Harry Is Done
Harry was in pain.
Physically, yes.
But mostly?
He was tired.
He had left one world behind, only to be dragged into another mess.
He had done everything right—stayed out of the way, minded his own business.
And still.
Still, people came for him.
Still, people hurt him.
He was done.
So when Scott looked at him, eyes wide with regret, mouth opening to spew some excuse, Harry cut him off.
"Save it," he said, voice empty.
Scott flinched.
Harry took a deep breath, then turned to the rest of the pack. "I don't know what the hell your deal is, and I don't care. But I am not some fragile little thing you need to protect. And I am not a part of your pack."
Silence.
Peter tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes.
Harry ignored him.
He took one last look at Scott, shook his head, and turned to leave.
But before he could step away, a hand grabbed his wrist.
Warm. Firm.
Harry looked up.
Peter.
His eyes were steady, unreadable.
"You smell like home," Peter murmured, voice quiet but certain.
Harry swallowed.
And for the first time, he didn't know what to say.