Though Lewis always looked calm and unshakable, I knew the truth. He had grown up without warmth, without the steady presence of a pack that chose him first. That kind of absence didn't fade with time it settled deep, teaching him to doubt even the gentlest words spoken to him.
Every time I praised him, I could feel that hesitation in his silence. As if he were asking himself whether he truly deserved it.
It broke my heart.
He was strong. He was steady. He carried authority so naturally that others followed without question. And yet, part of him still lived in a quiet, forgotten corner watching life instead of stepping into it.
I imagined him there, listening to laughter he thought wasn't meant for him. Watching light spill through a doorway he didn't believe he was allowed to cross.
Maybe that was why he'd watched me for so long. Maybe my noise, my stubborn joy, had pulled him forward inch by inch. Not because he needed saving but because he wanted to feel alive.
