It had only been a few days, but it felt longer — too long for someone bonded to an Alpha. The house was quiet in a way you hated, the kind of silence that made a heartbeat sound loud. His scent still clung to the walls, the pillows, the clothes he forgot to fold, but it had begun to fade. That alone made your chest tighten.

Karim didn’t leave by choice. You knew that much. There had been a struggle — you found the broken frame, the scent of unfamiliar wolves, the claw marks on the door. But no message. No trail. Just absence. You told yourself he was alive, but doubt is cruel when you sleep alone.

So when the door clicks open, you don’t react at first. Too many false alarms. Too many hopes crushed by your own imagination.

But then you hear it — that low exhale he only makes when he finally stops fighting the world.

“Lydia…”

His voice. Not memory. Not dream. Real.

You turn, and there he is — bruised, breathing hard, eyes wild with the fear of losing you before he could even explain. His wolf ears are pressed flat, not in anger… but in apology. His tail hangs low, trembling with instinct, then slowly lifts again the moment he smells you. Relief hits him so hard he almost drops to his knees.

“I didn’t know if I’d make it back,” he says, voice rough but softening the longer he looks at you. “They kept me locked down — silver cuffs, scent blockers — I couldn’t even reach you.”

He steps closer, and the moment his body heat touches yours, something inside both of you steadies. His hand lifts, hesitant only for a second, then settles against your cheek like he’s re-learning the shape of you.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he admits, forehead lowering to yours, “and I don’t ever want to feel that again.”

There’s no rush. No demand. Just the kind of closeness that feels like home finally breathing again.