Page 14 of His Best Friend’s Heat

"The bond complicates things," Ellie agrees. "But it doesn't change the fundamental issue. Nick bonded you while being unable to love you back. That's a hell of a situation for both of you."

Before I can respond, a wave of emotion that isn't mine floods through me—anxiety, guilt, a churning conflict that makes my stomach clench. And beneath it all, buried under layers of fear and confusion, something that feels achingly like love. Raw and desperate and terrified.

"What's wrong?" Ellie asks, noticing my sudden distress.

"It's Nick," I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest where the feelings seem centered. "I can feel him. Through the bond."

Ellie's eyes widen. "What is he feeling?"

"Pain," I say, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions. "Physical pain. And guilt. So much guilt. But also..." I pause, struggling to identify the emotion underneath everything else. "Love. He loves me, El. I can feel it through the bond. But he's terrified of it."

"He's feeling the bond separation too," Ellie concludes. "And apparently having his own emotional crisis about it."

The realization brings conflicted relief. Nick hasn't simply walked away, unaffected. He's struggling just as I am. But the intensity of his fear, his inner conflict about his own feelings, is still overwhelming.

"What do I do?" I ask, hating how lost I sound. "Do I call him? Go to him? Give him space?"

Ellie considers the question seriously. "What does your gut tell you?"

I close my eyes, focusing on the bond, on the emotions flowing through it. "That he's fighting himself. That part of him wants to be here, but another part is terrified of what that means."

"Then wait," Ellie advises. "Let him work through it. But Micah..." Her expression turns serious. "Be prepared for the possibility that he might not be able to accept this. That he might choose to live with the bond-pain rather than face what he's done."

The words send a chill through me. Living with a one-sided bond, having Nick try to make it work because he feels guilty—that might be worse than him running away.

"He wouldn't," I say, but uncertainty colors my voice.

"I hope not," Ellie agrees. "But you need to be prepared for all possibilities. Including the possibility that he'll come back and try to make this work out of obligation rather than genuine feeling."

She stays with me for another hour, making me eat a cinnamon roll, helping me strip Nick's bed and remake it with fresh sheets. The physical activity helps distract from the bond-ache, which continues to intensify as the afternoon stretches on.

By the time Ellie leaves—reluctantly, only after extracting a promise that I'll call her if anything changes—I'm feeling like I've been hit by a truck. My head pounds, my body aches, and there's this constant pull in my chest that seems to tug toward the high school across town.

And the worst part? I know Nick is feeling this too. Maybe worse. But he's choosing to endure it rather than face me.

What does that say about how much he regrets bonding me?

I curl up on his couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies that still carries his scent. It helps, but only marginally. The bond wants more than scent. It wants touch, proximity, the reassurance that my alpha is near.

My alpha. The thought brings a fresh wave of uncertainty. Is that what Nick is now? My alpha? Or just my friend who got caught up in biology and instinct, who's now regretting a permanent decision made in the heat of the moment?

Through the bond, I feel flashes of Nick's emotions—determination giving way to distraction, focus crumbling under the weight of physical discomfort. He's trying to work, to maintain normalcy, but the bond is making it difficult.

As afternoon stretches toward evening, I feel worse and worse. My head pounds, I'm running a low fever, and every instinct I have is screaming that I shouldn't be alone right now.

I check my phone obsessively, but there's nothing from Nick. No call, no text, not even a response to the careful "Hope you're doing okay" message I sent around noon. The silence speaks volumes.

By six o'clock, I'm curled into a tight ball on Nick's couch, shivering despite the fever. But it's not just feeling sick anymore. It's the crushing realization that Nick would rather feel like this than be in the same room as me.

That the bond he gave me, the permanent commitment I thought meant something, was just another way he failed to love me.

Just as I'm considering calling Ellie again, I feel a shift through the bond—a sudden spike of desperation cutting through the guilt and discomfort. Then resolution, so strong it momentarily drowns out my own uncertainty.

Two minutes later, I hear a key in the lock.

Nick stands in the doorway, and the sight of him steals my breath. His hair is disheveled like he's been running his hands through it repeatedly, his face pale except for two spots of fever-bright color on his cheeks. He looks like hell, but more than that—he looks guilty.

His eyes find mine immediately, and the relief that floods through the bond—his and mine, indistinguishable—is almost overwhelming.

"Micah," he says, my name rough in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Neither of us moves for a long, suspended moment. Then, as if pulled by the bond between us, we both step forward at the same time.

When Nick's arms close around me, the physical relief is immediate and intense. The bond-ache begins to subside, replaced by a warmth that spreads from the mark on my neck throughout my body. I press my face into his chest, breathing in his scent, feeling his heart hammer against my cheek.

But even as my body relaxes into his embrace, my mind won't quiet. He's here because the bond forced him back. Because the physical pain became unbearable. Not because he chose me, but because biology gave him no choice.

"I shouldn't have left," he murmurs into my hair. "I thought...I thought I needed space to think, to process everything. But all I could think about was you."

Relief and hurt war in my chest. He came back. But why? Because he missed me, or because the bond made staying away impossible?

"We need to talk," I say, pulling back slightly, needing to see his face. "About what happened. About what it means."

Nick's eyes, those blue eyes I've loved for nine years, meet mine with an intensity that steals my breath. But underneath the relief, I can see the guilt, the conflict, the uncertainty that drove him away this morning.

"Yeah," he agrees, his voice low. "We do."

Whatever comes next, whatever Nick has to say about our bond and our future, I know one thing for certain: he's here because his body gave him no choice. The bond demanded proximity regardless of what he truly wants.

And that might be the most devastating realization of all.