"It has to be."
I stared at his back. At the rigid line of his shoulders, the tension coiled in every muscle. The bond pulled between us.I felt it—that thread connecting us, humming with something that demanded acknowledgment. My body wanted to close the distance. Wanted to touch him, force him to turn around, make him look at me while he refused to explain.
I took a step toward him.
He took a step away.
The rejection stung. But it wasn't rejection. Not really. I could feel the difference through the bond. He wasn't pushing me away because he didn't want me close. He was keeping distance because he didn't trust himself to maintain it otherwise. The restraint was costing him. I could see it in the way he held himself. Rigid. Controlled. Like he was fighting something that wanted very badly to break free.
"Cole." He didn't turn around. "Whatever you're protecting me from—I can handle it."
"This isn't about what you can handle."
"Then what is it about?"
Silence. I watched his hands clench behind his back. Watched his head bow slightly, like the weight of something was pressing down on him.
"It's about timing," he said finally. "About making sure you're ready. Making sure the bonds are stable enough to support what's coming."
"You keep saying what's coming. Like it's inevitable. Like it's already in motion."
"It is."
"Then why not tell me? Why not prepare me?"
He turned. The look on his face stopped me cold. He was wrecked. Not angry, not guarded—wrecked. Like holding back was tearing him apart from the inside.
"Because some things can't be prepared for." His voice was rough. "Some things have to be experienced to be understood.And if I tell you too soon—if I put words to it before you're ready—"
He stopped. His hand came up. Reached toward me. Then dropped back to his side.
"I can't," he said. "Not yet."
I could have pushed harder. Could have demanded more, refused to leave until he broke and told me everything. Part of me wanted to. But I looked at his face—at the anguish written across it, the visible cost of holding back—and I understood something.
This wasn't cruelty. It wasn't control.
He was trying to protect me. Trying to give me time. And whatever he knew, whatever he couldn't say, telling me would hurt him as much as it would hurt me.
"You're asking me to trust you," I said quietly. "To walk into something blind and just hope it doesn't destroy me."
"I'm asking you to trust that I wouldn't let it."
"How can I trust that when you won't even tell me what it is?"
He had no answer for that. I could see him searching for one—some way to bridge the gap between what he knew and what I needed. But there was nothing. Just silence and the bond stretched tight between us.
"Fine," I said. "Keep your secrets. But when this thing happens—when my body changes and I don't know what's happening to me—I want you to remember this moment. Remember that I asked. That I gave you the chance to prepare me."
I turned toward the door.
"Lumi."
I stopped. Didn't turn around.
"It will require others," he said. His voice was barely above a whisper. "When it happens. You won't be able to face it alone. The pack—your mates—they'll need to be there. It's not something you can do by yourself."
I looked back at him over my shoulder. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
