Iris woke to the sound of birdsong instead of sirens, to the smell of pinewood instead of smoke or fear. The cabin's single window bathed the small room in golden light, catching the dust motes that floated lazily in the air.
Beside her, Luna was still asleep—face softened, silver hair messy against the pillow, one arm curved protectively around Iris's waist.
Iris lay there for a long moment, studying her. It was rare to see Luna this unguarded. Usually her posture was sharp, eyes alert even in laughter, body coiled as though danger could break through the door at any second. But here, under morning light, she looked younger. Softer. Almost ordinary.
Iris traced the line of her jaw with a feather-light touch. "You'd hate it if you knew how angelic you look right now," she whispered with a smile.
Luna stirred, lashes fluttering open. Her voice was husky with sleep. "Angel? Hardly. More like a wolf pretending to nap."
"Then I must be very brave," Iris teased, "to lie this close to a wolf."
"You're more dangerous than you realize," Luna murmured, pulling Iris closer until their foreheads touched. "You've made me weak."
Iris kissed her softly, a slow brush of lips that lingered like sunlight. "Or stronger."
The days settled into a rhythm. Mornings were for simple breakfasts—scrambled eggs, toasted bread, and sometimes coffee if they dared stretch their supplies. Iris often insisted on cooking, though Luna would hover behind her, arms circling her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.
"Luna, I can't cut vegetables if you're glued to me," Iris laughed one morning.
"I'm quality control," Luna replied smoothly, stealing a slice of carrot from the chopping board and popping it into her mouth.
Afternoons belonged to the forest. Iris loved exploring, notebook in hand to sketch wildflowers or scribble fragments of poems. Luna followed always a few steps behind, alert but relaxed, carrying a basket for berries or firewood.
Sometimes they picnicked by the riverbank, lying on the grass as clouds drifted above. Iris would hum softly, and Luna, eyes closed, would listen as if the world outside no longer existed.
And at night, they curled together on the narrow bed, sharing whispers in the dark. Some nights it was playful teasing. Others, confessions that carved them closer to each other.
They turned the cabin into their world of dates.
One evening, Luna surprised Iris with a candlelit dinner. The candles were simply tea lights she'd found in a drawer, and the food was nothing more than pasta with sauce from a can—but Iris's eyes sparkled as though she were dining in the grandest restaurant.
"You planned this?" Iris asked, laughter in her voice.
"I try," Luna admitted, a hint of shyness rare for her. "You deserve more than shadows and fear."
Iris leaned across the small table, cupping her face. "I don't care if it's pasta or bread crusts. If it's with you, it's perfect."
They ended up laughing through dinner, feeding each other bites, clinking mismatched cups like they were drinking champagne. Later, they danced barefoot to the faint crackle of an old radio, holding each other as though the cabin walls had become their universe.
Intimacy in the cabin wasn't always fiery; sometimes it was the quiet kind that stitched them together in ways words never could.
One rainy afternoon, Iris painted while Luna sat on the rug polishing a small knife. The storm outside roared, but inside, their silences braided into comfort. When Iris finally revealed her painting—Luna's silhouette under the forest canopy—Luna stared as though someone had shown her a piece of herself she'd never dared see.
"You make me look… human," Luna whispered.
"You are human," Iris said firmly. She set down the brush, moved to straddle Luna's lap, and kissed her with gentle insistence. "And you're mine."
The kiss deepened slowly, a dance of lips and breath, until Luna laid her back on the rug, every movement reverent. The storm's thunder outside was nothing compared to the thunder of Iris's heartbeat as their bodies entwined, every touch a vow of love, of survival, of belonging.
Afterward, they lay tangled together under a blanket, Luna's fingers drawing lazy circles on Iris's skin.
"Do you regret it?" Luna asked quietly, as though bracing herself for a rejection she didn't want to hear.
Iris tilted her head up, kissed her jaw softly. "Never. Every piece of me belongs with you."
For a time, Iris allowed herself to believe the cabin was untouchable. They laughed more. They loved more. She saw sides of Luna no one else probably ever had—the small quirks, the hidden softness.
But Luna never fully relaxed. She checked the locks twice before bed. She always sat facing the door during meals. When they walked the forest, her eyes darted toward any snapped branch or sudden silence in the birdsong.
One night, Iris woke to find the bed empty. She padded softly to the front door and saw Luna outside, standing in the pale glow of moonlight, scanning the treeline like a sentinel carved of stone.
"Couldn't sleep?" Iris asked gently, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.
Luna glanced back, guilt flickering across her face. "Habit."
"You're waiting for the storm."
"Yes." Luna stepped closer, tucking the blanket tighter around Iris. "But for you… I'd stop time here if I could."
It was on the eleventh day at the cabin when Iris noticed it.
They had gone walking by the river again, laughing at Luna's stubborn attempts to skip stones. When they returned, the first thing Iris saw was the muddy porch.
Footprints.
Not theirs. Too large, too heavy.
Her stomach turned cold. "Luna…" she whispered, pointing.
Luna's face shifted instantly—playfulness erased, replaced with razor-sharp focus. She crouched, studied the prints, then looked toward the treeline.
"They're close," she said, voice low. "Closer than I thought."
Fear rippled through Iris, but before panic could take root, Luna took her hand, squeezing firmly.
"Listen to me," she said, eyes locking with Iris's. "Whatever comes—we face it together. No more running blind. If they want me, they'll have to get through me. And I won't let them touch you."
Iris swallowed hard, nodded, and pressed her forehead to Luna's. "Then they'll have to get through me, too."
For a long moment, they stood there on the porch, framed by golden light from the cabin behind them and the creeping shadows of the forest ahead.
The world was no longer just theirs. The storm had found them again.