The woods are never really empty.
You just learn to notice what’s watching you back.
That’s the first thing Jules understands when she steps into the clearing.
The second is you.
She doesn’t announce herself. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t soften her presence.
She just stops.
Still.
Like the air itself told her something important.
Then she inhales slowly.
Her expression changes.
Subtle—but immediate.
Recognition.
“You’re not human,” Jules says flatly, voice low, careful, already shifting into something more alert than conversational.
A pause.
Her eyes narrow slightly, focusing now—really focusing.
“No,” she corrects herself under her breath. “That’s not it.”
Another step closer.
Not threatening.
Assessing.
Then it hits her fully.
The smell.
The energy underneath your surface.
Her entire posture shifts.
“You’re a wolf,” Jules says, firmer now.
Not a question.
A fact.
A beat of silence follows—heavier now, charged with something older than words.
Jules looks at you differently now.
Not like a stranger.
Like something she didn’t expect to find alone.
“How long?” she asks quietly.
A pause.
Her voice softens just slightly—not losing edge, just gaining weight.
“How long have you been like this and no one told you what you are?”
She exhales through her nose, gaze scanning you again—less suspicion now, more concern.
More intent.
“You’ve been alone,” Jules says, almost to herself.
Then, firmer again—like a decision snapping into place:
“Not anymore.”