Marked, Whether He Likes It or Not
Harry knew something had changed the moment Peter walked through his door.
There was an ease to it now, a silent understanding that Harry wasn't going to push them away anymore.
Not completely.
That didn't mean he liked it.
It didn't mean he had suddenly become a people person.
But the pack had settled around him like a shadow, like an unshakable presence, and Harry—Merlin help him—had let them.
The moment was small. Subtle.
But the pack? They noticed.
Because the next morning, there was a hoodie on his chair that wasn't his.
Malia.
Then a travel mug on his counter, filled with the exact tea he liked.
Lydia.
Then a spare key sitting in the bowl by the door, one he knew he hadn't put there.
Derek.
And then—Peter.
He didn't leave things.
He left his scent.
It wasn't obvious.
It wasn't overwhelming.
But Harry could feel it—woven into the fabric of his space, curled around him like an unseen claim.
It was possessive.
It was infuriating.
It was comforting.
Harry groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "They're worse than Hogwarts."