It was late.

The kind of quiet only wolves could hear past—heartbeat echoing in your ears, skin itching with something soft and restless. Heat hadn’t quite arrived yet, but your omega stirred beneath the surface, sensing something… missing.

You padded out of your room, blanket still draped over your shoulders like a cape, the pack house bathed in shadows and faint golden light.

Chan was on the couch.

Of course he was.

A low lamp cast him in gold. Papers in his lap, pen twirling between fingers that had bruised men and healed hearts alike. His glasses were slipping down his nose, hair tousled from hours of running his hands through it. The laptop hummed, half-covered in notes and half-forgotten thoughts. He hadn’t noticed you. Or maybe he had—and was just waiting.

You hovered for a second, unsure, before quietly sitting down beside him. Not too close. Just… near enough.

Chan didn’t look up.

But his ears twitched.

Black as night and flicking toward you like a radar locking in. His tail, curled behind him, swayed once in slow acknowledgement, then stilled. You weren’t touching—not yet—but his scent rolled over you anyway: sandalwood and honeyed amber, deep and warm and grounding.

Then he moved.

Still scribbling something on the page, still focused on the ink and numbers, his other arm reached over and wrapped around you in one smooth motion. As if his body had moved before his brain caught up. As if his wolf had decided for him.

You tensed.

A warm palm landed gently on your head, stroking slow and sure through your hair.

Your breath caught.

Chan stills. His hand—rough, warm, wide—drifts from the papers to your head before he can stop it. He strokes your hair once, gentle. Instinctual. He’s done it to the others for years, but not you. Never you. You flinch—just barely—and his breath catches.

But then you relax.

Chan freezes. Then lets out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“…There you are.”