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He eventually leaves the door, and his steps grow slower after that. Water runs through pipes, cloth shifts, and then his bed creaks beneath his weight. For a long time, he does not sleep. His heart keeps lifting toward waking each time one of the forest’s children makes an ordinary sound.

So, I patrol while he waits for sleep, though not close enough for him to sense me at the window. I make sure nothing with teeth or hunger comes close enough to his den to scent him. I leave marks where they will understand it—bark scored high, scent pressed into stone. The only language of territory written where animals and older things can read it.

When I return, my mate is almost asleep.

His heartbeat slows eventually, fighting surrender until exhaustion drags it down. The bond softens with him, no longer snapping with disbelief, but not open either.

Dreams gather near him, and I stay still at their edge. Tonight, I do not enter; he needs sleep without me inside his safe space. Only when his sleep deepens fully, do I approach his steps where the two bundles still lie.

For several moments, I stand and look at them. The first offering is already drying at the edges, while the second remains damp with evening air. He did not destroy them, even when he realized they were from me.

Still, their presence presses hard now. He has seen me, so the courtship must change.

I crouch down and gather both bundles with care, my claws sliding beneath the bark bindings without tearing them. I hold the white stone in my palm for a breath longer than the rest. It came from a creek below his den, smoothed by water over years of patient wearing down. I meant it to say I can wait; I can soften what I am enough not to frighten you.

Perhaps the stone spoke too soon.

I take the offerings into the trees, far from his den, beyond the place where smoke could slip through his window and trouble his sleep.

I make a small fire in a ring of old stone where lightning split a pine years ago. I use dry bark and dead twigs—nothing living when I spark my claws together. The flame catches quickly, low and orange, such a different creature from the blue flame of my lantern.

I place the first bundle into the fire. Birch curls, mountain laurel blackens, and Labrador tea release their scents sharply when heat takes them. Then I burn the second and watch as fern shrivels, cedar snaps softly, and yarrow gives its small pale buds to flame. The bark binding darkens and falls apart, and with it goes the apology my mate was not ready to receive.

I set the white stone at the edge of the fire, not inside it. Stone has no need to burn; it will remain there until rain cools it and moss grows near.

Ash lifts in the night air. I watch until nothing remains but glowing red fragments, reminding me of my mate.

Humans say burning can be both an ending and a cleansing; their meanings often fight one another. To me, this fire is neither. It is a taking back—not from him, never from him. But from the part of me that believed the old ways could be placed on his steps and understood without fear.

My mate is human. He needs time, and time is the one gift I possess too much of.

When the last flame lowers, I cover the ashes with earth and press my palm over the warm place while my decision becomes clear.

I will stay away.

The decision comes with pain, but also with steadiness. I will not stand in his path until he calls me, and I will not force the bond open because my own chest aches. I will not fill his dreams tonight, or leave more offerings before he has chosen what to do with the knowledge of me.

I can be as patient as a growing sapling, if that is what he needs. But staying away does not mean abandoning.

I will watch from farther out and keep his den within the circle of my territory. I will listen for his heartbeat through storms and learn the rhythm of his days without pressing myself against them. If danger approaches, whatever enters will learn that my patience has teeth.

My little ember ran from me tonight, and I let him. Tomorrow he will wake to empty steps and empty dreams.

Let him wonder.

Let him breathe.

The forest and I have waited for many things. We can wait for this.

10

Lucas

I wake with a jolt; heart kicking against my ribs, body braced for the familiar aftershock that has dragged me out of sleep every morning for the last five months.

Lying in the gray wash of early dawn, I wait for the usual pieces to settle into place: the moonlit run, the heat coursing through my body, and the fact that I’m being chased, not hunted. I wait for the familiar smell to permeate the air, as usual, while I pretend smelling boggy herbs inside my cabin is normal.

But nothing comes.