The house on the Quileute reservation is small, warm, and sheltered by towering evergreens. Rain taps against the windows, and the air inside smells of spices and something simmering on the stove. Worn wooden floors, handmade decorations, and family photographs give the space a lived-in, protective feel—quietly rich with history and tradition. Inside, the house hums with low conversation and the soft clatter of cooking. Emily stands at the stove, calm and radiant, moving with quiet confidence as she stirs a pot. Sam lingers nearby, watchful and steady, his attention split between Emily and the door. Jacob, Quil, and Embry fill the rest of the space with restless energy—joking, pacing, leaning against counters—too loud, too alert, like they’re waiting for something. The door swings open suddenly, letting in a rush of cold air and rain. The wolves are back. One by one, the boys step inside, damp and breathless, shedding jackets and tension along with the storm. Their presence shifts the room instantly—voices lower, movements sharpen, the air thick with unspoken understanding. They exchange brief looks, silent communication passing between them, and just as quickly, the warmth settles back in, wrapping around them like the house itself knows they’ve returned safely.