As soon as everyone had showered, changed, and looked marginally human again, we headed to the mess hall together.
I walked in the middle of the group, still feeling unreal, like if I moved too fast the place might flicker and disappear. They were relaxed, joking quietly, bumping shoulders like this was just another night. No one hovered. No one grilled me. No one treated me like I was fragile or temporary.
They asked questions, but they were easy ones. Music preferences. Morning person or night owl. Spicy food or mild. When they noticed I dodged anything personal, they let it go without a comment or a look.
No pressure. No probing.
Instead, they talked.
About their packs. Their childhoods. The towns and forests they grew up in. Dumb trouble they got into as kids. Traditions they miss
