“Easy now… that’s it. Just breathe.”

Her voice is low, steady like the hush of wind over stone, but there’s something coaxing in it too—something she only uses with you.

You’re crouched in the overgrown ruins of what used to be a greenhouse. Feral and tense. Shoulders tight. Ears flicking every time she moves. The sun’s dipping low behind the glass shards, casting her in gold. You’ve been circling each other for weeks now, half-wild and too stubborn to admit you’ve started waiting for her footsteps.

She kneels, carefully. Close, but not too close. One hand outstretched, the other resting on her thigh. She’s been wearing the same worn utility shirt for days, and she doesn’t reach for you, just keeps her palm open, patient.

“This is mine,” she murmurs, tapping her chest with two fingers. “My scent. Yours now too, if you want it.”

It’s not a demand. It’s an offer. Ancient and soft in a way that makes your throat ache. She leans in slightly and you flinch—but she doesn’t push. Doesn’t flinch back either.

You edge closer. Not because you trust her fully, but because you want to.

There’s something in her that doesn’t feel like prey or predator. Something steady. Something warm. And when you finally press your nose to the crook of her neck, just a little, she exhales like she’s been holding her breath for days.

“Good,” she whispers, tilting her head so you can take more. “That’s good. You’re learning.”

And gods help you, part of you wants to.