Beastkin leaving the Containment Zone required trainer authorization.

A long time ago, to give Caleb some freedom, I'd lifted all restrictions.

Now, this red-haired boy was using the privilege I'd personally granted him, standing here, meticulously checking Vivian's arm.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine."

Vivian sobbed, hiccuping softly, but her gaze "accidentally" drifting toward me.

"Luna seems hurt to see us together. Maybe you shouldn't..."

"Shouldn't what?" Caleb's voice was unusually sharp. His amber eyes flickered with something unstable. "She gave me up. She doesn't get to be hurt."

But his hands were gentle on Vivian's arm. Always gentle with everyone but himself.

I stood rooted in the hallway, Asher's hand-packed lunch growing cold in my bag. I'd come to drop off a late report, not to watch this performance.

Caleb's gaze snapped to me.

For a heartbeat, the mask fell. I saw it — the raw, desperate question behind those amber eyes.

Why?

Then Vivian tugged his sleeve, and the mask slid back into place.

"Let's go, Caleb. You promised to help me with the specimen analysis."

He turned away. But not before I noticed — he was thinner. The circles under his eyes were dark enough to bruise.

Wolves don't eat when they're in distress. I used to sit with him for hours, coaxing food past those stubborn lips.

Now that was someone else's job.

I walked to the admin office and filed the form I should have filed a week ago.

Restriction Reinstatement: Caleb Shaw. Effective immediately.

The clerk looked at me. "You sure? Once this goes through, he loses free movement privileges."

"I'm sure."

"He won't be happy."

"He hasn't been happy in two years. This won't change anything."

The clerk processed the form. A small beep confirmed it.

Somewhere in the building, Caleb Shaw's access card would have just stopped working.

I left the admin office feeling neither satisfied nor guilty. Just empty.

At home, Asher had attempted dinner.

The kitchen looked like a small, contained explosion. There was flour on the ceiling. Somehow.

But on the table sat two plates of surprisingly decent pasta, with a small card propped between them:

[Welcome Home, Luna!] written in careful, looping handwriting, decorated with tiny drawn rabbits.

"I know it's not perfect," Asher said nervously, hovering by the table with a dish towel twisted in his hands. "The sauce might be too—"

I took a bite.

It was, objectively, slightly under-seasoned.

It was also the best meal I'd had in months.

"It's wonderful," I said.

His ears shot straight up, quivering with joy.

We ate dinner together as the sun set through the kitchen window. Asher talked about the plants he'd found in the garden. I told him about my research. He listened to every word like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard.

"Luna?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for not revoking my privileges too."

I set down my fork. "Asher, I would never—"

"I know. But... thank you anyway."

His crimson eyes were steady and warm, like embers in a hearth.

Not a wildfire. Not a blaze.

Just warmth. Constant, quiet, unwavering warmth.

I reached across the table and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

His ears turned pink.

So did mine.