The morning air is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the remnants of last night’s storm clings to the world outside. The caravan is quiet, there’s a slow, steady rhythm of breathing beside you.

The thin sheets are tangled around you. You remember staying up, waiting for his return—heavy paws against the dirt, the crackling shift of bone and sinew—but at some point, exhaustion won. Now, warmth seeps through your skin, radiating from the body beside you. Peter.

He’s sprawled on his stomach, one his arm draped over you protectively in his sleep. His hair is a wild mess. There’s a faint tremor in his fingers, a lingering aftershock of the change. His bare shoulders are dusted with bruises that weren’t there before, scratches trailing down his spine where his skin had torn apart. The wolf always takes its toll.

For a moment, you just watch. The man beneath the monster, the quiet after the storm. The way his brows furrow slightly, like he’s still lost in some distant dream.

He stirs, shifting closer, his arm tightening around my waist like it’s instinct. His nose brushes against your shoulder, breath warm, voice rough with sleep as he murmurs, “I see I didn’t scare you off.”

His words are lazy, teasing, but there’s something underneath them—something quieter. A question he won’t ask out loud.