Page 19 of His Best Friend’s Heat

I'm quiet for a moment, really considering the question. Because it's not just about handling it—it's about proving to both of us that what's between us is more than biology.

"It's going to be hard," I admit. "The bond...it makes being close to you feel like the most natural thing in the world. And being apart feels wrong in a way I've never experienced before."

"I know. I feel it too."

"But yes, I can handle it. Because you're right—we need to know this can work when it's just us, not just when the bond is pulling us together." I meet his eyes. "I want to prove to you that I want you for who you are, not because biology is telling me to."

"What if it's harder than you think?" His voice gets smaller. "What if you realize the feelings aren't as strong without the biological component?"

The fear in his question breaks my heart. "Micah, I was in love with you before there was any biological component. The bond didn't create my feelings—it just finally gave me a context to understand them."

"But what if—"

"No what ifs." The words come out more firmly than I intended. "I'm not going to sit here and promise you I'll never doubt myself or never struggle with this transition. But I am going to promise you that I'll work through those moments instead of running from them."

Everything in me wants to say no, wants to close the distance between us and show him exactly how real this is. But that's exactly the kind of thinking that got us into this mess.

"If that's what you need, yes." The words scrape my throat raw. "But Micah...I need you to know that wanting you isn't going anywhere. When you're ready, when you trust that this is real—I'll be here."

The promise makes his breath catch, and I can see the moment it hits him. Not pressure, but patience. Not pushing, but presence.

"What does slow mean, exactly?" I ask, because I need to understand the boundaries. "I don't want to mess this up by assuming."

"It means we don't rush back into physical intimacy just because the bond makes it feel easy. It means we build the emotional foundation first."

"What about the bond itself?" I gesture between us, acknowledging the constant pull. "Being close without touching, sleeping separately when our bodies are telling us we should be together."

It's already difficult. Just sitting this close to him has every nerve ending firing, and I can see he's feeling it too.

"We'll figure it out as we go," he says. "But Nick? When I say slow, I don't mean we can't touch at all. I just mean we don't skip past the talking because the physical stuff is easier."

Relief nearly knocks me over. "Good. Because honestly, not being able to touch you at all might kill me."

The admission makes him smile, the first real smile I've seen since this started. "I think we can manage some touching. Just...let me set the pace for now? Until I'm sure I can trust my own judgment?"

"Whatever you need." The words are immediate, absolute.

His eyebrows rise. "Just like that?"

"Micah, I bonded you and then abandoned you the next morning. I don't get to make demands here." The shame of what I did hits fresh. "You're setting the terms because I already proved I can't be trusted to make good decisions when it comes to us."

He studies my face for a long moment, and I let him see everything—the regret, the determination, the love I'm finally brave enough to acknowledge.

"Okay," he says quietly. "We can try."

The relief is so intense I nearly stagger. "Yeah?"

"We can try," he repeats, stronger this time. "But Nick? This isn't me saying everything's fixed. This is me saying I'm willing to see if you can keep these promises."

"I'll keep them." The words come out like a vow. "All of them."

We sit there for a moment, the weight of our agreement settling around us. It's not the romantic reconciliation I might have imagined, but it feels more solid than any grand gesture could. It feels like the beginning of real work.

"So what happens now?" he asks.

"Now we figure out how to do this one day at a time." I hesitate, then push forward. "And maybe...maybe I could stay tonight? Not for anything physical. Just stay. The separation has been hell, and if we're going to try this, I think we both need the relief."

He's quiet for a moment, considering. I can see the war playing out on his face—wanting the comfort but afraid to trust it.

"What would that look like?" he asks finally.

"Whatever you're comfortable with. Guest room, couch, I don't care.

I just..." I struggle to find words that don't sound desperate.

"I need to know you're okay. That we're okay.

The bond makes it hard to be away from you, but it's more than that.

I've spent two days thinking I might have lost you permanently.

I'm not ready to go home and spend another night wondering if you're going to change your mind. "

"The guest room," he decides. "But Nick? This isn't...this doesn't mean we're jumping back into how things were before. This is just comfort while we figure out what comes next."

"I understand." Relief floods through me anyway. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," he warns, but he's almost smiling. "You haven't experienced my post-heat crash mood. I'm apparently not pleasant company when I'm emotionally and physically exhausted."

"I think I can handle it," I say, standing to grab my overnight bag from the car. "I've seen you hangry plenty of times. How much worse can it be?"

"Famous last words," he mutters, but there's affection in it.

When I return with my things, Micah is in the kitchen making tea. The domestic normalcy of it—him moving around his space while I watch from the doorway—feels both familiar and entirely new. We've done this hundreds of times over the years, but never with this awareness humming between us.

"Chamomile," he says, holding up a mug. "Figured we could both use help sleeping."

I accept the tea gratefully, our fingers brushing as he hands it to me. The brief contact sends warmth racing up my arm, and I have to resist the urge to capture his hand and not let go.

"Thank you," I say, meaning more than just the tea.

We settle back on his couch, the space between us smaller now but still respectful. The tea is soothing, but it's Micah's presence that finally allows the tension I've been carrying to begin to ease.

"Can I ask you something?" he says after we've been sitting in comfortable silence.

"Anything."

"When did you know? Really know that what you felt was more than friendship?"

I consider the question seriously. "Honestly? About six months ago. You were sick with that flu that was going around the hospital, remember? You called me at two in the morning because your fever spiked and you were scared."

He nods, remembering.

"I drove over in my pajamas and stayed with you for three days.

And when you were finally better, when I was getting ready to go home.

.." I pause, the memory still vivid. "You hugged me goodbye, and I didn't want to let go.

Not because I was worried about you anymore, but because leaving you felt wrong in a way I couldn't explain. "

"I remember that hug," Micah says softly. "I thought maybe..."

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter now."

"It matters to me."

He meets my eyes. "I thought maybe you felt it too. The way the hug lasted longer than normal, the way you looked at me when you finally pulled away. But then you went back to dating Sarah Morrison and I convinced myself I'd imagined it."

Guilt twists in my stomach. "I went out with Sarah because I was scared of what I felt for you. I thought if I tried harder with someone else, the feelings would go away."

"Did they?"

"No. If anything, they got stronger. Every date with her just reminded me that she wasn't you." I set down my empty mug. "I broke up with her two weeks later. Told myself it was because we weren't compatible, but really it was because I couldn't stop thinking about you."

We sit with that admission for a moment, the weight of missed opportunities and misunderstood signals.

"I should probably get some sleep," Micah says finally, though he doesn't move to get up. "Tomorrow's going to be..."

"Complicated?"

"Different," he settles on. "Everything's different now."

"But not bad different?"

He considers this. "Scary different. But maybe...hopefully different too."

I'll take hopefully different. It's more than I had any right to expect after what I put him through.

As we move toward getting ready for bed—him finding spare pillows, me grabbing clothes from my car—I feel lighter than I have in days. Not because everything's fixed, but because for the first time since I marked him, Micah is willing to let me try to earn back what I lost.

And that's exactly what I intend to do.