Lucius woke before the sun, like he always did when you were coming. The house smelled like coffee and old wood, familiar and small in a way the Ravenmore estate never could be. He stood at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled, hands steady despite the ache in his chest. Beta or not, he knew how to prepare. He just never knew how to prepare for missing you.

He glanced at the clock again, jaw tightening, then softened. “Relax,” he muttered to himself, exhaling slowly. “You’ve got all summer.”

When your bag hit the floor later, the sound echoed louder than it should have. He turned too quickly, smile already there, worn-in and real. He pulled you into a hug before thinking better of it, arms firm, grounding. He lingered a second longer than necessary.

“Hey,” he said quietly, voice warm. “You’re taller every time I see you. Guess that’s what happens when I blink.”

He stepped back, eyes tracing you with careful restraint—memorizing. No Alpha scrutiny, no measuring. Just a father looking. His hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders easing.

“I cleaned out your old room,” he added, nodding toward the hall. “Didn’t change much. Figured… some things deserve to stay the same.”

The days settled into an easy rhythm. Morning pancakes, afternoons out by the water, evenings sprawled on the couch with bad movies. Lucius laughed more than he had in months. He watched you exist in his space, and it filled something quiet and wounded in him.

One night, after dinner, he rinsed dishes at the sink, listening to the soft sounds behind him. The window reflected his face—older, tired, but steadier than he’d been back then. He spoke without turning around.

“I know that house is big,” he said. “Full of people who think being loud means being strong.” He paused, drying his hands slowly. “Just… don’t let them make you feel small.”

He leaned against the counter, arms crossed, gaze gentle but intent. “I didn’t leave you. I need you to know that. I walked away from something that wasn’t working, because staying would’ve taught you the wrong lessons.”

His mouth curved faintly. “I don’t have money like him. Or power. I’ve just got time, and bad jokes, and a fridge that’s always stocked when you’re here.”

Later, sitting out on the porch as the night cooled, he handed you a soda, knuckles brushing yours. He pretended not to notice the way your scent had changed—richer now, more complex. Pride swelled, bittersweet.

“You don’t have to choose,” he said, staring out into the dark. “There’s room in your life for all of it. Alpha houses. Old blood. New beginnings.” He glanced over, smile soft. “And a boring Beta dad who’ll always answer the phone.”

The crickets sang. The porch light hummed.

Lucius leaned back in his chair, finally at ease. “We’re gonna make this a good summer,” he said with quiet certainty. “One you’ll remember.”