I’ve not stopped grinningin two days.
It’s getting a little ridiculous. My cheeks hurt. My face keeps doing this stupid automatic thing where it lights up whenever my brain serves up a memory of Boone’s hands, his voice, his smile—that particular look he gets when I say something that both exasperates and delights him.
Everything feels brighter.
The forest smells sharper, like someone turned up the saturation on pine and damp soil and sunlight on bark. The birds sound louder. Even the little quirks of the station—the way the door sticks in the morning, the one floorboard that groans like a dying walrus—are endearing instead of mildly annoying.
I stand at the tiny sink, brushing my teeth, and catch my reflection in the fogged mirror. I look… happy. Properly, stupidly, glowingly happy. There’s a looseness around my eyes I’ve not seen in a long time. My curls are doing their usual “I refuse to obey physics” thing. My eyes are bright. My mouth keeps twitching up for no reason.
I spit, rinse, and lean both hands on the counter.
“Get it together,” I tell my reflection. “You’re a professional.”
My reflection smiles back likeSure, buddy. We both know that’s only half true.
In my defense, it’s hard to be dignified when my internal monologue keeps replaying the way Boone had held me against that fallen log. The way his voice had gone rough when he said my name. The way his careful, enormous hands had been… well. Very persuasive.
Every time I let myself think about it too long, desire blooms low in my belly and I have to bite back a giddy laugh. It’s like someone tucked a small sun under my ribs and it refuses to go out.
It’s not just the physical stuff, though.
It’s the way he looks at me. The way his body seems to relax as soon as he steps into my clearing. The way his smiles have changed.
I’ve seen a range of expressions from him over the past week—amused huffs, dry smirks, the occasional exasperated eye roll that absolutely counts as affection. But lately, there have been more.
A soft, fond smile that tugs at one corner of his mouth when I trip over my own enthusiasm, or when I start giving a plant a pep talk without realizing he’s behind me listening.
A wide, startled grin the first time I told a joke that actually blindsided him.
A blissed-out, almost dazed look when he let himself lean his forehead against mine after we kissed, breathing me in like I was oxygen and he’d been holding his breath for a century.
Those are the ones I want to earn. Over and over. As many times as he’ll let me.
I pad over to the table and flip my notebook open. Yesterday’s notes stare back at me—meticulous measurements of undergrowth coverage on the north ridge, soil samplescataloged in numbered bags, habitat observations scrawled in my messy handwriting.
Next to the neat columns of data, there’s a doodle of a big, fluffy sasquatch with a little heart above his head.
I’m a grown man with a doctorate.
I flip the page before I can judge myself too hard.
On the new page, I start a different list.
Trip dates
Route possibilities
Ranger check-ins needed
Gear to add for longer trek
Questions for Boone
The last one gets a star.
Thinking about Yellowstone still makes adrenaline fizz through my veins. Part of me can’t believe I said yes so easily; another part can’t believe I was invited at all. A cryptid festival in one of the most famous national parks in the country, and I get to go with the Bigfoot who runs the US server cluster like some grumpy, overworked wizard?
It sounds like a fever dream. Or the best field season of my life.