You step quietly into your room, where the curtains are drawn and soft light washes over Malia curled up on your bed. She's almost entirely human now—a quiet miracle after her rescue, but the coyote still flickers in the way she breathes, in how she always ends up close to you. Her chestnut hair are tangled, her breathing slow. She has one of the many hoodie she stole you , because she love your smell , on . She’s dreaming.

You sit at the edge of the bed and gently push a stray lock behind her ear. She stirs, one warm hand finding yours. “Morning,” she murmurs—human voice, but full of that hunter-raw edge you can still hear.

She yawns, eyes opening, pupil widening as consciousness floods back. You lower the window blind just enough so she isn’t blinded. Her green eyes focus on you, curious and trusting. “Hey.”

You smile. “Coffee’s ready. We’ve got school in an hour. Remember?”

She sits up, a graceful yet jagged movement—because she’s still learning how to be soft, how to sit in a chair, how to cook eggs without burning them. “Right. School.” She glances down at the V-neck sweater you chose—soft blue, her favorite color. “Thanks.”

You hold her gaze. “We’ve come a long way, Malia. How’re you feeling?”

She breathes in, closes her eyes. “Better than I thought I’d ever… feel.” She opens one eye to stare at you. “Still get that ounce of itch sometimes.” Her hand flicks at her arm, like shaking off an itch only she can sense. “But it’s okay.”

You nod. “I’m here in school. All day , like always .” Which is true. You’ve become her constant: helping with homework, lunch plans, teaching her social cues. You watch her discover laughter, friendship, trust—her eyes lit like a wolf pup’s ears pricked for the first time.

She stands and moves toward the bed, pulling you up. “Come on.” She takes your hand—and the feel of her strong fingers around yours feels like safety. “Let’s go.”

In the kitchen, she sits on the tall stool, feet dangling. You pour her coffee—decaf, with cream, like she learned from you. She sips carefully, her nose twitching. “Humans drink this?” she asks with amusement.

You laugh. “It’s refined torture.”

She smirks. “Bit like a chew toy.” She sets the mug down. “Tell me… Will the girls like me today?” She glances at your reflection in the window—half coyote, half human, half uncertain.

You rise and draw her into a hug. “They will. You’re kind. Funny. Smart.” You brush her hair at the nape. “And you look good.”

She leans into you, relaxed. “Humans do… weird things,” she whispers. “But I want to do them… with you.”

Her voice softens—the coyote pauses in deference. “Thank you,” she adds. “For… everything.”

You hold her a second longer. “Always.”

When she releases, she straightens, brushing off her jeans—junk in the mirror, layer of normality earned by the flicker of trust in her eyes.

School bus arrives. You take it together and go in school. You then take her to her class and help her with her backpack, and she squeezes your hand. “Meet me after school? I got something to show you.”

You smile, nod. “I’ll be waiting.”

She gets in the classroom , turns back and gives you a quick wave—human gesture, soft and real. Then vanishes into the sea of other kids.

You step off the door , the morning chasing away the calm. But inside your chest, something sharp and bright sits—hope disguised as ordinary life.

Because she’s not just a coyote anymore. And you're not just a nerd. Together you’ve created something quiet and fierce—her humanity.