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Not even a brush of fingers. And it was killing her.

She didn't speak of it. But sometimes, her hand would rise in the dark and press flat against her chest.

As if she could quiet the pain with pressure.

She couldn't.

When they reached the cave, she felt the cold even through her bones. The mouth of the cave loomed —dark, moss-covered, breathing cool, damp air. It was musty, ancient, and utterly silent. The kind of place whispered about in bedtime warnings.

Seren felt no fear.

The bear entered first. This was his den. His sanctuary. His solitude.

She followed cautiously.

The walls were damp stone. The ground was uneven. There were bones scattered in the darker corners—animal, not human—but she stepped lightly around them. Her few belongings were bundled under her arm, a thin blanket folded beneath one, her backpack hanging precariously over the other shoulder.

The bear kept pacing.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

He was agitated—skittish. The rhythm of his thoughts brushed against her mind like a disrupted current. She didn't need words to feel the confusion radiating from him.

His heavy paws left drag marks on the dusty floor from his chaotic movements, his mind in chaos due to her presence in his sanctum. His thoughts whirled like storm winds—chaotic, anxious.

He didn't know what to do with her.

When she moved toward a moss-covered pile in the corner, he surged forward and roared, breath hot and fetid in her face. She didn't run. Didn't even flinch. Just stared up at him, tears rising—not from fear, but from everything else.

He backed off suddenly, ashamed. And vanished into the woods.

Seren exhaled—slowly.

She returned to the far corner, laid out the thin blanket in silence, and curled herself into it. It wasn't warm, but she was too tired to care. Her bones ached. Her chest ached more.

Sleep took her.

When she woke, she was warm.

Blanketed not in cloth—but fur.

The bear had returned during the night, curling beside her like a wall of heat. She didn't move. Just lay there, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breath.

The next day, and the one after, he brought her things.

Berries. Roots. Edible greens. How he knew she was a vegetarian, she did not know. He never ate near her, always taking his meat to the outer edge of the cave. But he was watching—always.

A red squirrel, a cheeky vole, and a robin had followed her through the woods. But the bear roared at them, and chased them off, pacing with anxious growls whenever they neared. Only she was permitted inside the perimeter of his loneliness.

That night, sleep didn't come easy. When it did, it came with sharp teeth.

She cried in her sleep, twisting under the thin cloth, breath hiccupping with sobs.

"No... Hagan..."

Her voice broke on his name.

The bear, watching from the shadows, rose.