Reza
They arrive midmorning.
Not announced. Not ceremonious. Just present. The way people with unquestioned access always are.
I know before I see them.
The packhouse shifts subtly. Postures straighten. Voices lower. It isn’t alarm.
It’s recognition.
Respect folding itself neatly into routine.
Aaron’s parents.
I’m near the common corridor when their voices carry toward me, his mother warm and measured, his father quieter, grounded in a way that feels immovable.
Aaron walks with them.
Half a step ahead.
Alpha first. Always.
Something tightens unexpectedly in my chest.
Hope.
His mother sees me.
Her expression brightens immediately, recognition flickering across her face as if she has been given my name already, my outline, my importance. She steps forward without hesitation.
