Day 4. Olfactory sensitivity continues to exceed normal human parameters by a significant margin. Can distinguish individual pack members by scent at a distance of approximately 50 metres (tested inadvertently while walking to the shop—identified Roan approaching from the direction of the high street before visual confirmation). Auditory range similarly expanded. Estimated functional hearing radius: 200+ metres in quiet conditions. Note: sensitivity increases in the evening and decreases slightly in bright midday sun. Possible circadian component?
Day 4, contd. Temperature regulation improving. Fluctuations less extreme than previous week. Baseline body temperature appears to have risen by approximately 1.5°C—consistent with R’s reported normal of 38.2°C. Hands no longer cold. This is possibly the only symptom I actively welcome.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table writing these when Roan comes through the back door with two bags of shopping and the easy confidence of a man who's been letting himself into my cottage without being told to stop.
“You’re out of milk again,” he says, unpacking onto the counter. “And bread. And everything else. Do you actually eat when I’m not here?”
“I eat.”
“Toast doesn’t count.”
“Toast absolutely counts. It’s a grain-based product with optional protein supplementation.”
He gives me a look that manages to be both amused and concerned, which is a combination I’m learning is his default setting where my welfare is involved. He puts the kettle on without asking, because he’s learned that I’m always ready for tea, and moves around my kitchen with the spatial familiarity of someone who’s memorised the layout. Mugs on the left, teabags in the tin by the window, milk in the fridge door.
It should feel invasive. A man rearranging himself into the domestic architecture of my life, filling spaces I didn’t know were empty. Instead, it feels like the cottage is working the way it was designed to, as if itwas always meant for two people and I just hadn’t noticed the gap.
I don’t say this out loud. There are limits to how much sentimentality I’m willing to express before noon.
“I had a new symptom this morning,” I say instead.
He sets my tea in front of me and sits down. “Tell me.”
“I was in the surgery, organising the supply cupboard. Mrs Blackwood’s spaniel was in the waiting room. I could tell it was frightened before I opened the door. Not from the sounds it was making, although I could hear those. I could smell it. The fear. It had a specific scent signature, something sharp and acidic, and I knew what it meant before I had any conscious framework for interpreting it.”
“That’s your instincts reading emotional pheromones. Wolves use scent the way humans use facial expressions. You’re developing the ability to read emotional states through olfactory data.”
“I diagnosed a dog’s anxiety through a closed door by smelling it.”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“That’s useful.” He wraps his hands around his mug. “You’re a vet. You’ve spent your career learning to read animals through behaviour and body language.Now you’ve got an additional data channel. Think of it as a diagnostic upgrade.”
I want to argue, but he’s not wrong. The spaniel had been brought in for a routine nail trim, and knowing it was already stressed before I opened the door meant I could adjust my approach. Slower movements, lower voice, treats before handling. The appointment went smoothly, and Mrs Blackwood commented that I had a wonderful way with nervous dogs.
I had a wonderful way with nervous dogs because I could smell their fear. The ethics of this are something I’ll need to sit with later, but the practical application is undeniable.
“There’s something else,” I say. “Something I’m not sure how to describe.”
He waits.
“People feel different to me now. Not just their scent. Their presence. When Mrs Blackwood was in the room, I was aware of her in a way that went beyond normal perception. I could feel the space she occupied, the energy of her. And when you walk in—” I pause, because this is the part I haven’t been able to articulate, even to myself. “When you walk in, the whole room reorients. Like you’re the centre of gravity, and everything else adjusts.”
He’s very still.
“At the bonfire,” I continue, “I noticed the same thing with Rebecca. People arranged themselves around her without thinking about it. And Arthur had a different quality. Heavier. More settled.”
“You’re reading pack dynamics. Dominance and submission signals. Every wolf broadcasts their position in the hierarchy through body language, scent, and something less tangible that we call presence. You’re picking up on it because your instincts are coming online.”
“And you? What do you broadcast?”
He looks at his tea. “More than I’d like.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Alpha bloodline carries a stronger presence. It’s genetic. My father has it. I have it, whether I want it or not. When I walk into a room, other wolves feel it. It’s part of why the pack expects me to lead. The biology says I should.”
