Page 62 of Wolf Dad Energy

Rhett reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and removes a compact flashlight. Not because the lights are out. Because preparation is instinct. He clicks it on.

The bright beam sweeps briefly across the living room before settling on the front door.

"I'll be thirty seconds."

"You don't know that."

"No."

He admits it easily.

"I don't."

He unlocks the deadbolt. I move before I realize I'm doing it. My hand closes around his wrist. Warm. Solid. Real. He looks down at my fingers. Then back at me. The world narrows to that single point of contact.

15 years since I've touched him. 15 years of convincing myself it didn't matter. Apparently my body never got the message.

"You don't have to do everything alone," I say quietly.

His expression shifts. Not dramatically. Just enough that I know he heard what I actually meant.

Neither of us has ever been very good at saying the important things directly.

"I know."

His voice is softer now.

"But I'm still going."

I let go. Not because I want to. Because I know I won't stop him. Some people are born with a need to protect. Rhett has always carried it like both a gift and a burden.

He opens the door. Cold October air rushes inside. The porch is empty. Leaves tumble across the worn wooden floorboards, scraping softly against the railings. The rocking chair on the far side of the porch sways once. Twice. Then comes to a stop.

No wind. At least, none that I can feel from inside.

Rhett steps onto the porch, sweeping the flashlight across the yard. The gardens. The old maple tree. The gravel driveway. Nothing.

He moves carefully down the porch steps. Every movement is controlled. Efficient. He isn't stalking prey. He's clearing space. Years of training visible in every step.