Turns out I’m not great at staying away.
The change pulls at me, deep and insistent.
I step away from the path, into the trees.
“Fine,” I breathe. “Have it your way.”
Bone and sinew crack and crunch. My skin burns as fur breaks through.
The shift tears through in one massive surge. The ground shakes, the world explodes into scent and sound.
The beast reclaims its shape at last, the roar bursting out of me before I can stop it.
Mine!it bellows.
Then I’m running.
Snow churns under my paws, the forest a blur of motion and white. Every breath is ice and heat at once.
I run harder, faster, until thought burns away and only instinct remains.
The ridge rises beneath me; my body eats the distance like it’s nothing. Trees stream past on either side, trunks dark, branches heavy with white. Every part of me is made for this—this speed, this cold, this clear, clean purpose.
When I’m like this, I don’t have to explain why I left her.
I don’t have to remember the way her mouth felt under mine.
I don’t have to think about how her hands shook when she tried to hide it.
I just run.
My cabin sits on the upper ridge, half tucked into the trees, roof blanketed in white. Smoke threads lazily from the chimney—the fire I banked earlier still holding on.
I slow as I approach. A couple of big strides turn into a heavy walk. The bear breathes hard, inhaling resin and ash and the familiar scent of home.
It doesn’t want to go inside. It wants to race back down the ridge, break down Lila’s door and claim her all night long.
Too bad.
I shoulder through the door, hinges groaning.
The fire in the stone hearth glows low and orange, throwing light across the room—the old couch, scarred table, boots dumped by the wall. My life, as bare and simple as I’ve wanted to keep it.
The change comes back over me as soon as I’m over the threshold. Bones pull inward; fur recedes; the room tilts up as my weight shifts off four limbs and onto two.
I’m standing naked on the worn rug, breath sawing in and out, steam curling faintly off my skin.
It should feel like home. It doesn’t.
The emptiness of the cabin presses around me. This place has always been sanctuary—a spot to hide out the worst of winter, and spare the world from what lives under my skin.
Tonight it just feels small.
I drag on sweats and a clean thermal. The fire throws enough glow to see by. I move to the window, bare feet thudding across old boards.
From here I can just make out the opposite ridge. The line of trees. The faint star of a porch light that wasn’t burning yesterday.
She’s over there.
