Remy
The first sign wasn’t dramatic. It never is, when a bond cools by a degree. You don’t wake to snow. You wake to the window that won’t quite defog.
Monday, Holland came through the west door for training with her bag crossed tight over her chest and her ponytail higher than usual—the kind of practical that doubles as armor. She nodded to June. She nodded to me. She didn’t smile. In the east gym she toed off her sneakers, taped her hands with neat, efficient motions Todd would have praised any other week, and stepped onto the mat like a soldier reporting for a post she didn’t choose.
The bond hummed when she entered the room, but quieter, like a radio in another apartment. I didn’t need the wolf to tell me; my ribs knew.
“Morning,” I said, keeping it ordinary, keeping it ours.
“Mor
