LANDON
I hear about the breakfast within an hour, which tells me two things immediately, first that it was never meant to be hidden, and second that it was meant to reach me in a softened form before I had to see it in its original shape. The report comes indirectly, phrased as concern, framed as a gentle check in among trusted pack members who only wanted to ensure Cheyenne felt supported, and I listen without interrupting, my expression controlled while something sharp and metallic coils low in my chest.
When the messenger leaves, I make coffee out of habit rather than desire, measuring the grounds carefully and pouring the water with the same precision I use for patrol logs and territorial maps, and I set the mug on my desk once it is done. I do not drink it. I forget it almost immedi
