Aiden woke to silence.
Not the comforting, breathing-with-him kind—this was the hollow kind. The den felt too wide, too still, the space beside him cold where Theron should have been. Pale morning light slipped in through the stone opening, soft and gray, touching fur and skin alike.
Gone already, Aiden thought drowsily. Patrol. Or watching the borders. Or being a god.
He rolled onto his side and immediately stilled.
Something felt… wrong.
Not pain. Not sickness. Just a low, crawling unease beneath his ribs, like the world had tilted a fraction off balance. His muscles tightened without permission. His senses sharpened, breath going shallow, ears straining for sounds that weren't there.
The den felt exposed.
Aiden frowned, annoyed with himself. "Get a grip," he muttered hoarsely, voice still rough from days of strain. "You're fine."
But his body didn't listen.
The need rose quietly, insistently. Warmth. Enclosure. Stillness.
Before he consciously decided anything, his bones shifted.
The change was smooth—too smooth. Fur brushed over skin, tail unfurling as his wolf form settled into the den like it had always belonged there. He stood, large paws soundless against stone, ears flicking back as the unease sharpened.
The bed felt wrong now. Too open. Too high.
Aiden moved.
He gathered blankets first, tugging them down with careful teeth. Then pelts. Then anything soft—cloaks, folded cloth, even one of Theron's discarded tunics. He dragged them toward the darkest corner of the den, where the stone curved inward and the wall held warmth from yesterday's sun.
Only when the pile was thick, when the hollow felt right, did the tension ease.
Aiden circled once. Twice.
Then he lowered himself, curling tight, spine to stone, chest protected. His tail slid instinctively over his belly, heavy and warm. One ear angled toward the entrance, listening. The other flattened back, guarding his blind side.
Safe.
The thought drifted through him, strange and heavy.
He exhaled, breath slow now, and let his eyes close.
The scent of moonlight and storm reached him before sound ever did.
Theron stopped just inside the den entrance.
For a long moment, the god didn't move.
The den smelled different. Layered. Concentrated. Omega-sweet beneath the stone and fur and cloth. His gaze tracked automatically—not to the bed, but to the corner.
And there—
Aiden.
Curled deep in a nest that hadn't existed when Theron left at dawn. Fur fluffed unconsciously, body tucked tight, tail draped protectively. One ear trained on the door. Waiting. Guarding.
Theron's breath caught.
Not panic. Not fear.
Something older.
Something reverent.
He closed the distance without a sound, kneeling beside the nest but not touching. His presence alone shifted the air. Aiden stirred, nose twitching, ears flicking as recognition filtered through instinct before thought.
A low, embarrassed huff left him as he cracked one eye open.
"…you're back," Aiden murmured, voice thick, still half-asleep. He glanced around, then frowned faintly at the blankets and pelts. "Huh."
Theron said nothing at first.
His gaze softened, but his jaw tightened—god and mate caught in quiet collision. He reached out slowly, knuckles brushing Aiden's shoulder, careful not to startle.
"You made yourself comfortable," he said gently.
Aiden's ears twitched back. "Did I?" He shifted, then winced slightly, curling tighter instead of stretching. "Must've… been restless."
Theron hummed, noncommittal, and let his hand rest there. Grounding. Steady.
"Do you want me to move you back to the bed?" he asked, already knowing the answer.
Aiden hesitated.
The thought of leaving the corner made something in his chest tighten. He swallowed, annoyed, then shook his head. "No. This is—fine. Just… give me a minute."
Theron nodded.
He stayed.
Sat with his back to the entrance, broad and solid, a living wall between Aiden and the world. He didn't comment on the nest. Didn't name the instinct. Didn't ask questions Aiden wasn't ready to answer.
But his hand never left Aiden's fur.
And when Aiden finally drifted back into sleep, safer than he'd been all morning, Theron lowered his forehead briefly to the stone and closed his eyes.
The god did not smile.
But the mate did.
later that day
Aiden woke to warmth.
Not just physical—though that was there too, thick and steady at his back—but the deep, bone-level comfort that made his wolf sigh and refuse to move.
He blinked awake slowly.
Theron sat beside the nest, back still turned toward the den entrance, one arm resting close enough that Aiden could feel the heat of him without being touched. Around them, the nest looked… fuller.
Aiden frowned.
"…did you add to it?"
Theron didn't look at him. "It was thin on the left side."
Aiden pushed himself up on one elbow, irritation flashing sharp and sudden. "I didn't ask you to—"
The words died halfway out of his mouth.
Because Theron had fixed it.
Not changed it. Not rearranged it. Just reinforced the weak places—extra fur tucked beneath, a thicker fold of blanket blocking the draft from the stone. The nest still smelled like Aiden. Still felt like his.
The anger drained, replaced by something uncomfortable.
"…It was fine," Aiden muttered, though he didn't move away.
Theron hummed softly. "Mm."
That was it.
No challenge. No argument.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Aiden settled back down with a huff, tail flicking once before draping instinctively over his belly again. He caught himself doing it, stiffened—and then forced himself to relax.
It's just habit, he told himself. My wolf's unsettled. That's all.
He stared at the stone wall for a long moment before adding, defensive, "I didn't do it on purpose."
"I know," Theron said gently.
That answer felt too knowing.
Aiden changed the subject.
"I'm hungry."
Theron finally turned his head, brow lifting slightly. "You ate an hour ago."
Aiden scowled. "So?"
"So you ate enough for three wolves."
"So?" he snapped again, ears flattening. "I'm healing. You dragged me through hell, remember?"
Theron studied him for a long second. Not suspicious—just attentive.
"Alright," he said. "What do you want?"
Aiden opened his mouth—
—and paused.
The thought of meat—rich, bloody, still warm—made his stomach roll unpleasantly. He grimaced, nose wrinkling.
"…Soup," he said slowly. "Something plain."
Theron blinked once.
Soup.
From the omega who once mocked it as "sad water."
But he only nodded. "I'll make it."
When Theron stood to leave, Aiden's hand shot out without thought, fingers curling into fabric at his wrist.
Theron froze.
Aiden realized what he'd done and released him immediately, flushing. "I— Just—don't take long."
Theron's gaze softened. "I won't."
Still, he didn't leave until Aiden had curled back into the nest again.
Only then did Theron step away.
Aiden dozed lightly.
Not fully asleep—never fully asleep anymore.
A shift of air at the den entrance had him growling low in his throat before he was conscious of it. His ears snapped forward, body tightening protectively around the nest.
Then he caught the scent.
Pack. Familiar.
Aiden exhaled sharply, embarrassed, forcing his muscles to relax.
Stars, he thought irritably. I'm jumpy.
But his tail stayed firmly over his belly.
And when someone passed too close to the nest later, Aiden didn't remember deciding to bare his teeth.
He only remembered the satisfaction when they backed away.