I trust Elias. I trust him more than I should after such a short time. But trust doesn’t negate risk.
And my reputation isn’t exactly… human-loving.
I’m not prejudiced.
I’m not.
I just prefer humans in small doses at safe observational distances. Through binoculars. Or ideally at least a mile away.
Except… him.
I look at the map again, but instead of terrain markers, I see a pair of warm brown eyes, a crooked smile, curls that never behave, and a body that fit against mine far too perfectly for my peace of mind.
I groan. “This is a problem.”
A very soft, very human problem with an addictive laugh and a way of looking at me that makes my knees—my actual ancient, well-weathered knees—go weak.
I flip the map over and tap the coordinates.
If we drive, the route gets easier. We could make it in two days with stops. That leaves time for detours to check nodes. Time to see people I’ve been promising to visit. Time for… us.
But driving means shifting. And shifting means clothes.
And clothes meanhuman Boone, who is awkward, overly tall and hairy in a way humans take a second glance at, and expected to understand things like “pants” and “seat belts.”
I groan again.
I’m not opposed to shifting. I did it when I saved him. But shifting on purpose? Being in public, and for long stretches? It’s honestly a little humiliating.
Still, for him, I’d do it.
That realization lands in my chest like a stone. I’d do anything for him.
I stare at the map for a long moment, then finally admit the truth. “Yes,” I mutter. “I am in trouble.”
A new vibration shakes the back of the cave.
My console is blinking. The Network wants attention.
Good. Better to rip this bandage off now.
I shuffle to the server station, crack my knuckles, and open the admin chat. Time to tell the world’s crankiest cryptids that Boone of the Olympic Range is bringing a human to the Solstice.
The chaos will be biblical.
Right on cue, I hear soft footsteps running toward the cave entrance.
Elias is on his way. His scent hits me first—cedar smoke, river stone, and whatever warmth happens in my chest when he smiles.
I straighten instinctively. My heart gives an undignified lurch, and I turn toward the entrance. Because whether I’m ready or not, it’s time to plan this journey with him. I need to finish up this exchange so I can focus on him.
Before I can concentrate on the console, though, a familiar rustle pulls my attention toward the cave mouth. The squirrel sits just outside, perched on a root like he’s waiting to be addressed. He watches me with that same unblinking intensity, tail curled neatly around his feet.
A second later, he lets himself inside, pausing a couple of feet away once he’s scrambled onto a log I use as a stool.
I hesitate, irritation warring with something dangerously close to concern.
“I’ll be gone a while,” I mutter. “You stay out of trouble.”