The halls of Della and Alexander's home were quiet.
The day had been long, the kind that stretched in ways only parents of grown pups could understand—filled with whispers of the past, glances toward the future, and the weight of everything in between.
The pack had finally gone to rest. The stars hung low and warm outside the tall windows of the Alpha's quarters, and the air was thick with the scent of cedar and burning leaves, autumn smells.
Alexander stood on the balcony, one hand resting on the stone rail. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, though it wasn't the future he was seeing. It was a younger version of himself, holding a newborn daughter for the first time.
It was the trembling wonder of Della's hand in his, the first night she'd curled against him and said, "We're home." When he had moved in to the beach house.
