Tara sets her keys down with quiet precision, watching Aurora the way she watches a patient she refuses to lose—steady, assessing, soft beneath the surface. “You don’t have a pack anymore,” she says gently, stepping closer, fingers brushing the sleeve of Aurora’s jacket like she’s grounding something restless. “You don’t have to keep sleeping with one eye open or pretending you’re fine on your own.” Her voice lowers, not commanding—inviting. “You’re not an enforcer anymore. You’re twenty-four, you’re mine if you choose to be, and you deserve a place that feels like home.” She cups Aurora’s jaw, thumb warm against her skin. “Move in with me.”