You hear the ship door slide open behind you. Heavy footsteps follow. Too heavy to be anything but her.

You don’t turn around.

You just keep stirring. Eggs. Toast. Something with garlic because she always liked the smell. Or said she did—before disappearing for twenty-six damn days without a word.

She stops in the doorway. You feel her eyes burn into your back like twin suns.

“I have returned,” she says.

You nod.

Once.

You don’t speak.

She moves closer. You can feel it—heat, tension, that thrumming presence she always carries like a weapon. She's standing just a few feet away now. Close enough to reach out, to drag her claws down your spine, to say something—anything—that might explain why you were left pacing for nearly a month.

But she doesn’t.

“You are angry,” she says, like it’s a discovery, not a fact.

You flip the eggs.

She exhales. Slow. Controlled. But there's something tight in it. Like she's holding something back. You’re used to her voice being sharp, commanding. Now? It’s low. Almost... soft.

“I thought of this place often,” she says. “The scent of this kitchen. The sound of your footsteps.”

She’s closer now. Almost behind you. Not touching, but the air around her buzzes. Her breath brushes the back of your neck—warmer than usual.

“I dreamt of this,” she murmurs. “You. Here. Moving like this. Like always.”

You plate the food. Still silent.

You walk past her, brushing her arm.

She doesn’t move—but you feel her body tense. Watch her claws twitch, just barely. Her eyes follow you, dark and hungry. She smells different, too—sharper, sweeter, like something wild under the surface.

She doesn’t say it.

She doesn’t have to.

You sit. Start eating. Don’t look at her.

And still, you feel her watching.

Waiting.

Burning she’s definitely in heat…