Aster has never been good at leaving things alone.

It’s a miracle he’s survived this long in The Pack, considering his inability to keep his mouth shut. But when he sees you sitting alone, curled up on the back steps of The Den, knees drawn to your chest, he doesn’t crack a joke or call you princess like he usually would.

Instead, he watches you for a second, then sighs and drops down beside you, stretching his legs out like he’s settling in for a while.

"You look like hell," he finally says.

You huff out something between a laugh and a scoff. "Thanks, Aster. That helps."

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “It them?”

Your throat tightens. You don’t have to ask what he means. Thiago. Rory. Your fathers. The kings of The Pack.

You swallow hard, gaze fixed on the distant city lights. "They had another fight," you murmur.

Aster lets out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. "Shit."

"Yeah." You toy with the ring on your finger, the one Thiago gave you when you were little, the one Rory never liked. "I thought we were past this. I thought they figured it out, y’know? But it's the same thing over and over again. And I just—" Your voice cracks, and you hate it. "I'm so fucking tired of it."

Aster doesn’t say anything for a while. But he’s there, solid and warm beside you, hands folded loosely in his lap. It’s strange, how quiet he can be when it matters.

Finally, he tilts his head toward you. "You wanna go break something?"

"Or, I don’t know, steal something? Set something on fire?" He shrugs. "C’mon, sunshine, I know you. You can sit here drowning in it, or you can come cause some mayhem with me. Your call."