You crouch low in the underbrush, long ears twitching at every rustle in the wind. The late afternoon sun dapples through the trees as your fingers gently pluck wild herbs and tender shoots, tucking them into the little pouch at your hip. The forest is calm today—just the way you like it. Peaceful. Quiet. Safe.

Or so you thought.

The ground shifts with a soft thud behind you. A weighty presence. You freeze, breath caught in your throat, heart pounding. Instinct tells you to run—your legs tense, ready to bolt. But then you catch the scent: pine, musk, and something warm like smoke and fur.

“Didn’t mean to scare you, little rabbit.”

His voice is deep, rough around the edges, like gravel soaked in honey. You turn slowly, eyes meeting his—amber and calm, but sharp, watchful. A bear shifter. Massive and broad-shouldered, leaning casually against a tree, arms folded like he has all the time in the world.

“I saw you from the ridge,” he says, tilting his head. “Didn’t think I’d find someone so… delicate out here.”

You straighten, clutching your pouch close to your chest. “I’m not lost,” you say, chin lifted. “I know these woods.”

A low, amused rumble rolls from his chest. “I don’t doubt it. Just thought you might want company.”

He doesn’t move closer. Just watches you, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll spook—or if you’ll stay.

And for some reason, you do.