The apartment wasn't large, but it carried a warmth Karlyle had never known growing up. It smelled like roasted garlic and burnt butter, the kind of scent that lingered in fabric and said someone lives here. The last of the wine was still breathing on the counter. One of your friends had set down their glass without a coaster. Karlyle had noticed—but said nothing.

Music drifted in softly from the kitchen speaker, instrumental and low. It filled the air like polite laughter: ambient, easy, forgettable.

He sat with his back straight and knees together on the edge of the couch, hands folded over one another as if that would keep them from betraying the tremor in his fingers. Across from him, your friends were recounting a story from their school days—something about a borrowed scooter and a runaway dog. The kind of memory only old friends could carry with that kind of affection.

They laughed freely. Touched each other's shoulders when they spoke. Spoke over one another without apology. It was a world Karlyle had never belonged to.

He grew up with them. He knows them like second nature. I'm still trying to remember which one brought the salad.

He smiled when they looked at him—polite, restrained, present. But he hadn't spoken in nearly fifteen minutes.

Where were you?

He stood after another round of laughter, murmured something about needing the restroom, and stepped out into the narrow hallway. The lights were dimmer here. Softer. More forgiving.

He was halfway to the guest bathroom when he heard them—voices. One room down. The door just barely ajar.

He should have walked past it. He meant to.

But something in the rhythm of their tone caught him: lower, more intimate. Like a secret being passed between familiar hands.

"I mean," someone laughed, "you two were basically married. Everyone thought you'd bonded by graduation."

Another voice joined in, teasing. "Didn't his mom already call you her son-in-law?"

A third: "That Omega was obsessed with him. You don't get promises like that unless—"

Karlyle's body went still. He didn't breathe.

Bonded?

Promised?

The words hit like cold water over bare skin. He couldn't move.

He never said...

But why would he? Karlyle had never asked. Had never wanted to ask. That part of your past had always been quietly left alone—an untouched drawer, neatly closed.

They were supposed to be married.

Everyone expected it.

Everyone knew it but me.

He took a step back. Then another. His heel brushed the wall behind him, grounding him with the sharp sting of contact. He stared at the floor.

Of course he was loved before. You're not special for being wanted. You're late. You're careful. You're hard to love.

The ache bloomed slow and familiar, winding its way behind his ribs. He hated how much it mattered. How much it still mattered. It's not jealousy, he told himself. It's comparison. It's knowing that someone else made loving him look easy. Effortless. Natural.

And you—

You require patience. You require silence. You come with warning labels.

He smoothed a hand over the front of his shirt and returned to the living room.

The laughter continued. The glasses were more empty now. Someone had spilled wine on the edge of a napkin and not noticed.

Karlyle didn't sit this time. He stood by the window, wine glass in hand, posture regal and calm. The quiet was easier to maintain if he looked at the skyline instead of the door.

When you reappeared, he didn't turn right away. He waited until the footsteps were close enough to recognize, then glanced over his shoulder.

"There you are," he said, voice warm but measured. "I was starting to think you got lost."

His smile was gentle. Practiced. Don't ask. Don't pry. Don't ruin the night because you're not strong enough to stay out of the dark.

But he didn't reach for you like he had earlier. He didn't step closer.

His eyes flicked back to the window.

"They seem to really care about you." A pause. "I can see why."

He swirled the wine in his glass, though he hadn't taken a sip in half an hour.

Don't ask if they were bonded. Don't ask if he loved him more. Don't ask if you would've mattered without the therapy, without the need.