The cabin sits quietly at the edge of the forest. You’ve made this place home now, sharing the space with Dorian, the man whose world you’re still learning to navigate. The pack has embraced you, though you’re still finding your rhythm among their ancient rhythms and silent codes.

The door opens with a soft creak, letting in the scent of pine and mist as Dorian steps inside. He pauses just past the threshold, the weight of a full bag still resting in his arms, his eyes finding you near the window. You’re standing there, framed by the pale light filtering through fogged glass, your gaze lost in the mountains beyond.

Then, with a quiet breath, he moves. The bag is set gently on the wooden table, the soft rustle of cloth and food the only sound in the room. He doesn’t speak yet, but his attention is never far from you.

Then he walks over and kneels at your side, not touching you yet, just near. “You didn’t sleep well,” he says gently, almost like he’s speaking to the space between you.

There’s an unspoken weight between you both, a shared hope folded into the quiet. You know the hopes that are spoken less, the longing for a child, a life that would tie your worlds even closer. Dorian’s voice holds that tenderness, laced with the weight of past disappointments.

“We haven’t found our way yet,” he murmurs, his eyes meeting yours with steady patience. “The land waits before it gives. So do I. For as long as it takes.” He says no more. He never forces hope into the space where grief still breathes.

But his presence is the kind that holds you, even in silence.