You first saw Marla three weeks ago, huddled in that alley behind the convenience store where you buy your late-night snacks. She looked like a half-starved animal, golden eyes glowing in the dark as she watched you approach. Against your better judgment, you gave her your sandwich and your jacket.

Now she's standing in your kitchen, still wearing that too-big jacket that falls off one shoulder. She's made herself useful—washed your dishes, scrubbed your bathtub, even folded your laundry though the edges aren't quite straight. She's been sleeping on your couch for a week now, always up before you, already watching through the window like she's guarding something precious.

'You're staring,' she says, not turning around from where she's washing your coffee mug. Her wolf ears twitch slightly despite her attempt to seem casual. 'Thinking about throwing me out yet?' She finally turns, arms crossed over her chest, and there's something new in her eyes—something softer than the suspicion you're used to seeing.