Three months into the contract, I wake up to the smell of coffee.
It's the third time this week. Wyatt leaves it on the small table by my door—always the right temperature, always exactly how I take it, though I never told him. Black, one sugar, in the blue mug I prefer because it has a handle that doesn't get too hot.
I don't ask how he knows. I just drink it.
The contract is working. That's what I tell myself when Lilian corners me in the strategy room with her arms crossed and her Beta nose twitching.
"He's scent-marking the entire west wing," she says.
I don't look up from the alliance reports spread across my desk. "He lives in the west wing."
"Charli." Her voice drops. "His scent is on every doorframe. Every chair. The curtains in the common room smell like cedar so thick I can taste it. That's not casual. That's territorial."
My thumbnail presses into my palm. "He's settling in. That's what we agreed to."
"You agreed to theater. This is something else."
I meet her eyes. "It's fine."
Lilian stares at me for a long moment. Then she shakes her head and leaves.
I go back to the reports. The words blur together.
That night, I come back to my quarters late. The door is unlocked—I always leave it unlocked now, though I don't remember deciding to. Inside, the small lamp by the reading chair is on. Wyatt is sitting on the floor beside it, a book open in his lap.
He looks up when I enter. "Long day?"
"Always." I drop my files on the desk. My shoulders ache. I've been holding tension I didn't notice accumulating.
Wyatt closes the book. Stands. "Sit."
I blink. "What?"
"Sit." He gestures to the chair. "You're wound so tight you're about to snap."
I should say no. I should maintain the distance we agreed to. Instead, I sit.
He steps behind the chair. His hands settle on my shoulders—warm, careful, waiting for permission I don't give but don't refuse. Then his thumbs press into the knots along my spine, and I make a sound I immediately regret.
"Relax," he murmurs. His voice is low. Steady. "I've got you."
I close my eyes. Let him work the tension out in slow, deliberate circles. His scent wraps around me—cedar and rain-soaked earth, warm and grounding in a way I don't want to name.
When he finishes, I don't move. Neither does he.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"Anytime."
He leaves without another word. I sit in the chair for a long time after, my hands folded in my lap, trying not to think about how easy it was to let him touch me.
The morning of the harvest celebration, I wake to fingers in my hair.
I go still. Wyatt is sitting on the edge of my bed—when did I stop locking the door between our rooms?—his hands moving through the strands with practiced ease. He's braiding. The traditional Luna style, intricate and deliberate, the kind that takes years to learn.
"What are you doing?" My voice comes out rough with sleep.
"You'll want to look the part tonight." His fingers don't pause. "Hold still."
I should pull away. I should tell him this crosses a line we drew in ink three months ago.
I lie still and let him finish.
When he's done, he runs his thumb along the base of the braid—a small, possessive gesture that sends heat down my spine. Then he stands and leaves, and I'm alone with the weight of his hands still phantom-warm against my scalp.
The harvest celebration is loud and warm and full of wolves I've known my entire life. The bonfire crackles in the center of the gathering, throwing orange light across faces I recognize. Lilian presses a drink into my hand.
"You're allowed to have fun," she says.
I take the drink. Then another. The alcohol softens the edges of everything—the noise, the firelight, the careful distance I've been maintaining for three solid months.
Someone tells a story. I laugh—a real laugh, unguarded, my head thrown back—and across the fire, Wyatt goes very still.
I catch his eyes. They flash gold.
Just for a second. Just long enough for me to see something enormous and barely contained beneath the soft exterior he's been showing me.
Lilian, standing beside him, sees it too. Her head snaps toward him. Then toward me. Her expression shifts into something I can't read.
I look away. Drink more. Let the warmth of the fire and the alcohol blur the moment into something I can pretend didn't happen.
Later—much later—the celebration winds down. Wyatt finds me near the edge of the gathering, his jacket draped over one arm.
"Ready to head back?" His voice is gentle. Normal. As if his eyes didn't just burn gold.
I nod. We walk together through the cooling night, the sounds of the pack fading behind us. The alcohol has made everything soft and unfocused. My walls feel thin.
"You looked happy tonight," Wyatt says quietly.
I glance at him. "I was."
"Good." He smiles—small, genuine. "You should be happy more often."
Something in my chest cracks. Just a hairline fracture, but it's there.
We reach our quarters. I fumble with the door. Wyatt's hand covers mine, steadying it, and the touch sends a jolt through me that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
I look up. He's closer than I realized. His scent—cedar and rain—is everywhere.
"Charli." My name in his voice sounds different. Careful. Weighted.
I should step back. I should say goodnight and close the door between us and remember that this is a contract, not a bond.
Instead, I lean forward.
His breath catches. For one suspended moment, we're both perfectly still.
Then the careful choreography of three months collapses entirely.
