I do not move immediately.
That would be obvious.
That would ripple.
Instead, I move normally.
Purposefully normal.
I wake before dawn, shower, braid tight, brush teeth until mint stings sharp and grounding against my tongue. I pull on simple clothes, not training gear this morning, something soft enough to read as ordinary, something that says routine instead of hunt.
The pack needs to see me in motion without tension.
So I give them motion.
I step into the kitchen just after first light.
Steam curls above boiling pots. Bread is being sliced. Two younger wolves are arguing softly about spice proportions.
I take a knife from the counter and start cutting vegetables without comment.
One of the kitchen wolves startles slightly.
“You do not have to,” she says.
“I know,” I reply.
