“You need to do more than apologize,” Beau corrected. “You need to actually change your approach. Not just say you will, but prove it through action.”
“How?”
“By asking instead of telling,” Silas said. “By presenting options instead of solutions. By remembering that Sable is the expert on what Sable needs, not you.”
I closed the laptop, shutting away the spreadsheet and the three hours of planning that had been more about my need for control than anyone’s actual needs.
Then I headed upstairs to the bedroom where I could feel Sable through the bond. Still angry, still hurt, still questioning.
She was curled in the nest, the claiming bites visible on her neck, looking small in a way she never usually did. Vulnerable in a way she’d been terrified to show.
“I’m sorry,” I said from the doorway. “You’re right. About all of it.”
“I don’t want your apology right now,” she said, not looking at me. “I want you to explain why you thought organizing my life without asking was acceptable.”
“Because that’s what I do. What I’ve always done. I see problems, I develop solutions, I implement plans. That’s how I kept my team alive for eight years.” I moved closer, slowly. “That’s how I failed them when it mattered most, because I couldn’t plan for every variable and they died for my failure.”
“So now you overcompensate by trying to plan for everything.” Her voice was softer now, understanding threading through the anger.
“Yes. I know it’s controlling. I know it’s not what you need. But I don’t know how to care about people without trying to protect them from every possible problem.” I sat on the edge of the nest. “I’m sorry. You don’t need me to plan your life. You need me to show up. To be present. To trust that you can handle being part of pack without losing yourself.”
“I need you to be the alpha who kneels,” she said quietly. “Remember? Not the one who commands. At least not with me.”
The reference to what I’d said during her heat hit hard. I’d told her she was precious, not fragile. That I asked for consent because she was valuable, not because she was weak. And then I’d turned around and treated her exactly like she needed my permission and my planning and my management.
“You’re right,” I said. “I’m doing exactly what I said I wouldn’t do. Trying to protect you from vulnerability instead of trusting your strength.”
“I don’t need protection from being vulnerable, Dane. I need support while I choose to be vulnerable. There’s a difference.”
“Teach me the difference.”
She looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw the moment she decided to give me another chance. “The differenceis asking before planning. Offering options before implementing solutions. Trusting that I know what I need better than you do.”
“Even when I think I have a better solution?”
“Especially then. Because your solution might be tactically sound, but it’s not what I need emotionally. And in a relationship, emotional needs matter more than tactical efficiency.”
The lesson was harder than any I’d learned in military training. That being right wasn’t enough. That having the best plan didn’t give me the authority to implement it. That trust meant sometimes accepting less efficient solutions because they came from consensus instead of command.
“I’ll try,” I said. “I’ll probably fail sometimes. The instinct to plan and protect is pretty deeply ingrained. But I’ll try to ask first, present options, and trust your judgment.”
“That’s all I’m asking for. The trying. The awareness when you slip back into command mode. The willingness to let me call you out when you’re being controlling.” She uncurled slightly, opening the nest in invitation. “You’re not my commander, Dane. You’re my partner. Learn the difference.”
I moved into the nest beside her, wrapping my arms around her and feeling the bond pulse warm between us. “I’m sorry I made you doubt us. Sorry I made you feel managed instead of respected.”
“Just don’t do it again. Or at least, don’t do it without expecting me to push back hard when you do.”
“Fair enough.”
We stayed like that for a while, holding each other while the hurt gradually eased through the bond. This was what pack meant, I realized. Not avoiding conflict, but working through it. Not being perfect, but being willing to change.
Eventually, Silas’s voice called from downstairs. “Okay, new plan! We’re making dinner together, and we’re figuring outhouse rules while we cook. Like actual adults who communicate instead of building spreadsheets in isolation!”
Through the bond, I felt Sable’s surprise mixed with amusement.
“He’s not wrong,” I admitted.
“He’s very much not wrong.” She stood, offering me her hand. “Come on. Let’s go be a functional pack instead of whatever disaster we were being before.”
