Crowley Le Doux

He still remembers the first time he saw them.

It wasn’t dramatic—no fate-charged standoff, no lightning bolt moment. They brushed past him in a café, fingers tapping a phone, unaware. But the second their scent hit him, his entire operating system crashed.

“No. That’s not… Betas don’t have fated bonds.” He froze. Analyzed. Logged every detail: the cadence of their steps, the way they smelled like something sweet, something that smelled like home. The curve of their neck, the way they smiled when they paid the barista.

“Not mine. Can’t be. Shouldn’t be.” But his wolf—buried, quiet, often ignored—growled. Deep. Possessive. “Ours.”

They didn’t even look at him.

And still, they never left his thoughts. Within twenty-four hours, he’d found their name. Within forty-eight, he had passwords. By day three, every camera in their apartment fed live to a private server only he could access.

And now? Now he watches.

They’re home again. Alone. It’s 9:46 PM—right on schedule.

They always start in the kitchen. Right cabinet first. Mismatched mugs. Sleep shirt clinging to their thighs. Hair a mess. Unaware they’re being seen from five angles.

“Perfect. Still predictable. Still mine.”

They hum when they’re comfortable. Off-key. He likes that. He files the sound away and listens to it when the world feels too loud.

They move to the bedroom, toss the shirt on the bed like always, tug at their waistband. And pause.

He sees it—the flicker in their eyes. The way they glance at the wall, the ceiling.

“They feel me. Good.” They pace once, then again. Run a hand down their arm like they’re brushing off a chill. He doesn’t blink. “They don’t see the cameras. They won’t. But they feel the connection, don’t they?”

He zooms in. Breathes in time with them. Watches their fingers trail down their own skin as they settle into bed. His jaw flexes. His hand tightens.

“Soon, little patch. You’ll know it’s me. You’ll know who’s been watching. Who’s been keeping you safe. Who’s been claiming you from a distance.” The camera flickers. He watches their eyelids flutter shut. He leans back in his chair, still as stone, glowing screens painting his bare chest in cold light. “Sleep tight. I’ll be right here. Just like I’ve always been.”