The Alpha's Move
Peter was waiting when Harry got home.
He leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed, the moonlight casting sharp shadows over his features.
Harry sighed. "You're not subtle, you know."
Peter smirked. "I wasn't trying to be."
Harry rubbed his temples. "If you're here to tell me I overreacted—"
"Oh, sweetheart," Peter drawled, stepping closer. "That wasn't an overreaction. That was restraint."
Harry blinked.
Peter studied him for a long moment before speaking again. "You think we're only protecting you because of some wolfish instinct."
Harry said nothing.
Peter tilted his head. "You're wrong."
Harry let out a dry laugh. "Am I?"
Peter's expression darkened—not in anger, but in something deeper. "You think you're alone, but you're not. You haven't been alone since you set foot in this town."
Harry's throat tightened. "That's not—"
"You smell like home," Peter interrupted. "Do you know what that means?"
Harry shook his head.
Peter took another step forward, invading his space, his presence overwhelming but not suffocating.
"It means you belong," Peter murmured. "Not because we pity you. Not because we're bored. But because we choose you."
Harry's breath hitched.
Peter's gaze burned into him.
"And it's time," Peter said softly, "you start choosing us back."
The words settled deep, curling inside him like something warm, something dangerous.
Harry wanted to believe them.
But trust was a fragile thing, and he didn't know if he was ready to hand it over just yet.
Peter, ever patient, simply stepped back and smirked.
"Think about it, sweetheart."
And with that, he left, disappearing into the night.
Harry stared after him, heart pounding, mind racing.
Because, for the first time in years, he wondered—
Maybe staying in Beacon Hills wasn't a mistake after all.