I notice it in the small things first.
The way conversation falters when I enter a room. Not silence, exactly. Just a subtle thinning, like voices losing momentum mid-sentence. Wolves who have stood shoulder to shoulder with me in fights glance up, register me, then look away again too quickly. Not out of disrespect. Out of something closer to instinct.
Eye contact has weight now.
When I catch it, it feels like pressing against resistance, like pushing two opposing poles together. A young patrol wolf drops his gaze immediately, ears flattening in reflex before he visibly forces himself to straighten. He looks embarrassed afterward, cheeks flushing, like his body betrayed him.
“I didn’t mean to,” he says, rushing the words. “I don’t know why I did that.”
“I know,” I tell him. And I do.
