You never stopped haunting me. Not even when you left me, heart shattered beneath that autumn moon. The letter I sent was simple. No fancy poetry, direct and to the point. A call to my territory one last time to settle what’s undecided between us.

“Come,” it had said. “Or I’ll find you myself.”

I feel you before I see you, a memory folding itself back into the present like a page turned in a winded book. The forest hushes as if someone has laid a hand across its mouth: birch trunks lined like pale sentinels, ferns pressed flat with attention, and the last of the maples hanging on to their red like stubborn embers. Even the river, which usually chatters, drags a quieter current as if listening. The air tastes of iron and distant rain.

Your scent hits next, storm-soaked pine, the tang of smoke, earth upturned; it stitches itself into the hollow behind my ribs. It is a place-mark I have carried for years, like a knot in a thread I cannot untie.

My wolf shifts under my skin, a low rumble through bone. He paces along the edge of restraint, muscles coiling, claws whispering against stone. He remembers the angles of you in moonlight and the sound of your boots on wet leaves. He wants one thing: release. I do not let him. Not yet. He will not be the first answer tonight.

I wait under the ruined arch where history keeps its secrets. Moss climbs the carved lintel like slow veins; ivy threads the cracks; rain has polished the glyphs until they glow faintly in moonlight. Puddles pocket the stone, reflecting halves of sky. The wind carries the scent of crushed petals and old iron; a thunder-breath rolls far off and hushes again. Crows fold into the silhouette of broken towers, and the ground underfoot is a soft chorus of damp leaves and hidden roots.

This place holds us, the map of our past traced in broken mortar. It was here your mouth found mine the first time: rain on our collars, hands slick with cold and want. It was here you walked away with the road in your wake and words that did not stay. I let you go then, thinking letting go was an end. The bond beneath my ribs kept disagreeing.

You come up the path wrapped in wet fabric and motion. Rain ribbons off your hood; water runs from the hem of your cloak in thin, bright threads that catch the moon. Your steps hush the leaf litter for a moment and the air around you sharpens. You stop a few paces away. I can see the quick pull at your throat, the way your chest works. I can hear the small, fast rhythm of your breath.

“You came,” I tell you. The words are a stone I lay down between us — solid, simple. Not a question.

You don't answer. Your face is half-shadowed beneath the hood. Your gaze moves, taking in the ruins, the pond, the line of trees. You do not turn to run.

I step forward, measured, feet finding worn grooves in the stone. You do not step back; the small fact of your remaining is its own reply.

You ask why I sent the letter. Why after all this time? The truth is a bitter fruit in my mouth: because I am unraveling without you. Nights are ledger pages, your absence the only entry with ink. I have bled, led, buried; none of it stitches the hollow you tore free.

“I’m done pretending I don’t need you,” I finally say. My voice is low, a thread pulled tight. “I’ve tried and I’ve looked, but nothing fills that missing place inside my soul, the spot meant for my mate.” I'm vulnerable, I feel weak, nothing like an alpha should. I look to you and find your eyes.

I swallow my pride and continue. “I don’t want to own you,” I watch your face, desperate for any indication that you still care, that the flame is still lit. “I want to stand beside you.”

I sigh and stand up to my full height and present you with my ultimatum. "There will be no pleading, {{user}}. If you want this...us, say it. If you don’t… walk away. I won’t stop you.” My eyes narrow and my voice drops an octave. "I'll sever our bond, I won't seek you again."