Leon stands in my doorway at midnight, looking at me like a man who sleepwalked into someone else's life and is only now realizing he's underdressed for it.
"I'm so sorry, really." He presses a hand to his temple, blinking hard. "I didn’t mean to wake you. I was sleeping, and I had this dream… and then I was here, and I have no explanation for that."
"People sleepwalk, Alpha." I keep my body in the gap between door and frame, blocking the view of my sleeping children behind me while my heart tries not to break itself in half. "It happens."
"It wasn't just sleepwalking." His voice strips itself of the polished Alpha cadence, goes rough around the edges. "There was a stone wall, firelight, and a ring… like, twisted wire? Something made by hand, for sure."
He remembered. Didn’t he?
My knuckles go white on the door handle. The wire ring sits on my left hand, six inches from his line of sight, and every nerve in my arm is screaming at me to shove it behind my back.
"Dreams are strange." My voice comes out impressively steady for a woman whose entire history is being narrated back to her by someone who doesn't know he lived it too. "You should get rest."
"I've never sleepwalked in my life, Skyler." A flash of frustration tightens his jaw, there and gone. "And I didn't end up at any random door. I ended up at yours."
The silence hums between us. His gaze drops, casual and automatic, stopping on my left hand. On the ring. The crease between his brows deepens, and his mouth opens around a question I watch him decide not to ask.
"That’s… an unusual ring." Careful, like he's handling something breakable he found on someone else's shelf.
"Cheap wire, sentimental habit." I tuck my hand against my hip, and his eyes follow the movement before returning to mine.
Still searching, still empty of the one thing I need them to hold.
"Mama?" Ashton's voice cuts in behind me thick with sleep and thin with suspicion.
I turn to find him planted in the hallway, arms crossed over his pajama shirt, amber eyes fixed on Leon with the warmth of a security checkpoint. Leon reads it immediately and steps back, palms open.
"I'm sorry for waking you both," he says to Ashton specifically, not to me. "I was lost, and it won't happen again."
My son says nothing, and the silence is louder than any door slam I've ever heard. Leon holds the boy's gaze for a beat, respectful and unhurried, then nods once and walks away down the corridor.
I close the door and guide Ashton back to bed, smoothing his hair until his breathing evens out. Then I stand in the dark pressing the wire ring into my palm until the metal leaves a perfect crescent in the skin.
His mind is reaching for me while he sleeps—the wall holds during the day, but underneath, something is clawing at the foundation. And I don't know if that's hope or just the universe sharpening its knife for another pass at my ribcage.
Morning arrives with fluorescent lighting and antiseptic. The clinic is empty, my shift twenty minutes away, and I'm restocking the wound-care cart when the door opens.
"Passing through." Dylan holds two paper cups, steam curling from each.
He extends the one on the right—sugar, no cream—the exact way I prefer it. Which I've never once told him. "How do you know how I take my coffee?"
I wrap my fingers around the cup, and the warmth seeps into knuckles still sore from gripping a wire ring all night.
"Lucky guess." He sips his own and leans against the doorframe with studied nonchalance. "The clinic's on my route."
"The clinic is on the opposite side of the compound from every building you work in, Beta Dylan." I bite back, because I haven’t forgotten yesterday, even if he seems to.
"Scenic route." He gestures at the supply room without missing a beat. "Need help setting up?"
He doesn't wait for an answer—jacket off, sleeves rolled, moving supply boxes from the delivery stack to storage shelves. No reference to the bathroom interrogation, no mention of Leon.
Just Dylan lifting boxes and asking what an otoscope does with genuine curiosity.
"It looks in ears," I tell him, sorting gauze packs. "Revolutionary technology, very cutting-edge."
"Incredible. And this?" He holds up a blood pressure cuff like it's an artifact from an alien civilization, turning it over in his hands.
"Measures blood pressure. The name was a real creative stretch from the medical community." I look at him sideways, but the anger is melting away faster than I’d like.
He deserves more heat for the accusation he’s thrown at me, and yet… His mouth twitches. "So medicine is just very literal naming conventions all the way down?"
"Wait until you hear what a tongue depressor does." I toss him a roll of bandage tape and he catches it one-handed, looking pleased with himself.
We work through the supply list and the rhythm catches me off guard—him reading items from the clipboard, me pointing to shelves. The storage room is small enough that we're constantly adjusting angles and stepping aside, a wordless negotiation of shared space.
"Do you do this for everyone?" The question leaves my mouth before the cautious part of my brain clears it. "The coffee delivery, the unpaid manual labor…"
Dylan pauses with a box of saline bags against his chest, and the single word that comes out is stripped of every deflection he owns.
"No." His ears turn faintly pink. "Slow morning, actually. I was bored."
"Dylan." I lean against the counter, coffee cup warm against my sternum. "The clinic is not on your route."
He sets the box down and turns to face me.
We're four feet apart in a room that smells like rubbing alcohol and fresh coffee. The deflection drops from his face so completely I can see the exact moment he stops pretending.
He's not here because he was bored.
He clears his throat and reaches for the next box—heavy, top shelf. I watch him stretch, curse under his breath, and pointedly refuse to acknowledge the step stool six inches from his left foot.
His fingers barely catch the shelf edge. The box tilts wildly, and he saves it with a grab so frantic that a surprised laugh bursts out of him—half triumph, half alarm.
Dylan clutching a box of medical tape to his chest, grinning at his own near-disaster—is annoyingly, disarmingl…. nice. And watching him shove the box into place with exaggerated triumph is kind of cute too, actually.
The thought ambushes me so completely that I turn away before he catches the smile I'm losing the fight against.
Some battles you recognize as lost the moment they start.
We finish the inventory and he drives me home, reminding me of a pack dinner we’re supposed to catch, in a comfortable silence. Surprisingly comfortable.
Dinner is a long table, twelve wolves, and my sister presiding like she invented hospitality. I'm cutting River's chicken when Kailani's voice floats across the table, sweet enough to crystallize.
"Skyler, I almost forgot—someone mentioned Alpha Leon was seen near your room last night." She tilts her head, eyes wide with theatrical concern. "Rather late for a house call, wasn't it?"
Every wolf at the table turns. River's fork freezes mid-air and Ashton's hand finds mine under the table. I should be embarrassed that my support system is six years old, and yet I have another thing to worry about right now.
And across the table, Dylan's coffee cup stops halfway to his mouth.