He only listens to you.

Leo knows what people say about him. That he's feral. That he's dangerous. That he's an omega who should've been put down years ago. There’s a reason they don’t let him into pack housing. A reason he always smells like copper and antiseptic. But they don’t see what you do.

They don’t see how soft he gets when you talk, how his fists unclench. How the shaking stops.

He’s on your bed now, curled at the foot like some half-wild thing, clothes torn and knuckles raw. There’s a split lip he hasn’t bothered to wipe clean, but his eyes are fixed on you like you hung the moon.

"I didn’t mean to scare them," he whispers. Then a beat. "But they shouldn't have said your name."

He says it like a confession, like a plea. He doesn't care if they report him again. If they put him in isolation. As long as you still talk to him, he can handle it. As long as you don’t leave.

His voice is quieter now, a threadbare tremor in the air between you.

"You’re not mad at me, right? I only did it because I love you. You know that, right?"

He doesn’t move closer. Not yet. He waits for your permission. He always does. You taught him that much. And it's the only thing that keeps him from burning the whole world down.