I should leave. I should turn around and go back to the bar and pretend I was never here. Robin told me to stay away. Sitting in his parking lot like a stalker in the middle of the night is the opposite of that.
But I can't make myself move.
Before I can think better of it, I'm swinging my leg off the bike. My boots hit the pavement. I take one step toward the building, then another.
I stop.
What am I doing?
Showing up uninvited at 2 AM doesn't read asI'm sorry, please let me explain.It reads as a booty call. It reads asI can't sleep and I want to fuck.It reads as exactly the kind of thing a guy with a drawer full of hookup clothes would do—show up in the middle of the night expecting to be let in because he's horny and bored.
That's not what this is. But Toby doesn't know that. Toby thinks I'm exactly that guy—the one who fucks and forgets, the one who says mine to everyone, the one who keeps spare clothes around because people cycle through his bed so often it's just practical.
If I go up there now, I'll just be proving him right.
I force myself to step back. Then another step. Another.
My hand finds the bike seat. I grip it hard enough that the leather creaks.
What if I went up anyway? What if I knocked on the door, made him listen, explained everything? I could tell him about the drawer—how those clothes have been there for years, how I haven't touched anyone since weeks before he walked into my bar. I could tell him about the bath, how I've never done that for anyone, how taking care of him felt as natural asbreathing. I could tell him that mine wasn't just a word, wasn't just something I say, it was a claiming. A promise. A vow.
I could tell him I love him.
The thought hits me like a punch to the chest. Love. Is that what this is? This constant ache, this desperate need to see him, to touch him, to know he's okay? I've never felt anything like this. Never wanted to.
My lion paces restlessly, pushing at my skin. He wants to shift, wants to climb up to that window and curl around our mate and never let him go. He doesn't understand human things like space and time. He just knows that Toby is ours and Toby is hurting and we should be there.
But I can't.
Because I need to stay away, to let him have his space.
I pull out my phone. Open my messages. Toby's contact is right there, the last real conversation we had—me telling him I'd pick him up after his shift, him sending back a smiley face andcan't wait.
And then I'd picked him up on the bike, brought him back to the bar, taken him upstairs to my apartment. Claimed him. Made him mine. Everything was perfect until the next morning, when my pack's careless words destroyed it all.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could text him. Just something small.I'm sorry. I miss you. Please let me explain.
I put the phone away. That's not giving him space.
A light flickers on in the corner unit. Third floor. His window.
My heart stops.
For a long moment, nothing happens. The light just glows, soft and yellow, and I imagine Toby inside. Maybe he can't sleep either. Maybe he's reading, or making tea, or sittingin the dark thinking about me the way I'm sitting in the dark thinking about him.
Or maybe he's fine. Maybe he's already moving on, already forgetting, already washing away the last traces of me from his skin and his sheets and his life.
The thought makes my lion whine.
A shadow moves across the window. Someone walking. Too tall to be Toby—Robin, probably. Checking on his best friend. Making sure he's okay.
I should be the one checking on him. I should be the one making sure he's okay.
But I'm not. Because I'm the reason he's not okay in the first place.
The light goes off again. The window goes dark.
I should go. There's no reason to stay. He's asleep—or trying to sleep—and I'm sitting in a parking lot like a lovesick idiot, staring at a dark window like it might give me answers.
