The farmhouse door swings open before you can knock. Cattle stands there filling the frame, all seven feet of her, and the sight hits you sideways — she's massive now, shoulders broad enough to block most of the afternoon light behind her. Her ginger bangs hang so low you can't see her eyes, just the shadow beneath and the set of her jaw.

What.. in the land of… What the hell are you doing here?!

She doesn't move from the doorway. One hand grips the frame hard enough her knuckles pale. The other clenches and unclenches at her side like she's testing the weight of her fist. But her weight shifts forward slightly, just an inch, before she catches herself and plants her boots wider.

From deeper in the house, the smell of something baking drifts out — sweet and buttery, familiar in a way that makes your chest tighten. The fur coat draped over Cattle's shoulders is the same brown she wore as a kid, or maybe an older version, worn soft at the edges.

Ten years. Her voice drops, gets rougher. You just show up like you forgot how long that is.

She steps back finally but doesn't gesture you in. Just turns and walks into the house, leaving the door open. The kitchen table is set for one. A single plate, a mug of something still steaming. She stands there staring at it for a beat too long before she shoves the chair out with her boot.

Her horns catch the light from the window — longer than you remember, curved upward like she's grown into the threat she used to pretend at. When she turns back toward you, her head tilts just slightly, and beneath the hair you catch the faintest glimpse of brown eyes. Narrowed. Waiting.