I frowned. “Genetic predisposition? As in what? You were born with a clipboard and a checklist?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Something like that.”
He leaned forward slightly, forearms resting on his thighs. “I’m an alpha wolf.” He put no weight on the word, just relayed information. “My instincts push me toward protecting, solving, intervening. If there’s a problem, my body wants to move before my brain catches up.”
I waited. He didn’t rush to fill the space.
“My father is an alpha,” he continued. “Very effective. Very certain. He believes control means protection. If he’s responsible for you, your life and your choices become his problem to solve whether you want him to or not. You have no choice but to comply.”
My chest tightened before I could stop it. “I take it that didn’t end well.”
“No,” he agreed. “It ended with a lot of people feeling smaller inside his circle than they ever felt outside it.”
He looked at me then. Not asking for reassurance. Just presence.
“I don’t want that,” he said. “I don’t want anyone near me to feel managed. Or overruled. Protection and caring shouldn’t equal a loss of autonomy.”
Something in my ribs shifted uncomfortably and all too familiarly.
“So you practice. On birds?”
“And people,” he said.
My pulse ticked up.
“I still feel the pull,” he added. “The urge to step in and take over. Ignoring it would be dishonest. So, I try to slow down instead and listen for the no.”
“And if you hear one?”
“I stop,” he said. “Even if every instinct says keep going. I still overstep sometimes. I just don’t pretend it’s righteous or a God-given right.”
“That sounds exhausting,” I said.
“It can be,” he said. “But it’s better than the alternative.”
I studied him, saw the restraint threaded through every movement. The restraint threaded through every movement. He had carried me without assuming ownership over me, fed me without demanding compliance, sat across from me instead of beside me, because I had invited anything different. All of that, despite the fact that we’d slept together and he’d been called as my emergency contact after one night together.
“And if someone doesn’t say no?” I asked quietly.
His gaze held steady. “Then I make sure they know they have the option.”
That did it. Heat pooled low, unwelcome, sharp with awareness. Trust mixed with attraction in a way I didn’t like.
“Boy, you’re dangerous,” I said.
He nodded once. “That’s why I pay attention.”
Silence settled again, heavier and charged.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said.
His brows drew together slightly in curiosity. He held my gaze, steady and unflinching, and I felt the weight of it settle low and slow.
“Tell me what you did mean, then,” he said.
I didn’t. Not right away. Because what I had meant was less about birds or boundaries or fathers, and more about the fact that he had stopped when he was told to stop. That he hadlistened without sulking. That he didn’t make his feelings my responsibility. That he had stayed.
All of that made the ever-present tightness inside me loosen without permission.
