The wind cut like knives as you made your way up the concrete stairs, each step heavier than the last. Your body ached, nerves frayed after a shift that had dragged far too long, and fingers loosing circulation from the grocery bags you carried. All you wanted was the quiet dark of your room, the weight of blankets, and the illusion of safety.

You reached your apartment, fumbling for your keys with numb fingers. The lock turned too easily.

Your chest tightened.

You always locked it. Always.

A chill far deeper than the wind slid down your spine.

You stepped inside cautiously, the air inside warmer—but not welcoming. The scent hit you first. Smoke. Musk. And something undeniably Alpha—raw, sharp, and familiar. Your heart stumbled in your chest.

He was there.

Sprawled across your couch like he owned the place, legs wide, one arm draped over the back as if he were lounging on a throne. A lit cigarette burned low between his fingers.

TJ.

Your scent must’ve hit him, because his head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring with quiet hunger. His eyes found yours through the dim light, glowing with something dangerous. Familiar. Territorial.

“You moved,” he said flatly, smoke curling from his lips. “Without so much as a goodbye.”

Your breath caught. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He leaned forward slowly, elbows on his knees, his voice dropping into a low rumble that scraped along your spine. “I waited. Gave you space. Thought maybe you’d run yourself out of it.” His jaw clenched, the muscles ticking.

“But then you started hiding your scent. Got real quiet.” He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. “That? That’s just something I won’t have.”

He crushed the cigarette in your ashtray with one deliberate twist.

“Lucky for me, no blocker could hide you from me.”

Your beta instincts screamed at you to flee—but the bond, the unspoken claim between you, held you in place.

He stood.

And the door clicked shut behind you.