of you triggered the process."

"Why, I do believe your own contribution had something to do with it," I say.

Bea sticks her tongue at me. "I'm not kidding. There was a sentence you told me, that I should see myself the way you see me, that unlocked it all. I could finally embrace who I truly am, all thanks to you."

"So you are ready to become the high and mighty Keeper of the Shadowpaws clan?"

"I believe so."

I love how proud she looks. She is absolutely glowing. And in that light, like stars scattered upon their skin, each mole tells a tale. A constellation of beauty.

"You really do have a lot of these little moles. 6.02214076×10E23 particles, that is to say."

Bea withdraws my hand from hers and glances down at them in mock astonishment. "Oh, that's what these are, Mr. Physicist." Then she drops her hands into her lap. "I've always loathed them."

"Why? They are... Interesting. I like them."

A pause. "You... like my moles."

"Yeah, I do."

"Maybe I shouldn't be surprised. You like my fangs, and my ears. Had I grown a tail, you'd probably have liked that one too."

"Indubitably. Your moles, they are like a..." I search for words. "A secret little map on your skin."

It's nearly automatic now, the way I can finally make her blush for a change. I take some satisfaction in my little revenge.

Still, Bea clucks her tongue and adds: "Yet some things are better left a secret."

She runs her hand up and down her mole-covered hand. "Get a hold of yourself, Mr. Thorne. We are about to undertake several important tasks. Are you sure you can handle yourself around dem hot hot moles? If not, our missions might be in serious peril."

"You do know I am not being serious. Don't think I am calculating your ratio of moled to unmoled skin. Or, if I am, I assure you it is for purely scientific reasons," I mumble, sensing my glasses slipping down the bridge of my nose.

"Oh, your glasses are crooked," she says, and she adjusts them.

I shift my weight from one leg to another and boop her nose, successfully diffusing the tension.

I adore how in sync we are. It's like I can see the string from her mind joining with mine, seconds before I speak. It's so beautiful. Sometimes it is not even a second before. It is the exact same moment.

"So, you said something about us undertaking several important tasks?" I tilt my head. "There is an "us" now? Does this mean Beatrice Laurent is not going back to New York?"

"Hmm, you know what? I think I kind of like this backwater town now. Your soy lattes are better than the ones from NY. Mostly because they come with a tall order of handsome."

My cheeks are on fire, and I bet they have now turned a shade of crimson that could rival a ripe tomato.

"I just want to be normal for a change, Ross. Want to be me. No more hiding who I truly am. Finish high school and experience the simplicity of every day and the mundane." She interlaces her fingers with mine. "And I really, really want you to be there every step of the way. Giving me private tutoring lessons."

"I'll be by your side. I promise I'll never abandon you."

"Then when the time comes, I would like to meet my real parents. The shapechangers. There's this longing inside me, a curiosity that won't go away. Koshka promised me I could meet them soon. They will explain more about what being a Keeper will entail. I want to do that with you, too."

"Are you sure? That's a big deal."

She squeezes my hand. "Positive. I'm so happy to find someone so unique, tender and genuinely close to me in the world full of so much fakery and manipulation. Someone I can trust."

It is the most beautiful compliment anyone has ever given me. Our eyes meet and a soft unspoken connection is reaffirmed between us. The world around us fades into a blur, leaving only Bea and me in this powerful shared moment suspended in time.

"I promise you our personal fairytale is not ending. It is just about to begin, my beast."

THE END 

A/N: Theme song: Shakira "Nothing Else Matters / Despedida Medley (Live from Paris)"