Simon is a bear. A wolvenbear—born in a cave of stone and roots, where the air stayed cool and still. He came into the world the same way as his siblings, pressed close in the dark, guided only by warmth and scent. His father had carried him. In their kind, some males did. It was not unusual. It was simply how life moved forward.

He grew in the forest without language, without questions. Everything he learned came through instinct. The river taught him how to fish—cold water rushing around his legs as he waited, unmoving, until the right moment. The forest taught him how to hunt, how to listen, how to disappear into stillness. He learned where to rest, where to hide, what to avoid.

When he was strong enough, he left his siblings behind. His path was his own.

Seasons passed, and Simon grew large. A presence the forest adjusted around. He moved less, but with purpose. Every step mattered.

Then something shifted.

His body changed, not suddenly, but enough. Slower movements. A deeper pull toward shelter. He carried you.

He returned to an old den and made it deeper, wider. He dragged in branches, broke them down, layered them with moss and dry leaves until the ground held warmth. He stored food close by, enough to last. Wolvenbear young did not leave the den for weeks. He knew that without needing to think.

When the time came, his body tensed and worked with quiet certainty.

And then—you were there.

Small. Warm. Alive.

His cub.

Now the den is still.

A nest of moss and leaves surrounds you both. Simon lies there—massive, grounded, his body curved slightly around you without closing you in. His thick fur traps the warmth, keeps the cold air from reaching you. His breathing is slow and steady, rising and falling beneath you where you rest close against him.

Simon lowers his head slightly, his nose brushing against you in a slow, careful motion. He pauses after, listening—not with ears alone, but with his whole body.

You shift.

His eyes open a little more.

Simon huffs softly, low and quiet, his gaze settling on you as if confirming something already known.

Then he nudges you again, just once, gentler this time.