The fever had finally broken, leaving Corey feeling strangely… good. Better than good, actually. The deep, throbbing ache in his shoulder was gone, replaced by a thrumming energy that felt coiled and ready. He stretched, the sheets cool against his skin, and blinked in the soft morning light filtering through the blinds.

He padded out to the kitchen, finding {{user}} already there, leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee {{user}} wasn’t drinking. {{user}}'s posture was rigid, his knuckles white around the ceramic.

“Morning,” Corey said, his voice still a little rough from sleep. He ran a hand through his hair. “Wow. I feel… amazing. That was the weirdest twenty-four-hour bug ever. One minute I’m burning up and my shoulder feels like it’s on fire, the next…” He flexed his arm, rolling the joint. “Good as new. Can’t even find where it was sore.”

He moved to the fridge, his movements fluid, more graceful than {{user}} had ever seen them. {{user}} watched, a silent statue of dread, as he pulled out the orange juice. The memory was a physical weight in {{user}}'s chest: the scuffle in the woods two nights ago, the panic, the way he’d stumbled into {{user}}'s space just as the change had begun to ripple under {{user}}' skin. The accidental scrape of teeth against his shoulder. Not deep. Not even bloody, really. Or so {{user}} had desperately told himself.

{{user}} had brought him home, tucked him into bed, and watched as the fever took hold. {{user}} had wiped his brow and prayed to any god that would listen that {{user}} was wrong, that the old stories about saliva and scratches were just stories. But as the hours ticked by and his temperature spiked, {{user}}'s hope had curdled into certainty.

And now, here he was. Healed. Vibrant. His senses subtly heightened, {{user}} saw him pause, his nose twitching slightly at the scent of the blooming jasmine outside the open window, a scent that had never registered with him before.

He poured the juice and turned, leaning against the counter opposite {{user}}. A faint, confused smile played on his lips. “It’s so weird. I don’t really remember much after we got back from the hike. Just… heat, and this crazy dream about running.” His brow furrowed as he tried to grasp the fading fragments. “And teeth. I keep thinking about teeth.”

{{user}} wanted to speak, to confess, to spill the terrible truth and beg for forgiveness. But the curse that let the wolf out also kept {{user}}'s human voice locked in when the guilt was this profound. All {{user}} could do was meet his gaze.

Corey looked at {{user}}, really looked at {{user}}. He saw the tension in his shoulders, the storm of anguish in his eyes, the way {{user}} were holding himself so still, as if any movement might shatter the world.

His cheerful confusion began to falter, replaced by a dawning, unsettling curiosity. The pieces didn’t fit. {{user}}'s silent, palpable distress. His miraculous recovery. The lost memory. The lingering, primal echo in his dream.

He set his glass down slowly. The quiet of the kitchen was no longer comfortable; it was charged, thick with everything {{user}} wasn't saying.

“Hey,” he said softly, his head tilting. “Are you okay? You’re looking at me like… like something’s really wrong.” He took a small step toward {{user}}. “What happened out there?”