It is not amazing. It’s horrifying. It involves pants.
But the way he lights up, the way joy bursts off him like sparks, I can’t bring myself to complain.
“We drive,” he repeats, bouncing slightly when I nod. “Then stop for node checks, meet your friends, camp some nights, and get to Yellowstone with time to spare. Boone, this is perfect.”
I feel myself warming in places I pretend don’t exist.
He thinks doing all this with me is perfect.
I turn away before he can read my face too clearly. “It’s a workable plan,” I say stiffly. “But we must consider the cryptids we’ll encounter. The Wenatchee Giants. The Shunka Pack. They’re not used to humans.”
“But they know you,” Elias says. “And if you say I’m okay, they’ll trust you.”
“Trust me enough not to eat you,” I say dryly.
He pats my arm. “I’ll take it.”
The audacity of this man. And the fondness he stirs in me.
He kneels beside the map, eyes scanning the penciled territory markers I made earlier.
“This is incredible,” he murmurs. “Do you know how wild this is? How lucky I am to see this? Boone, this is your world. And you’re letting me in.”
My throat tightens. “I am… trying,” I say softly.
He looks up, and for a moment, there’s no fear, no hesitation—just quiet certainty. “I’m glad you are.”
I swallow hard.
This is dangerous.
This is reckless.
This is everything I swore I’d never let happen.
And yet… I want more.
Before I can spiral, he shifts on his knees, leaning closer.
“So,” he says, bright and earnest, “what’s next?”
I meet his eyes. And for once, the answer is simple. “We plan together.”
Elias adjusts his position on the cave floor, scooting closer to the map with the eager focus of a man who once spent twenty-four hours cataloging fungal growth patterns for fun.
He taps the page. “So, if we drive the major stretch—Washington to Idaho border—that gives us time to stop here—” He circles the Blue Mountains. “—and maybe here.” Another circle around Yakima Gorge. “And then depending on timing?—”
“No,” I interrupt, because what he just circled would get us eaten. “That second spot is a Shunka Warak’in migration trail.”
His pencil freezes midair. “Ah. So, not friendly?”
“Not unfriendly,” I say. “Just territorial. And sensitive. And prone to interpreting curiosity as a request for combat.”
Elias clears his throat delicately. “Noted.”
He sits back on his heels, studying the wide sweep of terrain between Olympic and Yellowstone like he’s mentally rehearsing it step by step. Then, slowly, his gaze drifts toward me.
“So you do this every year,” he says quietly. “Alone.”