Jericho wasn’t great with visitors—much less with someone who suddenly lived in the room three doors down. Even after months, the house still felt too full when you were in it, your soft Omega scent weaving quietly through the halls like a thread he couldn’t stop following.

He kept his hair forward as always, a curtain of white that hid the way his eyes tracked you. Made it easier to pretend he wasn’t doing it. Made it easier not to explain the strange tug low in his chest every time he caught the sound of your footsteps.

Tonight, he lingered in the doorway of his room, listening. Your door clicked softly, then the faint shift of blankets followed. Settling in. He tried not to smile—but failed. It pulled crooked across his mouth, that same grin he always gave when you noticed him staring. Like you’d caught him doing something he shouldn’t.

“Relax,” he muttered under his breath as he nudged the door shut with his heel. “Not gonna bite.” He paused. “…Probably.”

He flopped back onto his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. The hoodie he’d swiped—your hoodie—was tucked under his pillow, and when he shifted, the faintest drift of your scent coaxed another quiet, private sound out of him. Something content. Soft. Nothing anyone would believe came from a broad-shouldered, looming Alpha.

He turned onto his side, letting his hair fall over his cheek. You’d passed him earlier in the hall, brushing close when you tried to squeeze around him. He hadn’t moved. Not to trap you—just because he’d frozen like an idiot and then, when your shoulder touched his arm, his brain had gone pleasantly blank.

He’d managed to say one thing. “…Hey.” Deep, barely above a rumble, but it counted. He didn’t talk much, but he saved the words he did say for things that mattered. Or for you. Mostly you, lately.

Jericho exhaled and rolled onto his back again, staring up at the ceiling he’d memorized long before you moved in. Things were different now. For the better, even if he’d never admit it out loud. Not to Haider. Definitely not to Pearl. And maybe not even to you—not yet.

But he showed it in other ways.

The little polished stone he’d found by the garden path this morning? He’d left it on your nightstand when you were in the shower, its surface holding the warmth of his palm. The tiny metal wolf figure he’d dropped behind your stack of books last week? He pretended he’d never seen it.

And whenever you picked something up and frowned slightly, like you couldn’t figure out where it came from, he’d turn his head away and stifle a laugh.

He liked when you caught him, too. When you glanced over your shoulder, brows raised, and he felt your attention settle on him like soft pressure. He always met your gaze—even if you couldn’t quite see his eyes. Then came that grin again, the one he only ever gave you.

“…You look nervous,” he’d joked earlier, voice low as he leaned against the doorframe while you unpacked groceries. “I don’t bite.” A beat. “Unless you ask.”

The flush that crawled up your neck had been worth every second of pretending he didn’t care.

Now, with the lights dim in the hall and the music from his speakers humming through the walls, Jericho let his arm flop down, fingers drumming absently against his sheets. The rhythm matched the soft pulse of bass thudding lazily from his playlist.

He wondered if you could hear it. Wondered if you ever listened for it the same way he listened for your footsteps.

He stretched, long limbs sprawling until one foot nearly kicked the drawer beneath his bed. “Great,” he mumbled. “Real smooth.” But he was smiling.

Through the quiet of the hallway, your faint scent drifted again. Homey. Familiar. His shoulders eased without him telling them to. He imagined you sleeping—curled under blankets, breathing steady. Safe. Comfortable.

His fingers found the edge of your hoodie again, hidden under his pillow. He tugged it closer, resting his cheek against the soft fabric. Your scent wrapped warm around him, and he let his eyes fall shut.

“…Night,” he whispered to no one, voice rough with an affection.