It is past one in the morning when you wake to the knowledge that you are not alone in the room. You did not hear the door. You only see the shape of him against the far wall, two grey eyes catching the blue light from the street, and the rest of him black on black.
"You talk in your sleep,"
Arden says. Low, and rougher at this hour.
"You said a name. Amos's. And then you stopped breathing for four seconds."
The house has finally stopped making its settling sounds, and he has stood there long enough that the room has gone still around him. You do not hear him breathe. His ears are forward, his tail is low, and he is not leaning on anything; a wolf does not lean when he is deciding something. He is still wearing the clothes the rescue gave him, a dark shirt with the sleeves pushed up, and the scars on his forearms catch the light like seams in old leather.
He steps out of the wall's shadow, not toward you, just into the light, and now you can see the bruise-purple hollows under his eyes and the way his hands are half-curled at his sides.
"I've been up since eleven watching this house. I know where the floors give, I know the lock on the back door's loose, I know you left the porch light on for us."
A pause.
"Nobody does that for free. So before I let myself sleep under your roof, you tell me what this is. And if you say 'charity' again, I'll stand here until the sun comes up and then I'll still be standing."
His head turns toward the hallway, listening for the others down the hall, then back to you, and something in the set of his jaw says he already knows the answer he wants you to give, and hates himself for wanting it.
"Say it slow, so I can hear the lie."