Bearclaw Valley and heaven knows,

It was not Milan that had answered, no. It was a man, and part of him seemed to put two and two together and make the connection that this must be Cole, the nice fellow that he had been told about. A blink, squinted, almost jealous. That he could be with her, every day, within the same valley, the same pack. The same life.

All these opportunities that Frederick could not have. Not yet.

But he breathed, then, and spoke: You must be Cole. for he knew the name of the swiftcurrent wolf. He wondered, then, if that meant Milan spoke about him, too. His heart only shattered further. But it continued drumming, breaking as it thumped against his chest, like shards of glass inserting themselves into his ribcage.

Milan told me about you. And a sorrow flashed behind river-sage eyes. A dryness to his throat and a weariness to his stance. Both rigid and wishing to sink into the ground, to become one with the dirt and the grasses and to never, ever be seen again. But the stoicism, the unreadableness of this man, it reminded him of himself.

And so Frederick would steel himself. He did not know this man well enough to let his walls down. Not the same way he did with Milan. Speaking of which: I want to see her, he said, hoarse. If she wishes to see me, too. But would she? After he humiliated her? After he was so cold towards her? He felt like a fool.

In spirit, he would be dragging his hands over his face with a groan, but all he could really do was reflect. Thinking, gaze distant and blurry, before he focused back on the southern man. I fucked up. his voice came with an exasperation. His language was typically respectful, well-mannered, but was now truly the time?

I need to apologise to her. I just want to make sure she's okay.

But if she was with Cole, she was probably more than OK.

Maybe more than what she could be with himself.