Because if he found the human form attractive, he wouldn’t feel the same if he saw the reality.
The fur. The size. The claws. The face that isn’t shaped like a human’s and never will be.
My species isn’t ugly—we’re just not built to appeal to human eyes. We’re built for survival. For the dark. For winter and storms and deep woods. Our mates see the beauty in that. Humans… historically don’t.
I close my eyes. I’ve never needed human approval before. Never cared what any of them thought of my face or my form.
But now? Now the idea of Elias seeing me and flinching?—
Backing away?—
Running—
It hits like a stone to the sternum.
I grit my teeth and force myself to breathe.
He stands on the porch, shoulders tense, waiting for a response.
I don’t. I can’t.
He sighs eventually, muttering, “God, Elias, get it together. Hot naked men don’t fall out of the sky to rescue you.”
Incorrect. I did exactly that.
He shakes his head, laughing under his breath at himself. Then he notices the fixed railing. His brows lift, and he runs a hand along the smooth, newly secured wood… slowly. Thoughtfully.
Then he looks back at the tree line. “Thank you,” he says softly.
The words twist the ache in my chest until it almost hurts to breathe.
I retreat. Each step is slow and calculated. When I’m far enough away that he can’t hear me, I lean against a cedar, pressing my forehead to the bark. “What are you doing?” I whisper to myself. “What are you thinking?”
This is impossible. Stupid and so dangerous.
I’ve seen cryptid-human pairs before.
Bob—the thunderbird who runs the Summer Solstice Bash—is mated to Christopher, a human who doesn’t age anymorethanks to thunderbird magic. They’re ridiculous together. Loud. Adorable. Chaotic. Bob says he fell in love because Christopher yelled at him about lightning safety, which is exactly the kind of nonsense that passes for romance among monsters.
There was another pairing a century ago. A sasquatch woman from Canada mated with a human woman. Unusual. Unprecedented. But they made it work. Their bond extended the human’s lifespan. They’re still alive, still happy, living quietly somewhere deep in the Yukon mountains.
So yes, it’s possible.
In theory.
But I’m not Bob. I’m not my Canadian cousin. I’m not… whatever kind of sasquatch manages to bridge that gulf.
I run the US Monster Network. I maintain three overloaded server clusters. I troubleshoot enchanted fiber-optic lines. I patch together broken human tech with duct tape and magic. My “office” is a cave lined with half-dead monitors and a noise that may or may not be a raccoon haunting the ventilation shaft.
I mediate disputes between wendigos and will-o’-the-wisps. I help with Solstice events. Moss and mushrooms, I manage user complaints about forum lag from creatures who can bend time but apparently not their own expectations.
I’m not built for romance. Especially not with a human.
Especially not withthishuman, who trips over moss and apologizes to trees and sings off-key in the morning.
I rub my hands over my face. “Stars above,” I mutter. “Get it together.”
But my chest still aches where his words landed.