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I frown at that. Wrong?

“This,” he says, one hand lifting helplessly between us. “Us. The bond. Wantin’ you and needin’ space; needin’ space and then panickin’ because I took it. I don’t know the rules.”

There are no human rules for this. I stroke my hand down his back slowly, learning what calms him now. So, we make ours. I only waited because humans need space.

He lifts his head and looks at me, eyes red, mouth soft with a sad kind of humor. “Apparently this human is terrible at it after bein’ spiritually married to a forest monster.”

Spiritually married, I echo, tasting the phrase through the bond and finding it pleasing.

His eyes narrow weakly. “Do not latch onto that.”

Too late.

He groans, but the sound finally carries more embarrassment than pain. Good. Embarrassment means he is coming back to himself.

I cup the side of his face. We learn distance slowly, but not tonight. Our bond is still freshly sealed. I have pined all day for you, little mate.

Lucas goes very still against me. His hands stay clenched in my shoulders, though, so the suspicion has no teeth. Not for me. “You pined?”

Yes.

“For me?”

I tilt my head, because even in this human shape, it seems like an unnecessary question. Who else would I pine for? The cold box?

A laugh breaks out of him so suddenly it sounds painful. He presses one hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking once, and the bond flares with relief because the laugh is real, even with tears still wet on his cheeks.

“Oh my God,” he mutters against his palm. “I’m having a full emotional crisis in the woods, and you’re still mad at my fridge.”

It holds dead food too long and hums smugly.

“It does not hum smugly.”

It does.

He drags his hand down his face, and this time when he looks at me, the misery has loosened its grip. It is still there, tucked under his ribs, but it no longer has both hands around his throat. I hold his face between my palms and wipe away the damp tracks beneath his eyes with my thumbs.

His skin is cool from the night air and warm beneath it from running, from panic, from the bond that still has not learned how far two bodies can be without calling it harm.

“I really did try to stay home,” he says, quieter now, almost ashamed again. “I kept tellin’ myself I was being clingy and weird. Like, we sealed the bond one night ago, and I already can’t sleep by myself. That’s a lot, Onyx.”

Yes.

He gives me a tired look. “You’re supposed to say it’s not.”

But it is a lot, I send, pressing steadiness into the words so he understands I am not agreeing with the shame. A mountain is also a lot. A storm. A river after snowmelt. Big does not mean wrong.

His mouth parts, then closes. The bond gives me the small stunned place inside him where my answer lands, and I keep my hands gentle on his face because he looks close to tears again for a better reason this time.

“Damn,” he whispers. “That was annoyingly good.”

I learn from you.

“You absolutely do not.”

I learn what makes you stop arguing.

“That’s not learnin’ from me. That’s learnin’ how to disarm me.”