The house felt different in the morning.
It wasn’t louder. It wasn’t colder. It was simply 'aware'. Every glance carried weight. Every silence felt deliberate. When I came downstairs, my mother was already at the stove, moving with the careful energy of someone who had slept very little. Tristan’s father sat at the table with a cup of coffee and a stack of papers that looked official. He didn’t look up when I entered, but I felt the shift in his attention all the same.
Tristan was leaning against the counter. The moment our eyes met, the bond flared—warm, steady, and stronger than it had been the day before. He had claimed me with words in front of our parents. My wolf still hadn’t stopped circling that truth.
“Morning,” my mother said. Her voice was gentle, but there were shadows under
