Two new members in the FBI (Rewritten)

Chapter 53

Previously on Two new members in the FBI

Time moving forward.

Moments stacking up.

A life unfolding, one small decision at a time.

And somehow, even something as simple as this—

Feels like part of building it.

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October 28th, 2024 

 5:15 a.m

The night never really settles.

It stretches, breaks, restarts, and stretches again, but it never reaches that deeper point where everything evens out and holds. Boston fights it in a way that feels different from his usual restlessness. It isn't just hunger or discomfort or the kind of overtired frustration we've learned how to manage. There's something sharper under it, something that doesn't resolve no matter how many times I move through the routine.

By the time the clock edges past five, I've stopped expecting it to smooth out on its own.

The house is dim, the early morning light not quite there yet, just a faint shift in the darkness that hints at it coming. I'm in the kitchen, Boston pressed against my chest, pacing slow, steady lines across the floor that I don't even consciously map out anymore. My body knows the pattern. It's something I fall into automatically when nothing else works.

He's not screaming anymore.

That part passed about twenty minutes ago, fading into something quieter but no less unsettled. Now it's a low, persistent fussing—small, sharp sounds that come and go, his body tense in a way that doesn't fully relax even when he settles for a second.

"I know," I murmur, my voice rough from exhaustion but steady. "I know. You're not happy about something."

His fingers press into my shirt, his head turning slightly against my shoulder like he's trying to find something that isn't there.

It clicks then.

Not all at once, not like a sudden realization, but something that's been sitting at the edge of my thoughts finally moves into place.

Stiles.

Or more specifically—

The absence of him.

I exhale slowly, shifting Boston slightly so I can look down at him. His eyes are half-open, unfocused in that overtired way, but there's something restless in them, something searching.

"Yeah," I say quietly. "You noticed."

It shouldn't surprise me.

Not really.

He's been more aware lately. More tuned in, more responsive to patterns and presence in a way that goes beyond simple routine. And Stiles has been a constant since the day he came home. His voice, his scent, the way he moves through space—it's all part of what Boston knows.

Now it's missing.

And even if he doesn't understand it, something in him registers the difference.

"Your wolf's paying attention," I murmur under my breath, not entirely joking.

Boston lets out another small, frustrated sound, his body shifting restlessly.

"Yeah," I add. "And it's not thrilled."