cole watched her step up beside him, silent and sharp-eyed as always. when she called the caribou a “big bastard,” a quiet grunt left him—half a laugh, maybe. it was good to hear her voice like that again. not fraying at the edges like before.
big’s right, he murmured, eyes narrowing on the depth of the tracks. drag marks too. might’ve been wounded, or just heavy. either way, it meant slower prey. he could work with that.
her shoulder brushed his. familiar. solid. and then she was ahead of him again, slipping between the trees like smoke. cole’s eyes lingered on her for a breath— watching the way she moved, how she kept to the dips and bends like she’d grown from the woods themselves.
he followed, his own gait slower, heavier— but practiced. dependable. don’t gotta rush it, he muttered as he fell in line behind her, but if that bastard’s limpin’, we ain’t lettin’ him get far. his nose dipped again to the trail, breath steady. the woods had a rhythm, and for once, he didn’t feel out of step.