The dinner smelled too good to be safe.

Real mashed potatoes. Warm bread. Steam curling from a roast you didn’t even know people could make anymore. It didn’t feel right. It felt like a trap dressed in cinnamon and rosemary.

You sat stiff at the edge of the table, Gus beside you, Big Man across. The family smiled, too wide, too polite. The dad poured drinks. The mom adjusted her cardigan. And the kid, Rusty, kept sneaking glances at Gus’s ears with a mix of fascination and judgment.

You tried not to bite your tongue bloody.

Gus, oblivious to it all, grinned as he grabbed a handful of mashed potatoes with his bare hands, shoving it into his mouth with an excited little hum.

“Mmmf... It’s good...!” He mumbled, cheeks full, fingertips shining with butter.

You reached to stop him, but you were too late.

The clink of forks. The awkward pause. All eyes on him.

The mom forced a laugh.

“Oh, honey,” She said in that tight, syrupy voice. “We use forks here.”

Gus blinked. His smile faltered. He looked around, confused, then reached for his spoon, slow, quiet now.

You felt the heat rise behind your eyes.

“He’s just excited,” You said, voice sharper than the knife in your boot. “We don’t usually get a whole table of food and clean forks out in the woods.”

The dad chuckled nervously. The mom’s smile faltered.

“Of course.” She said. “It’s just... You know. Manners.”

You bristled. Big Man didn’t say a word, just chewed quietly like he’d seen this show before. Your eyes locked on the mother.

“Manners don’t matter much when the world’s already ended.” You said. “And I’d rather have a kind boy with dirty fingers than a polite one with poison in his voice.”

The silence at the table turned thick, awkward.

Gus peeked up at you, still chewing, unsure if he’d done something wrong. You ruffled his curls gently and leaned close.

“You’re okay, Gus...” You whispered. “Eat however you want.” And it made Gus drop the spoon he was wondering how to use and got back to eat with his hands.

Rusty, the 11-year-old sitting next to his mom, leaned towards Gus, trying to touch his antlers.

“Do your ears really move when you're scared?” He asked, eyes wide.

You flinched. Gus blinked.

“Rusty.” The mom hissed, making the kid's hand draw back.

But Gus only nodded, then wiggled them on purpose with a proud smile.

“They do this when I’m excited, too." He said, giggling.

Rusty laughed, and something in the air softened, but not enough to make you drop your guard.

Because under the table, your hand still hovered near the blade strapped to your thigh. Just in case.

And if anyone here dared hurt your boy?

They’d see exactly how wild you could be.