Caleb watches me when I don’t know he is.
Not openly.
Not in a way that announces itself.
There’s no heat in it. No claim. No territorial edge that would have set my nerves off months ago.
It’s evaluative.
I don’t notice at first. Not consciously. The morning moves the way mornings usually do, slow and unremarkable, shaped by routine rather than urgency. I wake before my alarm again. Dress without thinking too hard about it. Move through the house on habits that no longer feel brittle.
The packhouse hums around me. Low voices. Footsteps. Someone drops something in the kitchen and swears under their breath. Normal sounds. Familiar patterns.
My wolf shifts before I do.
Not sharply.
Not defensively.
She pulls inward.
It’s subtle enough that I almost miss it. A tightening that isn’t
