She was running. Again.
But this wasn't the "I'm terrified of your biology" run. This was the "my biology is about to betray me" run.
My Alpha brain screamedCHASE. It roared at me to sprint down that corridor, tackle her onto the plush carpet, and bury my teeth in the scent gland on her neck until she stopped smelling like distress and started smelling likemine.
I slammed into the wall instead. Hard. Just to give my body something else to focus on.
Paint chipped under my shoulder. Pain flared, sharp and grounding.
I forced my feet to move at a human pace, not a wolf's stride. I trailed her, keeping ten feet back, watching the way she leaned against the wall for half a second before pushing off again. Shereached the green room door, fumbled the handle with shaking hands, and threw herself inside.
The lock clicked.Clack-clack.Deadbolt and chain.
I stopped right outside. I could hear her breathing through the wood, ragged, wet gasps, like she was drowning.
I slid down the wall. I pulled my knees up, wrapped my pink faux-fur coat around myself like armor, and pressed my forehead against the rough grain of the doorframe. The hallway smelled of industrial cleaner and old carpet, but right here, at the crack of the door, it was all her. Grapefruit zest and electricity.
"Z?" My voice came out wrecked. "I'm here. Corridor side. I'm not crossing."
Silence for a beat, just the sound of fabric shifting on the other side. Then her voice, low and trembling, right against the wood. She must have been sitting on the floor too.
"It's high," she whispered. "It's climbing fast."
"Call Rowan?" I offered, though the thought of anyone else being near her right now made my teeth ache. "Meds?"
"No. Too late for meds. It’s just... waves."
A stifled whimper cut through the door. It sounded like it hurt. It sounded like need sharpened into a blade.
My hands fisted in my coat. I wanted to claw through the wood.
"Alfie?"
"Yeah, love. I'm here."
"Talk me through it."
I blinked, sweat stinging my eyes. "Talk you through what?"
"Talk me through what you’d do if I opened this door. But you’re not coming in. We’re doing this off-comms."
The request hit me harder than the scent. It was a permission slip and a restraining order in the same breath. She wanted the fantasy but needed the safety.
I rested my forehead against the furry collar of my coat, closing my eyes. I breathed in the citrus-lightning leak under the door, let it mix with my own burnt-sugar volatility.
"Copy that," I rasped.
I shifted, getting comfortable on the hard floor. I let my voice drop, losing the stage projection, finding that low, rolling cadence that lived in my chest.
"I'd wait," I started, painting the picture for both of us. "Door opens. I see you. I don't move. Not one inch. I let you see my hands."
I held my own hands up in the empty hallway, staring at the black chipped polish, the sharpie on my thumb. ASK > ASSUME.
"I’d look at you," I continued, the Yorkshire accent thickening, softening the edges. "Just drink you in, yeah? The hoodie, the mess of your hair, the way you smell like a storm tearing through a fruit stall. And I'd ask."
"Ask what?" Her breath hitched.
"Permission to approach. One step. Then I'd wait for the nod."
