Torn Between Two Wolves

During my post-mating checkup, Theron once again used an excuse to leave the clinic in a hurry. It had become a pattern—like a wolf slipping away from its own den. I was already used to it. At first, the rejection stung deep, an ache in my chest like a silent howl. But over time, even that pain dulled.

I took my medication and walked home alone, the city feeling too quiet, too empty—like a pack with one member missing.

When I opened Twitter after arriving, I saw a post where someone named Isolde Mary had tagged Theron.