Aiden didn't slow.
The moment his lips left Theron's cheek, heat still lingering from the brief, stolen kiss, he turned and ran—bare feet slapping against the forest floor as his form folded inward and then burst outward in a rush of night-dark fur.
His wolf hit the ground running.
Cool air tore through his lungs, sharp and clean, carrying pine and damp earth and freedom. Muscles stretched, burned, sang. He darted between trees, tail high, ears flicking back as laughter—real, unrestrained—thrummed through his chest in the shape of a breathless huff.
Behind him—
A growl.
Low. Thrilled. Dangerous.
Theron.
The sound wasn't anger or command. It was invitation.
Aiden veered sharply left, paws digging into the soil as he cut downhill, leaping over a fallen log and skidding near a stream. He didn't look back. He didn't need to. He could feel Theron—vast and powerful, the air itself bending as the Alpha King let go.
The ground shook.
Then Theron was running too.
The forest came alive around them. Birds scattered. Leaves trembled. Theron's presence pressed close, not crushing, not claiming—chasing. Letting Aiden lead. Letting him choose the path.
Aiden pushed harder.
He wasn't small here. Wasn't watched. Wasn't weighed or whispered about. He was speed and instinct and muscle memory from years of fighting and surviving. He cut narrow paths where Theron's larger body had to slow. Doubled back once, just to feel the rush as Theron snarled in surprise.
Playful.
Gods, it was playful.
Theron surged forward anyway, strength coiling as he adapted, learned, followed. The distance between them shrank, breath to breath now, Theron's scent flooding the air—moonlight and storm and something ancient that made Aiden's wolf whine with exhilaration.
He leapt.
The clearing came suddenly, moonlight spilling over grass and stone. Aiden skidded, twisting, spinning to face—
Impact.
Theron tackled him, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to knock the air from his chest. They rolled once, twice, until Aiden hit the ground on his back and Theron loomed over him, massive wolf form pinning him with practiced ease.
Aiden snarled, snapping once—not in fear, not in submission, but challenge.
Theron froze.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he lowered his weight just enough to cage Aiden without crushing him. His amber eyes burned—not wild now, but bright with something warm and breathless and very, very alive.
Aiden's chest heaved. Theron's did too.
They held there, breath mingling, the world reduced to the rise and fall between them.
Then Aiden shifted.
The change left him human beneath Theron's shadow, skin cooled by night air, hair damp with sweat, chest still aching from laughter and the run. He didn't move away. Didn't flinch as Theron followed, fur melting into skin, power settling into broad shoulders and familiar hands braced on either side of Aiden's head.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Aiden stared up at Theron, chest rising, eyes bright—not guarded. Not angry. Just… open.
"I wasn't running away," Aiden said softly, breathless.
Theron's jaw tightened. "I know."
"You followed anyway."
"Because you wanted me to."
Aiden swallowed. His wolf stirred inside him—content, loose, breathing easy for the first time in days. He turned his head to the side, pressing his cheek to the cool grass.
"I needed air," he admitted. "To remember I can still—" He broke off, shaking his head. "Just… breathe."
Theron leaned closer, forehead resting briefly against Aiden's temple. No claim. No mark. Just presence.
"I'll run with you," Theron said quietly. "Anytime."
Aiden closed his eyes.
For the first time in a long while, the world didn't feel tight around his ribs.
He breathed in.
And it didn't hurt.
They lay there for a long while, the forest slowly settling around them again. Night insects resumed their quiet song. The moon climbed higher, pale and watchful.
Aiden broke the silence first.
"Theron… you're the Moon God, right?"
Theron huffed softly in answer, the sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh as he rolled onto his side, landing beside Aiden instead of over him. One arm bent under his head, the other resting close—but not touching.
"What's on your mind, my warrior?" Theron asked gently.
Aiden turned his head. Theron's golden eyes caught the moonlight, bright enough that Aiden could see his own reflection in them—blue eyes framed by dark lashes, a little wild, a little too earnest.
"Did you ever…," Aiden hesitated, throat tightening, "have a mate before me? You've lived a long time. It feels impossible that there wasn't anyone."
The forest seemed to still.
Theron didn't look away. Didn't dodge the question.
For a long moment, his face hardened—not with anger, but with something far older and heavier. Then he exhaled slowly, as if releasing breath he'd been holding for centuries.
"There was one," he said quietly.
Aiden's chest tightened.
"He was strong," Theron continued, voice low, steady but threaded with grief. "Brilliant. Fierce in battle and infuriatingly stubborn. He laughed in the face of danger and never listened when I told him to retreat."
A bitter, fond smile ghosted across Theron's lips.
"He was a warrior," Theron said. "Like you."
Aiden's breath caught.
"He died in my arms," Theron went on, eyes fixed on the moon now. "Because I failed to protect him. I was powerful—already a god—but I was not present. I thought the world itself could not touch him if I simply existed."
His jaw clenched. "I was wrong."
The words settled between them, heavy and aching.
Aiden shifted closer without thinking, shoulder brushing Theron's arm. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Theron shook his head slightly. "I swore never again. I closed myself off. I ruled, watched, waited. Centuries passed."
He turned back to Aiden then, golden eyes searching his face with an intensity that made Aiden's heart stutter.
"And then you stood in front of me," Theron said softly. "Angry. Defiant. Refusing to bend. Telling me you weren't weak."
Aiden's breath came shallow. Something deep inside his chest ached, like a memory he didn't own but somehow recognized.
"That warrior," Aiden asked, voice barely there, "what was his name?"
Theron's hand trembled slightly where it rested in the grass.
"I never spoke it again," he said. "Because it hurt too much."
Aiden swallowed hard. His wolf stirred, restless—not afraid, but aching.
Theron reached out then, slow and careful, brushing his thumb over Aiden's knuckles. The touch was reverent. Devout.
"But sometimes," Theron murmured, "the moon gives souls another chance to find their way back to each other."
Aiden's eyes burned.
"Are you saying—"
Theron didn't finish it. He only leaned in, resting his forehead against Aiden's, breath mingling, the truth humming between them like a silver thread.
"I won't claim you because of what you were," Theron said. "Only because of who you choose to be now."
Aiden closed his eyes, tears threatening but not falling.
For the first time, the ache inside him didn't feel like loss.
It felt like remembering.