The thought came unbidden, inappropriate given the circumstances, but true nonetheless. Blonde hair, longer than it should be, tangled and wild around a face that was all sharp angles and shadows. A beard that had grown unchecked, covering his jaw, his cheeks, making him look older than he probably was. And his eyes — golden still, the same color they'd been as a wolf, but different now. Aware. Present. Terrified.
He was looking at me like I might disappear. Like I might run. Like any movement at all might shatter whatever fragile thing had let him hold this form.
"Hey," I said softly. "It's okay. You're okay."
His mouth opened. Closed. His throat worked, struggling with sounds it had forgotten how to make.
"You don't have to talk," I said. "It's okay. Just breathe."
But he shook his head. Sharp. Desperate. Like there was something he needed to say and he'd die if he couldn't get it out.
I waited.
The bond between us pulsed with his panic — waves of fear and confusion and something underneath that felt like grief. He was drowning in it. Struggling to keep his head above water while his body tried to remember how to be human.
Then, finally, he spoke.
"I didn't mean to."
His voice was a wreck. Rough and raw, scraped thin by years of disuse. Each word cost him something.
"I was asleep," he continued, the sentences coming slow and painful. "I don't know how to stay."
My heart cracked.
"You don't have to stay," I said. "If you need to shift back—"
"No." The word came out sharp. Almost angry. Then softer: "No. I want— I need—"
He couldn't finish. His breathing was getting faster, his body starting to shake. I felt the wolf pushing at the edges of his consciousness, trying to take over, trying to pull him back into the safety of instinct.
I reached up. Touched his face.
He went still.
My palm against his cheek, my fingers in his beard, my thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. The same gesture I'd made a hundred times when he was a wolf — grounding, centering, reminding him that he was here and I was here and neither of us was going anywhere.
"I've got you," I said. "Whatever you need. However long you can hold on. I'm right here."
His eyes closed. A shudder ran through him.
Then, slowly, his hand came up to cover mine.
Human fingers. Long and thin, the knuckles prominent, the skin rough. He pressed my palm harder against his face, like he needed the contact to remind himself what skin felt like.
"I remember," he said.
"What do you remember?"
"Being... this." He swallowed. "Having hands. Words. A name."
My breath caught. "You remember your name?"
His brow furrowed. Concentration and pain flickering across his features.
"Cal," he said finally. "I think. Cal... something. The rest is gone."
Cal.
