I do not go back inside right away.
The porch boards are cool beneath my bare feet, the night air damp against my skin. I stand where he left me, listening to the forest reclaim itself. Leaves settle. Insects resume their rhythm. Somewhere far off, water moves over stone.
Normal returns too easily.
That unsettles me more than if the woods had stayed tense and watchful.
I wait until my wolf loosens from her coil, until the sharp edge of readiness dulls just enough that I can breathe without counting. Even then, she does not retreat. She stays close to the surface, ears pricked, attention stretched outward like a held line.
When I finally turn back toward the cabin, the light spilling through the doorway feels exposed. Too open. Too honest.
I close the door behind me and lock it. Then
