Two months has passed since Kian has seen his bunny.
Kia learned silence the hard way.
It wasn't the absence of sound that troubled him—it was the discipline it required. The conscious effort not to reach out. Not to ask. Not to take comfort simply because he could.
Two months sounded short when spoken aloud.
In practice, it was endless.
The room was dark when Kia returned, the city lights bleeding faintly through the curtains. He didn't bother turning on the lamps. Darkness felt appropriate now—neutral, contained, honest.
He loosened his coat and set it aside, movements measured. Everything about him had become measured lately. His temper. His instincts. His wants.
Especially his wants.
Ryan's presence used to fill spaces like this effortlessly. A voice. A glance. A quiet warmth that lingered even when he wasn't there.
Now, the quiet stayed quiet.
Kia sat at the edge of the bed—not the side Ryan used to sleep on. He'd made that mistake once in the first week. Had stood there too long, staring at the empty pillow, chest tightening like a trap snapping shut.
He didn't do that anymore.
Growth, he'd learned, wasn't loud. It didn't announce itself. It was restraint practiced daily until it stopped feeling like punishment and started feeling like choice.
His phone buzzed.
Once.
Kia glanced at it without urgency.
A report.
He read it carefully, jaw tightening as his eyes skimmed the details.
—Movement confirmed.
—Ryan involved directly.
—Liam present.
—High-risk trajectory.
Kia exhaled slowly.
Alive.
That was all he allowed himself to take from it.
He didn't ask for more details. Didn't request surveillance. Didn't push for updates that went beyond necessity.
Two months ago, he would have demanded everything.
Now, he closed the file and locked the screen.
"Your space," he murmured quietly to no one.
There were moments—late at night, when the instincts clawed louder—when he felt the pull. The bond. The urge to check. To confirm Ryan was breathing, standing, safe.
Every Alpha instinct screamed that distance was weakness.
But Kia had learned better.
Distance, when chosen, was respect.
He stood and moved to the window, looking out at the city below. Somewhere out there, Ryan was moving through his world with sharp focus and colder edges. Kia didn't imagine him lonely. He imagined him controlled. Guarded.
That hurt more than picturing tears would have.
Because it meant Ryan didn't need him.
And maybe—that was the point.
A knock came at the door.
Kia didn't turn immediately. "Come in."
One of his men stepped inside, posture respectful. "There's chatter."
Kia's gaze remained fixed on the city. "About?"
"Ryan."
The word landed heavy.
Kia finally turned. "Say it."
"They're testing boundaries. Seeing how close he is to the operation's core. Some are wondering who would bleed if they pushed hard enough."
Kia's expression darkened—not with rage, but focus.
"Shut it down," he said calmly. "Quietly."
"Yes, Alpha."
"And," Kia added, voice low, "Ryan's name doesn't leave your mouth again unless it's relevant."
The man nodded sharply and left.
Kia returned to the window.
He wouldn't step into Ryan's life uninvited.
But he would guard the edges of it like a shadow.
Because loving someone didn't mean standing in front of them.
Sometimes it meant standing behind the threat instead.
Later that night, Kia lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Sleep came harder these days—not because of longing, but because of discipline.
He wanted to send a message.
One sentence.
Are you okay?
He didn't.
Instead, he turned the phone face-down and closed his eyes.
"If you ever come back," he whispered into the dark, "I want you to meet someone better than the man who let you go."
The silence didn't answer.
But for the first time, it didn't feel like rejection.
It felt like restraint holding steady.