When we came downstairs, Beau and Silas were already in the kitchen, but they both stopped when they saw us. Through the bonds, I felt their discomfort, their recognition that something needed to be said.
“Before we start cooking,” Beau said, his voice careful, “I need to apologize too.”
I blinked, surprised. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Yes, I did. We all did.” He glanced at Silas, who nodded. “Dane, you’ve been telling us for days that we needed to make a plan. That having structure would help you feel more settled. And we kept brushing it off, saying we’d figure it out as we went, that we didn’t need to overthink it.”
“We didn’t hear you,” Silas added, his usual humor absent. “You were telling us what you needed, and we weren’t listening. So you fell back into doing what you’re good at, which is making plans. Except you did it alone because we’d made it clear we weren’t interested in planning with you.”
“That’s not an excuse for making decisions without consulting everyone,” I started.
“No, it’s not,” Sable agreed. “But they’re right. You were asking for something you needed, and we weren’t hearing you. So you tried to give yourself what you needed in the only way you knew how.”
Through the bonds, I felt their genuine remorse. Felt that they understood they’d contributed to the problem by notrecognizing that my need for structure and planning wasn’t about control, it was about how I processed and felt safe.
“I still should have asked,” I said. “Should have said, ‘I need to work through logistics and it would help me if we did it together,’ instead of just building a spreadsheet and presenting it as fait accompli.”
“And we should have said, ‘Let’s set aside time to plan together because Dane needs that,’“ Beau countered. “Instead of assuming you’d just adapt to our more spontaneous approach.”
“I’ve been telling myself all morning that I was trying to help,” I admitted. “But part of it was also frustration that nobody seemed to care about the practical details. That felt like they didn’t matter, which made me feel like what I needed didn’t matter.”
“It matters,” Silas said firmly. “What you need matters. We just suck at hearing it when it’s presented differently than how we’d present our own needs.”
“We’re all disasters,” Sable said, but there was warmth in her voice. “Four people who’ve been taking care of ourselves for so long that we don’t know how to ask for what we need or hear when others are asking.”
“So we learn,” Beau said simply. “We acknowledge that there’s going to be an adjustment period. That we’re going to mess up and hurt each other unintentionally and have to figure out how to repair it.”
“We promise to try harder,” Silas added. “To actually listen when someone says they need something, even if it’s not how we’d need it. To consider each other more instead of defaulting to our individual patterns.”
“All of us,” Sable emphasized, looking at me. “Not just you learning to ask instead of command. All of us learning to be a pack instead of just being four independent people who happen to be bonded.”
The acknowledgment settled something in my chest that had been tight since the fight started. This wasn’t just me failing to be a good partner. This was all of us learning a skill set none of us had practiced. Learning to hear each other, to compromise, to build something together instead of just coexisting.
“So we try,” I said. “And when we mess up, we talk about it instead of letting it fester.”
“And we acknowledge that you were trying to help,” Beau said. “Even if the execution was problematic, the intent was good. You wanted to make this easier for all of us.”
“I did,” I admitted, then I cringed with self-realisation. “I just went about it in the worst possible way.”
“Welcome to being part of a pack,” Silas said, his grin finally returning. “We’re all going about things in the worst possible way. At least we’re doing it together.”
The kitchen was barely big enough for all four of us, but somehow we made it work. Sable directed because she was the only one who actually knew how to cook properly. Beau chopped vegetables with unexpected precision, years of rescue work giving him steady hands and good knife skills. Silas provided running commentary and stole bites when he thought no one was looking. I set the table without being asked, falling into service instead of command.
“So,” Silas said as Sable started the pasta water boiling. “House rules. What do we actually need to function as a pack?”
“I need my own space sometimes,” Sable said immediately. “Not because I don’t want to be around you, but because I need processing time. Alone time to think and recharge.”
“Fair,” Beau agreed. “I need morning quiet. At least the first hour after I wake up. Don’t expect conversation or decisions before coffee.”
“I need verbal confirmations,” Silas admitted. “My scent-sensitivity means I pick up on emotions, but I can’t always tell ifthey’re accurate interpretations. Tell me when you’re happy, or upset, or need space. Don’t make me guess.”
“I need to know everyone’s safe before I can relax,” I said. “Check-ins when you’re going to be late, confirmations that you got home okay, basic accountability so I don’t spiral into worst-case scenarios.”
Sable added garlic to the pan, the scent filling the small kitchen. “Those all sound reasonable. What about living arrangements? Whose place do we actually use?”
“Mine, it’s the biggest,” I said, then caught myself. “Sorry. I mean, my house is the biggest space. It has four bedrooms, full kitchen, enough land that we’re not on top of neighbors. But that’s just a suggestion, not a directive.”
“Good catch,” Sable said with approval. “And actually, that makes sense. My apartment is too small.”
