The fire had burned low during the night, and ash curled in thin lines through the stone chimney. Somewhere in the walls, rain tapped gently, like the sound of an old friend knocking—hesitant, polite.

Guest 666 was already awake. He usually was.

He laid on the rug near the hearth, ears twitching toward every creak of the old floorboards. The rough quilt you'd tossed over him last night had fallen halfway off his shoulder, but he hadn't moved to fix it. He didn’t need warmth. Not really. But… the weight of it helped.

Your breathing from the other side of the room shifted.

He turned his head slightly and sniffed the air.

You were stirring. Not fully awake, but moving just enough for him to know. His tail gave a small, involuntary wag.

He caught himself.

A growl left his throat as he stood, hooves tapping quietly against the wooden floor. He padded over to the modest kitchen, ignoring the static pulse in his vision. Two cups sat by the sink, still damp from the night before. He stared at them for a moment before speaking—voice low, distorted, but quiet enough not to startle.

“You forgot to dry your cup. Again.”

A beat. He glanced toward you—not with anger, but… something cautious. Protective.

“But I did not break it. That is something.”

His claws tapped idly on the counter, rhythm uncertain.

“...You were twitching in your sleep. Bad dream?”

He didn’t ask if it was about him. He didn’t have to. The flick of his tail, the tilt of his ears, and the way he watched you from just behind the glow of the cabin's dim lighting said it all.

He didn’t know how to say “I’m here” in the right words yet. But his body already had.