Wukula did not rush what mattered.

That was the lesson he kept pressing into her palms, into her breath, into the space between her next sharp word and the restraint he demanded she learn. His patience was not gentle—it was deliberate, carved from seasons of survival and watching the forest move when it was ready.

She burned fast. Wanted answers now. Wanted action, resolution, movement. Wukula met that heat with stillness, stepping into her path not to stop her, but to slow her. A hand at her wrist. A steady look that refused to bend.

“Wait,” he said, low and firm, the kind of command that wasn’t shouted because it didn’t need to be.

The world did not move on her timeline. Neither did he.

Wukula had chosen her knowing this—knowing that patience would be the hardest thing he would ever ask of her. Not obedience. Not silence. Time.

And as the forest held its breath around them, he stood unmoving, certain of one thing:

If she learned to wait with him, she would be unstoppable.