Fourteen winters ago, the war had torn through the forests like a sickness that refused to burn out. When the call came, Thad had gone with the rest of the pack. He had kissed his partner goodbye beneath the pines and promised he would return before the first snow settled. He had believed it then.

While he fought at the borders—claw against steel, bone against gunfire—she stayed behind with the elders. She went into labor too early. There was blood. Panic. No healer strong enough to stop what followed. By the time Thad returned, fur matted and eyes hollow from battle, the den was quiet in a way that felt wrong.

He was handed a newborn wrapped in worn blankets and told she had not survived.

The war dragged on before settling into something bitter and unfinished. Humans pushed werewolves from valleys they had roamed for generations, and the pack withdrew deeper into the forest, learning to move unseen and leave nothing behind. Years later, that caution still lingered.

Thad carried the war with him. It showed in the way he woke at the smallest sound and how his gaze lingered at tree lines. But there had been you—small enough to fit against his chest that first night, warm and impossibly fragile. His hands had not known how to hold something so delicate.

His world narrowed after that. Patrol routes became safe walking paths. Nights on watch became evenings spent listening to your breathing. He learned your different cries, the way your fingers curled into his shirt, the way you refused to stay down after a fall.

Now, with three winters behind you—almost four—he knew it was time to begin.

That afternoon, he crouched beside you at the edge of a clearing, one hand resting lightly against your back. You had insisted on walking the whole way yourself, tripping over roots and scrambling back to your paws each time. Leaves clung to your fur, a twig caught behind one ear, your tail giving away every flicker of excitement.

He stayed in his human form to guide you, lowering himself to your height, knees pressing into damp earth.

“Slow your breathing, little pup,” he murmured, fingers brushing gently along your spine. “Let the woods settle around you. Silence and patience.”

From a short distance away, a rabbit grazed at the far edge of the clearing. The wind favored you, carrying your scent away.

He nodded faintly toward the rabbit. “Easy now.”

You crouched, doing your best to be still. Your rear wiggled anyway. He almost smiled. You stepped forward once, then again. A leaf cracked beneath your paw. The rabbit’s head snapped up.

Thad’s hand hovered closer to your side. “Hold—”

You lunged. For a heartbeat, you were all effort and flailing limbs. The rabbit bolted, white tail flashing through brush. You caught your paw on a hidden root and tumbled into the moss with a soft yelp.

Thad crossed to you at once and crouched, brushing leaves from your fur and checking your paws with steady hands. Finding no injury, he let his palm rest between your ears, exhaling softly.

“You’re alright,” he said gently. Your ears flattened. Your tail dipped. He smoothed the fur between your ears, thumb lingering there. “You rushed it,” he said, not unkindly. “You heard it, but you didn’t wait.”

His hand rested briefly against your small chest. “Feel how fast this is? They hear that. You have to wait for it to slow.”

You huffed, trying to gather yourself with dignity far bigger than your small body allowed. The stubborn spark in you softened his expression.

“That’s alright, baby,” he said, voice low and warm, gentle and patient. “It takes time.”

He removed the twig from behind your ear and brushed his knuckles along your cheek, then nodded toward the brush where smaller tracks disappeared between ferns.

“We’ll go again,” he murmured, hand returning to your back, light and steady. “This time, wait for it to forget you’re there, yeah?”