The rain had stopped before dawn, leaving the world washed and quiet.
When Tristan stepped out of the cottage, mist rose from the grass like breath. He drew his cloak tighter, intending only to fetch water from the well.
(Theodore's Well was warded, but Mira had lifted the boundary earlier that week. Tristan was careful to follow her instructions—one hand on the rim, one breath whispered in thanks—before drawing the rope.)
Then he felt it.
A faint pulse in the air, warm and steady as a heartbeat.
He looked toward the ridge.
Shannon stood there, shirt off, half-silhouetted against the pale morning, his wolf form fading back into the man. Steam lifted from his skin, carrying a scent Tristan couldn't name—something clean, sharp, and strangely sweet, like pine warmed by sunlight.
Tristan froze. His heart began to beat too fast.
Shannon noticed and lifted a hand in greeting. He playfully blew a kiss.
And Tristan smiled, receiving it.
