Then—a rustle.
Too close.
I dart out the other side—straight into him.
A massive striped blur that tackles me gently, rolling us both through the leaves in a tangle of fur and laughter that only exists between mates.
We shift back not long after, breathless and flushed, sprawled beside the creek that runs behind the house.
Water trickles over smooth stones, cool and steady, grounding.
Rob lies beside me, chest rising and falling, his hand reaching for mine like it belongs there.
Like it always has.
For a while, we just breathe.
Exist.
Together.
Then—“I’m sorry.”
The words are quiet.
Rough.
I turn my head.
He’s staring up at the sky, jaw tight.
“For what?” I ask softly.
He huffs out a breath.
“For that day,” he says. “For losing control. For making things harder with the Pride.”
His hand tightens around mine.
“My standing took a hit,” he adds. “Probation. Eyes on me. I should’ve handled it better.”
My chest aches a little at that.
Not because of what he did.
But because of how much he’s carrying it.
I roll onto my side, propping myself up so I can see him fully.
“Rob,” I say, reaching out, brushing my fingers along his jaw until he looks at me.
“It doesn’t matter.”
His brows knit.
“It does,” he insists. “I put the whole Pride at risk?—”
“And you thought I left you,” I cut in gently.
