The Breaking Point
Harry had thought he was prepared for this.
For the pack.
For Peter.
For belonging to something again.
But when Peter showed up at his house that night—
When he leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes gleaming with something dark, something undeniable—
Harry felt the shift.
Something deeper than before.
Something that made his stomach twist, made his breath hitch, made his heart pound.
Peter took one step forward, then another, until there was nothing between them.
Harry swallowed. "Peter—"
"You know what this is," Peter murmured, voice dangerously soft. "You've known."
Harry clenched his jaw. "That doesn't mean—"
"It does," Peter cut in. "You just don't want to say it."
Harry exhaled sharply, frustration and something else twisting inside him.
Because Peter was right again.
And that?
That was the problem.
Because when Peter reached out—fingers skimming along Harry's jaw, barely a touch—
Harry didn't move.
Didn't stop him.
Didn't want to.
Because, damn it, this was happening.
And this time—
Harry wasn't running from it.
The Claim is Made
It wasn't a kiss.
Not yet.
It was worse.
Because Peter, being Peter, was taking his time.
Dragging this out.
Letting the moment breathe.
Letting Harry breathe.
And Harry hated him for it.
Because he could feel the shift now—
The weight of something inevitable, something unchangeable.
Something like a claim.
And when Peter finally leaned in—
When his breath ghosted over Harry's lips, not touching, not yet—
Harry knew.
Knew this was real.
Knew there was no going back.
And he—
He didn't want to go back.
So when Peter finally—finally—closed the distance, pressing his lips to Harry's in a slow, deliberate kiss—
Harry didn't fight it.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't deny it.
Because this?
This was his.
And this time—
He wasn't letting it go.