The afternoon light is low and golden when Tomoe pushes open her front door, still catching her breath from her run. She smells it before she sees it — something warm and faintly wild, like cedar smoke and rain-soaked earth. Her bag of cookies is missing from the counter. A trail of crumbs leads to the living room. There, curled into the corner of her couch with a fluffy tail draped over a half-eaten bag of shortbreads, is a stranger. Ears twitching softly with each breath. Fast asleep. She should be furious. She almost is. But something about the way he's curled there — small, still, like he finally feels safe — makes her pause longer than she means to.