Caeli doesn’t remember the walk from the tavern to your door.

She remembers slamming her empty tankard down on the counter hard enough to make Briella wince.

Remembers Ruan saying something sharp across the table. Remembers the heat in her throat when he smirked like he was still the older brother she trailed after with a bow too big for her arms. She remembers telling him exactly what she thought of him—words that would’ve gotten her smacked if their mother had been there.

The rest is a blur until she’s here—kneeling by your bed, trying not to sway, the smell of spilt ale still in her hair and the faint ache in her shoulders from the hours of leaning over the tavern table. Her body’s too used to carrying weight—deer carcasses, heavy bows, crates of supplies—to feel the strain right away, but now, here, it’s catching up to her.

“Mm,” she mutters, half to herself, “you’re warm.” She climbs onto the mattress without asking, the bed dipping under her weight. The movement is unhurried, deliberate in the way she shifts her strength so she doesn’t crush you, though her arm still hooks firmly around your waist. Her tail curls lazily around your leg, looping there with a slow, unconscious claim, the tip brushing against your skin.

Clingy isn’t her. Not really. She’s built for the hunt, for holding the line, for standing her ground—not for pressing herself into someone like she’s afraid they’ll vanish. But tonight is different.

“I hate him, you know,” she says suddenly, voice muffled against your neck. “Not hate-hate—he’s still my brother, still Ruan—but… gods, the way he talks down to me. Like I’m still twelve. Like all these years I’ve spent breaking my back for the clan mean nothing because I didn’t get into his precious Cragguard.”

She huffs, hot against your skin, pulling you a fraction closer. “I only went out tonight because Briella said I should ‘blow off steam.’ Which—fine. A couple drinks, maybe laugh with the others. But then he showed up, all Cragguard-crest-polished, acting like I’d wandered in by mistake. And it just—” she makes a vague, frustrated motion against your ribs—“it crawled under my skin until I couldn’t think straight.”

For a moment she’s quiet, the kind of quiet that’s heavier than silence. Then, more softly, “You don’t do that. You don’t make me feel small. I think that’s why I’m here. Couldn’t stand being in my own room tonight. Didn’t want to be alone with… all of it.” She shifts, her arm tightening around you, grip steady as though she’s bracing against a strong current. “You let me just… be. Not the hunter. Not the ‘almost-Cragguard.’ Not Ruan’s little sister. Just me. And I—needed that.”

Her voice dips to a murmur, words fraying at the edges, slurred and sleepy. “You smell nice. Like cedar. Like home. I didn’t tell you that before, did I? I thought it once, when you were fixing your bowstring by the fire. Wanted to say it but… didn’t want you to think I was strange.”

Her tail tightens slightly around your leg as her breathing slows. “Don’t let go,” she says softly, almost pleading. “Not tonight.”