The Pack Sees Everything (Again)

Harry should have been prepared.

Really, he should have.

Because when he walked into the loft the next morning, the pack took one look at him—at the bite on his throat, at the way Peter stood just a little too close—

And all hell broke loose.

Malia whooped.

Lydia smirked.

Derek sighed, rubbing his temples.

And Stiles?

Stiles screamed.

"OH MY GOD," Stiles yelled, pointing. "I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU TWO WERE GROSS AND TOXIC AND UNFAIRLY HOT TOGETHER!"

Harry groaned. "Stiles—"

"NO," Stiles cut him off, wild-eyed. "YOU DON'T GET TO TALK. YOU. GOT. BITTEN. BY PETER FREAKING HALE. DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS? DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY FERAL WEREWOLF MATES BOND FOR LIFE?"

Harry blinked. "Wait, what?"

Peter, the smug bastard, just chuckled.

"Oh," he purred, "he'll find out soon enough."

Harry turned to glare at him. "What the hell does that mean?"

Peter smirked. "You'll see."

And damn it, Harry was in trouble.

The Reality of Mating Peter Hale and Bullet Points

Harry had no idea what he'd gotten himself into.

Because apparently?

Mating with a Hale meant things.

Territorial things.

Possessive things.

Things like—

1.Peter refusing to let him leave the house without a scarf covering the bite. ("It's not hiding it, sweetheart, it's keeping other people from seeing it.")

2.Random wolves Harry didn't even know suddenly acting weird around him.

3.Peter's scent being everywhere. His house. His clothes. His damn pillow.

4.Peter touching him. Constantly. Casually. Like it was normal. (And okay, maybe it was nice, but that was not the point.)

5.The pack openly teasing him about it. Every. Damn. Day.

Harry groaned, slamming his forehead onto the kitchen table.

"This was a mistake," he muttered.

Peter, leaning against the counter, smirked. "Liar."

Harry sighed.

Because damn it, he was right.

Again.

Harry Accepts It (Finally, Officially, Completely)

It wasn't until that night—when Harry lay curled in Peter's bed, exhaustion weighing on him, Peter's arm draped over his waist like it belonged there—

That he finally, truly, accepted it.

This was his life now.

This was his pack.

And Peter?

Peter was his.

So Harry took a slow breath, settled into it, and whispered—

"Yeah. Okay."

Peter hummed sleepily, tightening his grip, pressing a lazy kiss to the back of Harry's neck.

"Good choice, sweetheart," he murmured.

And Harry?

Harry smiled.

Because for the first time in a long, long time—

He was home.