The Consequences of Being Theirs
By the time Harry finally confronted Peter, he was more frustrated than anything.
Because ignoring the pack wasn't working.
Pretending they weren't worming their way into his life wasn't working.
And worst of all—he didn't want them to stop.
That was the problem.
So when he stormed into the loft that evening, fire in his veins and irritation burning in his chest, he wasn't expecting to find Peter looking entirely unbothered by his intrusion.
The bastard was lounging on the couch like he had been waiting for this.
"I was wondering when you'd show up," Peter drawled, smirking.
Harry glared. "You're insufferable."
Peter gestured lazily. "And yet, here you are."
Harry clenched his fists. "You don't get to decide what I am to you."
Peter's smirk faded slightly, his blue eyes sharpening. "Neither do you."
Harry blinked. "Excuse me?"
Peter sat forward, elbows on his knees. "You didn't ask for this, I get it. You didn't want it. But that doesn't change what is."
Harry's breath hitched, anger wavering into something else—something dangerously close to fear.
Peter leaned in, his voice softer, lower. "You think belonging is a choice. But for us? It isn't. You don't get to fight it, because it's already happened."
Harry swallowed. "That's not how this works."
Peter tilted his head, amusement flickering in his gaze. "And yet, it is."
Silence settled between them.
And for the first time, Harry realized—
He wasn't fighting the pack.
He was fighting himself.