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I pointed out that I own shirts.

She pointed out that this has never reliably made me wear one.

I no longer bother wondering where I’m going to sleep at night. I sleep wherever she is. That part happened without discussion.

The first few nights, she stayed here. Then one evening we ate at hers, ended up in her bed, and sometime around two in the morning, I woke with her curled against my chest and realized I had no intention of going home.

Since then, we haven’t spent a night apart.

The attraction between us only grows stronger with each passing day. Some nights we don’t make it upstairs before I’m inside her. Once, I left a job half-finished because I couldn’t shake the feeling that Nora needed me, and ended up fucking her on her kitchen table.

And then there are the nights when we lie awake talking long after we should be asleep, Nora tucked against my side while she asks the kinds of questions no one has bothered asking me in years. Sometimes she talks instead, telling me about places she’s lived, jobs she’s hated, things she wants to do before she gets old enough to complain about her knees.

She steals blankets. I steal them back. She sprawls diagonally across the mattress, then claims I’m the one taking up too much room.

I know she reads the last page of a book before buying it. I know she loves pasta and hates sprouts. I know she makes a soft, pleased sound when I kiss the back of her neck in the morning.

I know I love her.

That one came quietly. No revelation or dramatic flash of lightning. One morning she was barefoot in my kitchen wearing my shirt and arguing with the toaster, and I looked at her and knew.

Simple as that.

Terrifying as that.

I haven’t told her yet because the words matter, and for once in my life, I want to get something important right.

And that means showing her every part of me.

Which is why tonight, we’re behind my cottage near dusk, far enough from the road that no one is likely to wander past. Nora sits cross-legged on an old blanket with a ridiculous amount of anticipation on her face.

I frown at her, fighting the urge to back out. “You need to stop looking so excited.”

“I’m being supportive. It’s the first time you’ve shifted in front of me.”

“You’re vibrating.”

“That’s enthusiasm.” She grins. “You like me enthusiastic.”

“Usually when we’re both naked.”

Her eyes drop deliberately to my crotch. “You could fix that.”

I give her a look.

She laughs, but it fades when I start to shift. She’s seen the wolf several times now from a distance, but she hasn’t seen the change itself or been close enough to touch me in my wolf form. This feels different. More exposed.

I’ve learned how to let the change happen instead of fighting it, but that doesn’t make it graceful. Bones crack. Muscles reshape. My body becomes something else without ever quite feeling like something separate.

It used to hurt enough to make me pass out. Now it’s pressure and strain and a deep internal pull. I keep my eyes down until it’s done.

For several seconds, Nora says nothing. That silence gets under my skin faster than fear would have.

I finally force myself to look at her. Her eyes are wide, not with fear but with awe.

“Oh,” she whispers, standing slowly. “That was... incredible.”

I have no idea what to do with that, but the wolf preens.