I found him not on the rooftop this time; he was in the hallway outside the third-floor practice room, slouched against the vending machine, as if he'd just lost a fight with the universe and decided to sulk in front of the nearest soda dispenser. Hoodie up. Headphones in. One foot braced against the wall, the other grounded like he was one bad memory away from running. His hands were buried deep in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched like he could tuck himself inside them if he tried hard enough.
He looked like someone trying not to be seen. Or maybe like someone hoping someone would see him anyway.
And I did.
Even if I hadn't seen him, I would've known he was there. Felt him. That gentle pull in my chest — the bond. That quiet, invisible thread that hummed just beneath the surface of everything. Tugging me toward him like a compass trying to find true north.
He hadn't answered my texts. Or the voice note I left two days ago — asking if he'd fallen off the face of the earth and just forgotten to let me know.
No reply. No rooftop. Just... silence.
And if it weren't for that ache — that low, persistent hum beneath my ribs that said he's still here — I might've started believing he really didn't care.
But he did.
I knew he did.
He was just scared.
So was I.
But I was also tired. Tired of pretending that it didn't sting. That it didn't matter. That I wasn't checking my phone like it might suddenly make a liar out of all my worst fears.
He noticed me three steps out. Of course he did. His body turned slightly — a shift so small it would've been invisible to anyone else. But not to me. His awareness brushed mine like a whisper, like the bond had nudged him before his thoughts could catch up.
I stopped in front of him. Crossed my arms.
He didn't take the headphones out.
So I reached up and pulled one free myself, the cord catching slightly before it came loose. A quiet snap of tension.
Jaerin blinked. Slow. Like I'd yanked him out of another world. Then his eyes flicked away, jaw tensing behind his lips.
"Busy?" I asked, voice low. Controlled. But edged just enough to make it clear I wasn't here to be ignored.
"Maybe," he muttered.
"You avoiding me?"
His jaw ticked. Just a tiny twitch. But I caught it.
Then, "No."
"Liar."
He exhaled sharply through his nose. A sound full of guilt and frustration and all the things he hadn't said. His gaze dropped to the floor, like maybe the answer was there. Buried in the scuffed linoleum or wedged between the tiles.
"I'm not good at this," he said, after a long moment. "The... whatever this is."
"Mates," I said, flat.
He winced. Not because it was wrong. Because it was true.
"It's not that I don't want it," he said, quieter this time. "I just don't want to screw it up. Or scare you off. Or—hell, I don't know, Dwyn. I didn't expect it to feel like this."
I swallowed. My throat felt tight.
"Me neither."
That made him look up. Really look. His expression cracked just a little — the wall behind his eyes splintering with surprise. Like he hadn't expected me to admit it. Like he thought he was the only one flailing in the deep end.
"Then why are you looking at me like I broke something?"
"Because you did," I said. Not cruel. Just honest. "You disappeared. After you said you wanted to try. You left me alone with all of it — the bond, the wondering, the second-guessing. I thought I made it all up. The rooftop. The tea. The way you looked at me like you saw me."
His shoulders curved inward. Like he could feel the weight of it now. Every unreturned message. Every second of silence.
"I didn't know what to do with it," he said.
"You could've told me that," I said. "Instead of vanishing."
"I was embarrassed," he said, the words tumbling out too fast, like he'd been holding them back. "I didn't want to be... clingy."
That startled a breath out of me. "Clingy? You think checking in with your mate is clingy?"
"I don't know the rules, Dwyn," he snapped—then immediately flinched, like he'd raised his voice at the wrong person and regretted it. "I mean... I don't know how this is supposed to work. I've never done this. Not like this. Not with someone who actually..."
He trailed off.
I tilted my head, a small motion. "Who actually what?"
His voice dropped. Barely a whisper. "Who actually wants me. Who I don't want to scare off. Who I can't afford to lose."
My chest tightened. Something behind my ribs folded like paper.
I took a small step forward. Close enough to feel the tension in him — the storm sitting just beneath the skin. His wolf, Dal, was unsettled. Coiled. But not aggressive. Not hostile. Just... unsure.
Mine — Dawn — was quiet now. Watchful. No longer bristling. Just listening.
"There are no rules," I said, softer now. "There's just you. Me. And this... confusing, intense, painfully awkward thing we're pretending not to want."
His breath stuttered. Like it caught on the edge of something fragile.
"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said.
"I know," I replied. "But that doesn't mean you didn't."
He nodded. Slow. Stiff. The kind of nod people give when they're trying not to cry or punch a wall.
A silence settled between us. Not empty. Full. Dense. Like it was carrying something too heavy for words.
Then his hand moved. Just a little. Out of his pocket, fingers twitching, like he didn't know where to put them. He hovered. Hesitated. And then let them rest lightly over mine — where it clutched the hem of his hoodie like it was an anchor.
The touch was barely there.
But I felt it.
Like a question.
Like a promise he hadn't figured out how to make yet.
"I don't know how to do perfect," he said. "But I am trying."
I nodded. "I don't need perfect. I just need you, don't ghost on me ever again....please."