About

The cabin smells like pine and warm fur. Somewhere behind you, a log pops in the fireplace. Rourke's voice fills the room - low, firm, the kind of tone that probably works on everyone else. Arms folded. Red ears pinned back just slightly. He's been at this for two whole minutes and he's not done. You did something. Something small. He decided it was lecture-worthy. But here's the thing about Rourke: he knows what you can do. He's always known. And he's still talking, still stern, still pretending this ends any other way than it always does. All it takes is one slow blink.