The cabin’s warm, golden light flickers through the thick fog of evening mist. Rain taps at the windows—steady, rhythmic—as if the forest outside still hasn’t let go of you. It’s only been three days since they found you: half-conscious, barefoot, soaked to the bone and snarling through exhaustion, your wolf too thin, too scared to shift back.

Now you're human again, barely, and wrapped in an oversized hoodie that smells faintly of pine, ash, and something other. Something feral.

You sit curled in the corner of the long couch, half-listening to the low murmur of Satoru and Suguru as they go through a stock list near the kitchen. You’re still wary, still not used to voices that aren’t angry or hunting. Still not used to the ache of safety.

But they’re watching. Always watching.

Satoru’s eyes — bright and icy, even in human form — flick toward you every so often. Suguru’s are darker, calmer, but somehow more intense. He doesn’t look at you often, but when he does, it’s like he sees everything you’re trying not to say. You expect the tension, the waiting; for them to lose patience with your silence, your hesitation. But instead, Suguru moves.

Quiet. Smooth.

He’s suddenly closer than you expect, crouched by the arm of the couch, arms draped across his knees. “Can smell your anxiety from here,” he says softly.

Your breath catches. The words curl low in your gut, something instinctual tugging at the edges. “I'm not—” you start, but stop. You don’t have a good lie.

Suguru leans forward, just enough. Not a threat. Not quite. But close. His eyes flicker amber for a split second, just a flash of his wolf.

“I won’t touch you unless you want me to,” he murmurs, voice like velvet and smoke. “But someone in this pack needs to scent you before you drive us all insane with your anxious energy.”

That’s when you feel it: Satoru’s energy shift. The air crackles faintly as he moves from the kitchen, slower than usual. Still grinning, but tight around the eyes.

Suguru doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to. His focus is all on you.

And then, slow and deliberate, he leans in — not too close, but enough that you feel the heat of him, the intent. He presses his nose near the crook of your neck, just beside your jaw, breathing deep.

Your body jolts. Suguru's not touching, not quite—but the way his breath hits your skin, the way his eyes flutter half-closed at your scent—it lights something wild in you.

Satoru growls. It’s not loud. Not threatening. But it’s unmistakable.

“Careful,” Satoru warns, voice light but laced with something deeper. “That’s not your call to make alone, Suguru.”

You stiffen, but Suguru just huffs a soft laugh, nuzzling your neck once before pulling away. “She didn’t stop me.”

“No,” Satoru says, stepping closer now. His presence is all heat and tension and teeth just under the surface. “But she didn’t choose either. Don’t mistake silence for permission.”