“You’re stubborn and cling in hostile environments. Seems accurate.”
I should argue. Instead, I hear myself say, “Come with me.”
The words are out before I can drag them back.
He stops dead.
I keep walking for two more steps before I turn, suddenly nauseous.
He’s staring at me, eyes wide, mouth parted. “Come… with you?” he echoes faintly.
I want to claw the air back between us and stuff the sentence into my chest where it can’t hurt either of us.
“It was a stupid idea,” I say quickly. “Forget it.”
“No,” he says. “No, absolutely not. Don’t you dare take that back.” He strides up to me, almost tripping over a rootin his urgency. “You want me to go to Yellowstone,” he says, breathless. “To the Solstice. With you.”
“Logistically, it’s not that simple,” I start.
“I don’t care.”
There’s that light again, bright and eager, burning behind his eyes. It’s directed at me. It’s almost painful to look at.
“You have research,” I protest weakly. “Plots. Transects. You can’t just abandon an entire season of data collection because some cryptid invited you to a monster festival.”
“You underestimate how hard I’d throw my career out a window for the chance to see another park like this,” he says. “With you. And… see the Solstice.”
He hesitates on that last word, like he knows how big it is.
“Elias—”
“I’m serious,” he says. “If you told me right now that in exchange for going with you I had to sell a kidney, I’d ask which one causes less trouble.”
I choke on a laugh. “That’s not—that is not how that works.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I’m very attached to them. But the point stands. I can get someone to finish most of the data collection here. I can adjust my study parameters, file an amendment when I get back. If I really need to, I can frame it as a comparative survey between two protected areas.”
He’s already thinking in proposals and justifications. I can see the wheels turning.
I hold up a hand. “Stop.”
He stops.
“I need you to understand something,” I say carefully. “If you come with me—if you see what’s there, who’s there—you can’t ever share that with anyone. No publications. No photos in papers. No anonymous blog posts. Nothing.”
“I know,” he says immediately.
“I’m not finished. You can’t even hint. You can’t be the man on TV saying ‘I saw something weird’ with blurry footage. You will have to live with knowing and not telling. For a very long time. Maybe for the rest of your life.”
There’s a long pause as he meets my gaze steadily.
“I would never put you at risk like that,” he says. “Or anyone like you. You matter more than my CV. More than any paper. You’re… too important.”
The words hit with the same intensity as his earlier “I’ll miss you.”
I believe him.
I can see it in his face. In the way his brows draw down, in the earnest tightness around his mouth. Elias can be scatterbrained. He can forget to answer texts and lose track of time and trip over obvious hazards. But when he gives his word, he means it.