The storm had passed, but the cold remained.
It clung to the stone walls of Graymoor like ivy, slipping through cracks, numbing fingers, curling under doors. Eren had spent most of the day helping the cook in the kitchen, his hands red and raw from washing endless pots. He didn't complain. It was easier to scrub until his arms ached than to sit alone in his freezing room and think about the alpha who wouldn't look at him.
The bond mark on his collarbone had faded to a soft glow, but it still pulsed—gentle, persistent. A reminder that someone out there, just a few walls away, was his. Was supposed to be his.
And yet…
Caelan had not spoken to him again since that night by the fire.
That evening, Eren returned to his room late, his legs tired, stomach hollow, skin chilled through. He wrapped himself in the thin blanket, curled on the cot, and tried to block out the ache in his chest.
Don't think about him. Don't feel him. Don't want him.
But the bond didn't listen.
It tugged.
Pulled.
Whispered.
Somewhere in the darkness of Graymoor, Caelan felt it too.
The alpha sat at his desk, fingers pressed to his temples, eyes closed against the headache blooming behind them. He hadn't slept in days. Not properly. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw golden eyes and a soft voice saying:
"But I am yours."
He gritted his teeth.
No.
He couldn't let this happen.
He wasn't ready.
Would never be.
But still…
His feet moved on their own.
Eren didn't hear the door open.
He was already asleep, curled tight under the blanket, his breath slow and uneven. A cough escaped his lips—sharp, dry.
Caelan paused in the doorway.
His eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Eren looked smaller like this. Fragile. The blanket barely covered his shoulders. The window leaked cold air directly onto him.
Caelan's jaw tensed.
He should leave.
This wasn't his problem.
This wasn't his omega.
He turned to go—but the cough came again. Softer this time. Weaker.
He sighed. Deeply. Then stepped inside.
He didn't touch him. Not yet. He simply walked to the corner of the room, picked up the extra cloak Eren had tossed over a chair, and gently draped it over the boy's shoulders.
Eren shifted in his sleep, curling tighter, murmuring something incomprehensible.
Caelan stared at him.
Something in his chest cracked.
Just a little.
Eren woke the next morning to unexpected warmth.
The cloak smelled like pine and leather and snow—him.
His heart leapt.
But when he ran to the hallway and peeked outside, there was no one.
Only silence.
The next few days fell into a quiet pattern.
Caelan still didn't speak to him, but Eren noticed small things. The way his room was slightly warmer each night. How his meals were portioned better than the others. How he was never assigned heavy chores.
And sometimes, late at night, when he was almost asleep, he felt it.
A presence.
Outside his door.
Never knocking.
Just… watching.
Then gone.
The bond continued to ache.
It wasn't the painful heat that omegas feared during rut season.
No. It was gentler.
But constant.
It pressed behind his ribs. It made his hands tremble when Caelan walked by. It made his voice catch when their eyes met across the courtyard, even for a second.
Caelan never said a word.
But his eyes… they softened. Just slightly.
Like he hated what he was doing.
But didn't know how to stop.
One evening, Eren wandered to the gardens behind the east tower. The snow had melted enough to reveal patches of frostbitten soil. He knelt there, fingers brushing dead roots.
Back at the orphanage, he'd loved the garden.
It made him feel… useful.
Alive.
He dug with bare hands, clearing the frozen leaves.
He didn't notice Caelan watching from the second-floor balcony, arms crossed.
Didn't see the way the alpha's brow furrowed when his fingers turned red.
Didn't see how he disappeared from the balcony… only to return minutes later, silently placing a pair of gloves at the edge of the garden wall before vanishing again.
Eren found them the next morning.
No note.
No explanation.
Just warm, thick leather gloves, perfectly his size.
He sat there for a long time, holding them against his chest.
Smiling.
But not everything was silent and soft.
Not everyone in the pack approved of him.
One afternoon, while carrying baskets from the storage cellar, Eren was cornered by two older sentries. One of them leaned close, sneering.
"So you're the one fate sent him?""What a joke. We needed a warrior. Not a rabbit."
Eren didn't respond.
They laughed.
"Bet you won't last the month."
That night, he cried quietly under the cloak Caelan had left him.
The next morning, the two sentries were gone.
Transferred to a distant outpost.
No explanation.
No warning.
Just… gone.
That evening, Eren passed Caelan in the corridor.
Their shoulders brushed.
Accidental.
Or maybe not.
The spark of the bond lit like lightning between them.
Eren stopped, breath catching.
So did Caelan.
They stood there, inches apart.
The moment stretched thin.
Tight.
Then Caelan turned and walked away.
Fast.
Like he was running from something.
Or someone.
Later that night, Eren stood by his window, gloves still on his hands.
He whispered into the cold:
"I know you care."
Silence answered.
But his bondmark glowed.
Soft.
Warm.
In the alpha's chambers, Caelan pressed his wrist to his lips.
He didn't say a word.
But he didn't deny it either.