A Wolf at His Door
The night was cool when Peter showed up again.
Harry had been expecting him.
Or, at least, he thought he had.
But nothing prepared him for the sight of Peter Hale leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed, blue eyes gleaming with something unreadable.
Harry sighed, leaning against the door. "You have a habit of showing up uninvited."
Peter smirked. "And yet, you never turn me away."
Harry rolled his eyes, but Peter was right, and they both knew it.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"You stopped fighting," Peter murmured, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.
Harry huffed, crossing his arms. "I realized it was pointless."
Peter stepped closer, close enough that Harry could feel the warmth radiating off him.
"No," Peter corrected. "You realized you didn't want to."
Harry swallowed, heart pounding.
Because Peter was right again.
He had stopped fighting because, in the end, it wasn't the pack he had been resisting.
It was himself.
His need for connection.
His desire to belong.
His longing for something he had told himself he didn't deserve.
And Peter—damn him—had seen it first.
Harry exhaled slowly. "I don't know how to do this," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Peter's expression softened—not in pity, but in understanding.
"You don't have to."
A pause.
A choice.
And then—
Harry stepped aside, leaving the door open.
Peter smirked, stepping inside without hesitation.
And just like that, Harry Potter, who had spent his life running, who had sworn he would never let himself belong again—
Let the pack in.
Let Peter in.
And for the first time in years—
He didn't feel alone.