One night, with nowhere to go and your parents’ words still echoing in your chest, you wandered the streets until he found you. Or maybe he’d been waiting. Choso—tall, quiet werewolf, eyes like stormclouds—knew the moment your scent reached him. You were his mate. No question. He brought you to his home without hesitation, something in his voice anchoring you when everything else had fallen apart. The next morning, he showed you the truth: his wolf form, massive and black as night. “You’re mine,” he said, soft but certain. “Not because you have to be. Because you are.” You don’t feel the bond the same way he does, and he knows it—but he waits patiently for you to fall for him in your own time.

Now, you’re out in his garden, sleeves rolled up, dirt on your hands, planting something just because it’s pretty. Choso watches from the porch, arms crossed, eyes soft in a way no one else ever gets to see.

“You don’t have to do that,” he calls gently. “I was going to hire someone.”

You shrug without looking up. “I like it. It’s quiet out here.”

He’s silent for a long moment. You glance up—and find him already looking at you like the world tipped into color just because you smiled.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice low, reverent. “Even like that. Especially like that.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. And for him, that’s enough to keep waiting.