You Used To
1456 Words
Finn
The training field should feel familiar.
It doesn’t.
Everything is where it always is. The earth is worn flat from years of impact, bodies moving through drills with practiced rhythm, the steady clash and separation of force that usually anchors the space.
Today, it sits wrong. The balance feels shifted, half a step off. I notice it immediately, and something in my chest tightens around it before I can ignore it.
Or maybe I don’t ignore it.
Maybe I’m the only one pretending it hasn’t changed.
I step onto the field without announcing it, and still, the space adjusts.
It always does.
Movement tightens. Conversations dip. Awareness threads through the edges of everything as soon as I’m there.
It should settle something in me.
It doesn’t.
My focus drifts before I can anchor it, catching on details that don’t matter. A hesitation that shouldn’t exist. A misstep that would usually irritate me enough to correct it.
None of it holds.
I spot Simon in the ring before he notices me.
He’s already moving, circling someone slower than him, his stance loose in a way that looks effortless until you understand how controlled it is. He isn’t pressing the fight. He isn’t finishing it. He’s holding it.
Watching.
That’s deliberate.
“Again,” he says, stepping aside as the other wolf resets, breathing harder than he should.
Simon doesn’t.
No strain. No effort.
The guy lunges.
Simon shifts, catches it cleanly, and puts him on the ground in one controlled motion that ends it before it properly starts.
Done.
He steps back.
“Too predictable.”
The guy mutters and moves off without arguing.
Simon finally looks up.
His gaze finds me immediately.
No surprise.
No greeting.
“You’re late.”
“I didn’t realize you were keeping track.”
“I wasn’t,” he says, already stepping back into the center of the ring. “It just stands out now.”
That lands wrong. I feel it settle sharp under my ribs, irritation following right behind it.
I step in without answering it.
“Fight me.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
We circle once. The space between us tightens, sharper than the rest of the field. Attention shifts without anyone calling it out.
Then he moves.
Fast.
No warning.
I block on instinct, but the impact drives through my arm harder than it should, forcing me back a step before I reset. The jolt travels up my shoulder, and I feel it linger longer than it should.
He follows immediately, closing distance, refusing to let the rhythm settle.
“You’re distracted,” he says evenly.
“I’m not.”
“Then you’re slower than usual.”
I shove him off and reset my stance. “You’re talking too much.”
“Maybe you’re not listening enough.”
He comes again, faster, forcing reaction instead of control. I catch the strike, turn it, push him sideways, but he adjusts and keeps the pressure on.
Testing.
“You used to read a room better than this,” he says.
“I read it just fine.”
“Then you’re choosing to ignore it.”
I block another hit, catch his wrist, twist...
He slips out before I can lock it.
Too easily.
“That’s not my problem.”
“No,” Simon agrees, circling again, watching me now with deliberate focus. “That’s new.”
We clash again, harder this time, force meeting force in a way that should settle something in me.
It doesn’t.
My focus slips again, just for a second, but it’s enough. Something drops in my stomach the moment it happens.
He takes it. Redirects. Forces me back.
“You used to shut that down.”
“What?”
“That.”
He doesn’t need to explain.
“I’m not getting involved in pack drama.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“It looks like it.”
“No,” he says, stepping in sharper, catching my guard high and opening my side just enough to land a controlled hit. “It looks like you pretending it is.”
That lands harder than the hit. I feel it sit there, heavier than it should.
I shove him back harder than necessary.
He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t even shift his balance.
Just watches me.
“You were right there,” he says. “You saw it.”
“I didn’t let anything happen.”
“No,” Simon agrees quietly. “You just didn’t stop it.”
That lands.
I push forward, harder now, driving him back half a step, but it doesn’t hold. He pivots, redirects. Keeps control.
“You know what the worst part is?” he asks.
I don’t answer.
“You used to be disgusted by that kind of thing.”
That hits differently. Something tightens low in my chest before I can push it away.
“People didn’t pull that sh!t when you were standing there,” he continues. “They knew you’d end it before it started.”
“That hasn’t changed.”
“Yes,” Simon says, slipping past my guard to land another controlled hit. “It has.”
I shove him off again, breathing harder now, irritation cutting sharp.
“They can handle themselves.”
“Can she?”
There it is.
Maeve.
I don’t answer, because anything I say, says too much.
Simon sees that.
“You didn’t even look at her.”
“That’s not true.”
“You looked,” he corrects. “You just didn’t do anything.”
I feel the words drop, heavy and immediate, before I push it down. I move again, faster now, harder, letting the fight take over.
He lets me.
Lets me push.
Lets me think I have control...
and then takes it back.
I hit the ground harder than I should, the impact knocking the breath out of me for half a second. My chest tightens as I force air back in, irritation spiking sharper than it should.
Simon doesn’t offer a hand.
“You’re part of it now,” he says.
Calm.
Certain.
That lands harder than the fall, settles in a way I can’t shake.
“I’m not part of anything,” I snap.
He tilts his head slightly.
“Aren't you?”
I move again before he can continue.
Faster.
Less controlled.
He meets it without hesitation, but this time it’s different.
Messy.
We both feel it.
“You think I didn’t notice?” he says, blocking, countering. “At the bonfire?”
I feel the tension pulling tighter, sharp and unavoidable.
“You’re reaching.”
“No.”
He steps closer, not striking, holding the moment in place.
“For someone trying to ignore it,” he adds, “you’re doing a terrible job.”
I hit him harder than necessary.
He absorbs it.
Doesn’t give ground.
“You know I can read people,” he continues. “Kind of part of the job.”
I don’t answer.
“You want me to pretend I didn’t see it?”
“See what?”
The words come out too sharp. Too fast.
He catches it immediately.
“There it is.”
I go still. My chest tightens again, slower this time, heavier.
“I knew the moment it was said,” Simon says quietly. “Back there.”
The bonfire.
The word.
Mate.
“You reacted before you thought,” he continues. “You always do when it matters.”
“That’s not...”
“It is.”
His voice doesn’t rise. It doesn’t need to.
“We’ve known each other too long for you to pretend I wouldn't recognize that.”
That lands deeper than anything else, because he’s right.
“And as your Beta,” he adds, stepping back now, giving me space that somehow makes it worse, “I’m very good at reading you.”
Silence settles between us.
Tight.
Unavoidable.
“You’re wrong,” I say.
It doesn’t sound convincing to either of us.
Simon watches me for a long second.
Then nods once.
Not agreeing, confirming.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s what I thought.”
He steps out of the ring.
Done.
“You used to be an actual Alpha rising,” he adds without looking back. “One people followed because you didn’t tolerate bullsh!t.”
A beat.
“Now you just stand there and let it happen.”
That is the final cut.
Placed exactly where it matters. I feel it settle, heavy and impossible to ignore.
He walks off.
I don’t stop him.
The field settles around me again. Noise returns. Movement resumes.
Like nothing changed.
But it did.
Because now I see it.
And worse,
I can’t ignore it anymore.
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