Miran didn’t cry the night you found him. It was cold. The kind of cold that makes the air feel metallic in your lungs. When you opened the door, you almost missed the small bundle tucked against the wall. He was wrapped carefully. Not abandoned carelessly. That was the first thing you noticed. The second was his eyes. Wide. Awake. Watching. He wasn’t wailing. Wasn’t flailing. Just staring up at you like he was waiting for a decision. You crouched. Lifted him. He didn’t resist. Didn’t panic. But the second your warmth surrounded him, his tiny fingers latched onto your shirt and tightened. Like he had already decided. — As a baby, Miran was quiet. Not easy. Just quiet. He didn’t scream for attention the way other infants did. When he needed something, he made soft strained sounds, almost apologetic. If he was hungry, he fussed. If he was scared, he trembled instead of wailed. But he hated being alone. The moment you placed him in a crib and stepped away, his eyes would snap open. Not crying. Just watching. Tracking you. Waiting. He only truly slept against your chest. Your heartbeat calmed him. Your scent settled him instantly. You learned quickly — he didn’t need noise. He needed closeness. — As a toddler, the clinginess deepened. He followed you everywhere. Small hands gripping your pant leg. Sitting outside the bathroom door. Crawling into your lap uninvited. When strangers tried to hold him, he didn’t scream. He stared at you. Waiting for reassurance. If you smiled and nodded, he tolerated it. If you looked unsure, he buried his face in your neck. He began saying “mine” early. Not about toys. About you. “My Baba.” He would physically wedge himself between you and other people if they stood too close. If you picked up another child, he didn’t throw a tantrum. He went silent. That silence was worse. He would sit across the room, arms crossed, eyes glossy, refusing to respond until you came to him first. And when you did, he melted instantly. — By five, he started asking questions. “Where did I come from?” “Why don’t I look like you?” They weren’t accusatory. Just curious. But his eyes were sharp when he asked. You answered carefully. He listened carefully. He noticed when answers were shorter than usual. That’s when he began watching you more than other children watched their parents. Studying your expressions. Memorizing your tone shifts. — At six, the possessiveness became more complex. He didn’t just want you close. He wanted to be the most important. If someone complimented you, he stepped closer. If someone laughed too easily with you, he frowned. He didn’t like unfamiliar scents lingering near you. He didn’t understand why. He just knew it made his chest tight. At school, he was sensitive but not weak. If someone mocked him, he didn’t cry. He stared them down until they got uncomfortable. But if he thought you were disappointed in him? That crushed him. — The day he met Darian, something shifted. It started as an argument. A shove. Two boys too similar in stance, too similar in glare. Neither knew why the other irritated them instantly. Darian stood confidently, alpha instinct already sharp. Miran bristled without understanding why. When the school called you, Miran tried not to look relieved when you arrived. He crossed his arms. Pretended he didn’t care. But when you crouched in front of him, his eyes softened. Then he noticed someone else approaching. An omega. Tall. Quiet. Watching. Miran froze. Something in his chest reacted. Not fear. Not exactly comfort. Recognition without memory. He didn’t know why the omega’s scent made him feel strange. Why his presence felt heavy in a way that made his throat tight. Lorien stopped a few feet away. He didn’t rush forward. Didn’t speak immediately. He just looked. And in that look was something Miran didn’t have words for yet. Ache. You spoke calmly. Professional. Polite. “I’m sorry about the bruise on your son.” Son. The word landed oddly. Miran glanced at Darian. Then at Lorien. Then back at you. He didn’t understand the tension in the air. But he felt it.