Chapter 8: Echoes Without A Wolf

He knew something was wrong with him long before anyone else said it out loud. It showed in the mirror first.

His cheeks had hollowed slightly, shadows lingering beneath his eyes no matter how much he slept. His clothes hung looser now, sleeves slipping farther down his wrists, collars sitting wrong against his collarbones.

Customers at the cafe tilted their heads when they looked at him, brows knitting with concern they tried and failed to hide.

“You’ve lost weight,” one of the regulars said gently one morning, passing him exact change like it was something fragile.

Ari smiled automatically. “Must be the stress.”

It was easier than explaining that food tasted like nothing half the time. That his appetite came and went without warning. That his chest felt perpetually tight, as if something inside him was pulling in two directions at once.

Ari told himself he was fine.

He repeated it like a mantra while wiping counters already clean, while smiling at customers he barely registered, serving customers with shaking hands. Fine became a habit, a lie he learned to tell so often that sometimes he almost believed it.

Almost.

The truth lived in the quiet moments when the espresso machine fell silent, when the city lights blurred through the windows, when there was nothing left to distract him from the hollow ache sitting in his chest.

Riven was gone.

And the bond whatever shape it had taken was eating him alive.

Not just absent deliberately removed. Cut out of Ari’s orbit so cleanly it felt surgical.

And Ari was unraveling.

The bond didn’t fade with distance. It grew louder, messier, harder to ignore.

Without a wolf to filter it, Ari felt everything raw and uncontained.

He woke some mornings with his heart racing, hands trembling for no reason he could name. Other days, a heavy sadness pressed down on him so suddenly he had to brace himself against the counter just to breathe through it.

At the cafe, he made mistakes. He forgot orders. Spilled milk. Burned espresso shots he’d perfected years ago. Customers noticed. Not enough to complain, but enough to ask, “You okay?” with gentle concern that scraped too close to the truth.

“I’m fine,” Ari said every time.

His boss started scheduling him shorter shifts.

The cafe used to be his sanctuary. Warm lights. Familiar routines. The steady rhythm of work grounding him when the city felt too sharp. Now, even that struggled to hold him together.

His boss didn’t scold him. Instead, she watched him carefully, concern etched into the lines of her face, and started sending him home early.

“You look exhausted, Ari,” she said one afternoon. “Get some rest.”

Ari nodded, throat tight, and did as he was told.

Rest didn’t help.

Nights were the worst. Sleep came in fragments thin, restless, crowded with emotion that didn’t always feel like his own. He woke with his heart racing, breath uneven, mind filled with flashes of anger, frustration, restraint stretched too thin.

Riven’s emotions.

Always Riven.

He was sure of it now.

Ari felt everything like static under his skin. Some days, the connection dulled into a heavy ache that followed him from room to room. Other days, it flared so sharply he had to brace himself against the counter just to stay upright.

He was trying. Gods, he was trying.

Trying not to reach out. Trying not to stand by windows and look for a presence he knew wasn’t there.

Trying not to resent the Council for deciding his feelings were an inconvenience.

Trying not to resent Riven.

That was the hardest part.

Mara the enforcer assigned to him noticed before he said anything.

She was always there, just close enough to matter. Leaning against a lamppost across the street. Standing near the café entrance under the pretense of checking patrol routes. She never crowded him. Never asked questions she didn’t need answers to.

Their closeness was practical. Controlled.

And still, Ari felt her watching him with something like quiet concern.

“You should eat,” she said once, handing him a wrapped sandwich without meeting his eyes. “Doesn’t count if it’s just coffee.”

Ari almost laughed. Almost cried.

“Is that an order?” he asked weakly.

Mara’s mouth curved, just barely. “No. Just… advice.”

She was kind in a way that didn’t invite dependence. Present, but distant. Like someone who cared but knew better than to get too close.

It was during one of those weeks the worst of them that Eli came back.

Ari almost didn’t recognize him at first.

The bell over the cafe door chimed, sharp and bright against the low hum of the espresso machine. Ari glanced up automatically, already pulling on a polite smile.

And froze.

Eli stood there, travel worn and familiar all at once, duffel slung over one shoulder, curls a little longer than Ari remembered. His smile faltered the moment his eyes landed on Ari.

“Oh,” Eli breathed. “Ari.”

The sound of his name soft, stunned, really hit Ari harder than he was prepared for. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

“You’re back,” Ari said, voice cracking.

Then Eli crossed the cafe in three strides and stopped short, gaze flicking over Ari’s face, his frame, the too loose sweater hanging off his shoulders.

“You look…” Eli started, then stopped himself. “You look like you.”

Ari laughed weakly. “That’s one way to put it.”

Eli dropped his bag and pulled Ari into a hug without asking.

Ari froze for half a second then melted into it, fingers clutching at Eli’s jacket like he was afraid this, too, would disappear if he loosened his grip. Eli smelled like wind and unfamiliar places, like movement and life continuing somewhere beyond Highcrest’s walls.

“I came back,” Eli murmured into his hair. “I was going to surprise you.”

Ari’s voice cracked. “You did.”

They didn’t talk much until after closing.

They sat at one of the corner tables, hands wrapped around mugs that slowly went cold, the space between them filled with years of history shared apartments, shared beds, shared laughter that had once turned into something softer and more complicated.

They’d dated once. Carefully. Earnestly.

It hadn’t ended badly. Just… quietly. Love reshaping itself into something that fit better as friendship than romance.

Eli reached across the table now, fingers brushing Ari’s wrist. “You’re sick,” he said gently.

Ari swallowed. “I’m… dealing with something.”

“The bond,” Eli guessed.

Ari nodded, throat tight. “They sent him away.”

Eli’s jaw clenched. “Of course they did.”

When Ari finally told him everything the attack, the Council, Riven’s distance Eli listened without interrupting. When Ari’s voice broke, Eli didn’t rush to fix it. He just stayed.

“I thought I was past this,” Ari admitted quietly. “Needing someone like this.”

Eli squeezed his hand. “You’re not weak for feeling deeply. You never were.”

That nearly undid him.

The days after Eli’s return were easier. Not better but survivable. Eli walked him home. Cooked meals Ari barely picked at. Sat with him through the worst of the nights, grounding him when the bond flared too loudly.

Mara noticed the change.

“So,” she said one evening, watching Eli unlock Ari’s door. “You have help now.”

Ari nodded. “A little.”

She hesitated, then spoke quietly. “Commander Kaelthorne returns in three days.”

The words hit Ari like a sudden drop.

“What?” he whispered.

Mara looked away. “You didn’t hear it from me.”

Relief surged first sharp and overwhelming followed immediately by fear so intense it made his hands shake.

Riven was coming back.

After a month of silence. Of distance. Of denial.

Ari pressed a hand to his chest, breath uneven. He didn’t know if Riven would look at him. Didn’t know if the Council would allow anything to change.

But the bond stirred stronger now, restless and undeniable.

And Ari, pale and worn and exhausted, realized with startling clarity that whatever happened next would not leave him unchanged.

Distance hadn’t saved him.

It had only taught him how much he had to lose.