Just like that, Acheron found himself folded into the circle.

There had been no grand invitation. No need for one. The group simply accepted him, made space for him, and within the week, most of his free time was spent with them between classes, during meals, and long after curfew when laughter whispered through the halls.

For the first time in a long time, Eron felt something stir quietly in his chest.

Something almost like belonging.

"At some point, we found a good hangout spot behind a secluded building," Acheron murmured, his gaze unfocused. "There were no cameras, and it was hard to see unless you knew exactly where to look. It was tucked behind the old greenhouse, way at the edge of campus, furthest from the teachers' building."

He swallowed, then let out a breath tinged with something almost like nostalgia.

"Hadeon brought a pack of cigarettes near the end of that year. I don’t know how or where he got them; he never said. But I still remember the taste. Bitter. Harsh. The smoke burned all the way down my throat, but it felt… exciting." He hesitated. "Doing something I knew I probably shouldn’t."

Dr Pace leaned slightly forward. "Was there any pressure to smoke?"

Acheron shook his head slowly. "Not really."

Pace nodded and made a quiet note in his journal. There was something significant in that detail: choosing rebellion, rather than being coerced into it. Still, the blank look on Acheron's face gave him pause. He discreetly glanced at the clock. The session was nearing its end. Part of him hated interrupting when a patient had reached an emotionally charged memory, but he also knew, sometimes especially then, it was best to let things settle between sessions. Emotional processing didn’t always happen on the couch. Sometimes it needed silence and time.

He looked back up and noticed it immediately: Acheron had gone pale. His stare fixed somewhere past the window, eyes glassy. Still tangled in the memory, or maybe caught between two.

Not a good sign.

Cloe followed the line of sight for a beat before his gaze drifted, inevitably, to the thick collar snug around the boy’s throat. The custom design was decorated beautifully and carefully, uniquely his. Still, it was unmistakably a collar. A safety mechanism, true. But also a symbol and a wound.

Almost unconsciously, Dr Pace reached for his own neck, his fingers brushing over the phantom of the collar he once wore. His fingers found the faint ridge of his Alpha’s bond mark instead, and it still felt sensitive to touch. Yet for a second, he swore he could still feel the cold metal.

He’d never told his husband just how grateful he was to no longer wear it.

Cloe let his hand drop from his neck, and with a gentle, trained voice, he spoke.

“That’s all for today, Acheron.”

The boy blinked, as if waking from a dream. He turned his face away, visibly trying to ground himself in the present. His fingers moved to the blanket on his lap, fidgeting with the edge.

“You did well,” Cloe said, rising from his chair. “Take the rest of the day slowly, alright? Hydrate. Journal, if it helps. And remember you’re safe.”

Acheron gave a small nod. His voice was caught somewhere behind his clenched throat, so he simply gathered the blanket closer before quietly rising and making his way to the door.

Once it clicked shut behind him, Cloe allowed himself a long exhale. He turned to the window, watching the soft blur of Acheron’s silhouette disappear beyond the clinic’s entrance.

Later that night, the therapist lay stretched across a sun-warmed sofa, his head in his Alpha’s lap. The living room was awash in amber light, the television playing some nature documentary neither of them had truly been watching.

“I saw Acheron again today,” Cloe murmured. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of his shirt, comforted by the rhythm of his husband’s hand slowly brushing through his hair.

The man above him hummed thoughtfully. “How’s he doing?”

“Better… in some ways,” Cloe said. “He’s talking more. Remembering. But he’s afraid of his own memories, like they might drag him back if he doesn’t keep them sealed tight.”

His Alpha, August, was older by nearly ten years, stoic but gentle. He had the kind of calm that came with time, and the kind of patience that had made Cloe fall hard for him while he attended university. Of course, it had taken three years of relentless chasing from August before Cloe had finally agreed to a proper date.

“Sounds like he’s starting to dig into the root,” August murmured. “Which means he’s almost ready to start healing for real.”

Cloe nodded, shifting slightly. “He wore his collar today.”

That gave August pause. “The new one?”

“Mhm. A custom one. Beautiful, actually. But seeing it made me sick. Not because of him, because of what it represents.”

August’s hand stilled briefly on his scalp. “Did he tell you what happened to the old one?”

“He didn’t have to. I read it in the medical report. Hadeon had cut through it to get to his glands. He wasn’t marked, thank the stars, but his body’s still recovering.”

August’s lips thinned. “That collar was made to protect Omegas. The idea that someone would force their way past it—” He didn’t finish. His jaw was tense. “And no one’s been charged yet.”

“No. But Eamon’s is his Lawyer.”

That made August lift an eyebrow. “Sauveterre?”

Cloe gave a small smile. “You sound surprised.”

“I’m not. Just… curious. He usually takes high-profile, high-reward cases. Not ones like this.”

“I think he might have taken it for good public reception at first, but I think it's now more  personal.”

August chuckled lowly.  “The Omega or the Blackwells.” 

Cloe only responded with a smile.

August laughed. “Do you think he’ll win?”

Cloe shrugged lightly. “He’s one of the best lawyers out there, and Acheron… he’s stronger than he knows. If anyone can pull justice out of this mess, it’ll be those two.”

August nodded, thoughtful. Then leaned down, brushing a kiss against Cloe’s temple.

“You’re doing good work,” he said quietly. “Don’t carry it all alone.”

“I’ve got you,” Cloe whispered, smiling.

“And you always will.”