Chapter 21 #2
A round shape pushed out from the brush, the raccoon waddling into the open like he owned the property, the trees, and both of us by extension. He paused, one paw lifted, masked face pointed in our direction.
Calder’s shoulders lowered a fraction. “You,” he said dejectedly.
The raccoon blinked, then turned its attention to the moss near the log and began pawing through it as if Calder’s disapproval meant absolutely nothing.
A laugh escaped me before I could swallow it back.
Calder looked down at me. “You encourage him.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“You made the pleased sound.”
“‘The pleased sound?’”
He pinned the creature with a glare that went ignored. “He likes attention.”
The raccoon dug harder, utterly shameless.
I crouched, unable to resist. “He does have a certain confidence.”
“He steals.”
“Many charismatic figures have flaws.”
Calder’s gaze returned to me.
I made a soft chittering noise, and the raccoon’s head snapped up.
Calder went very still.
I glanced at him. “What?”
“You made his sound.”
“A little.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.”
The raccoon shuffled one step closer, nose twitching.
I repeated the sound, rougher this time. It wasn’t perfect, but it was close enough to catch the raccoon’s interest.
Calder watched with unnerving concentration. “You called to the birds that day and got in trouble with a mother bear,” he stated.
“Accidentally.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I didn’t wake up that morning and think, you know what would improve my life? Being attacked by bears.”
The raccoon lost interest in me halfway through my defense and returned to whatever treasure hunt he had going on in the moss.
“See? Perfectly safe. No bears. No tragic ending.”
Calder didn’t answer, the silence prompting me to turn my head to find him–he just… watched me.
That look did something strange to the air between us. He wasn’t glaring in anger, nor was he confused. He looked like he was trying to understand a part of me he hadn’t expected to find. “You imitate birds,” he repeated.
“Sometimes.”
“And raccoons.”
“Apparently.”
“What else?”
I should have thought harder before answering.
Unfortunately, thinking harder had never been my strongest survival skill around Calder.
I straightened, tipped my head, and let a low growl roll from the back of my throat.
Or what I intended to be a rough growl.
It came out deeper than my usual voice but nowhere near Calder’s. Still, the sound carried through the trees for a few seconds before fading into the damp morning air.
The raccoon froze–so did I.
Calder stared at me, the silence stretching between us.
“… Okay,” I said carefully. “That one may have been ambitious.”
His face didn’t change.
Not at first.
The raccoon backed into the ferns and vanished and I couldn’t say that I blamed him.
I looked from the empty brush back to Calder. “In my defense, I was going for intimidating forest guardian, not mildly alarming tourist.”
A sound broke from him, low and rough–and gone almost as soon as it arrived.
I blinked.
Even Calder looked startled by himself.
The sound came again, deeper this time, uneven around the edges. His mouth curved, barely, like the expression didn’t know how to sit on his face yet.
It was a laugh.
Calder was laughing.
Whatever I’d been about to say vanished on my tongue.
The whole forest seemed to narrow down to that sound. It rolled through the cool space between us, gritty and warm and so completely unexpected that I could only stand there and stare.
His ears angled back a little. The hard line of his jaw loosened. For one brief, impossible moment, he didn’t look like a creature built from warnings and shadows.
He looked amused.
Because of me.
My fingers tightened around the camera strap. “Okay,” I murmured. “Didn’t see that coming.”
Calder’s mouth closed, but the almost-smile stayed. Barely, but it stayed.
I pointed at him with one finger, very carefully this time. “Was that a laugh?”
He considered me. “Yes.”
Just that.
No explanation. No embarrassment. No attempt to pretend it hadn’t happened.
A simple answer, given in that calm Calder way, as if laughing at my terrible monster impression was a perfectly reasonable development.
I stared at him for another second. Then my own smile broke free. “I’m honored,” I said. “Deeply humbled that my public humiliation has contributed to your emotional growth.”
“It was inaccurate.”
“Wow.”
“You sounded like the little thief.”
“The raccoon?”
“Yes.”
I pressed a hand to my stomach and laughed. “That is so much worse than I expected.”
Calder’s mouth curved again. The smirk was fleeting and almost hidden, but I saw it.
And because I saw it, I found myself looking at his mouth. At the unfamiliar softness there. At the way the expression changed the whole shape of his face.
My throat grew unexpectedly dry. I looked away too fast and pretended to study a perfectly ordinary tree. “You’re definitely never letting me live that down.”
Calder made a low sound that could have meant agreement or satisfaction—or both.
He turned and continued along the narrow path between the pines.
I followed, more carefully this time.
This part of the forest felt older. The trunks widened, bark dark from rain, and the branches stretched high above us. Moss thickened over roots and stones. Ferns brushed against my knees. The ground dipped in places where water had gathered and drained away, leaving the soil soft and dark.
Calder moved through it with the same quiet knowledge as before.
I tried to copy him.
Root.
Firm soil.
Pause.
Listen.
I was far from as graceful as Calder. I was probably still offending several woodland creatures, but I wasn’t announcing myself to every squirrel in Wisconsin anymore, and that felt like progress.
Calder slowed beside a low ridge, his gaze scanning the trees ahead. “Wolves avoid this ridge in winter,” he said.
I looked around, trying to imagine the place buried under snow. “Why?”
“Too open when the wind comes from the lake. Sound carries.”
I followed his line of sight. It didn’t look dangerous to me. It looked like more trees, moss, and more places where I could embarrass myself by stepping on the wrong thing.
Calder, however, saw layers I couldn’t. He pointed toward a shallow dip in the land. “Deer pass there after storms. The snow packs harder near the rocks.”
I followed the path he drew for me.
“Bears move through lower ground when spring comes,” he added. “Near water. Easier food.”
A chill moved over my arms despite the hoodie. “Good to know.”
His eyes came to me. “They do not look for you.”
“Comforting.”
“You were too near the cub.”
“Less comforting.”
He turned his attention back to the trees. “The mother warned. She did not hunt.”
Oh, I remembered. I remembered the sound, the low rumble–the shape, and the sudden terror of realizing how badly I had misunderstood the forest around me.
“Right,” I murmured. “I’m still going to keep ‘avoid bear children’ pretty high on my personal rules list.”
“That is wise.”
“Look at us agreeing on things.”
Calder made a soft huff, almost too small to be considered a true laugh, but I counted it anyway.
We walked a little farther before the question slipped out. “Do you bring people here?”
The second I said it, I wanted to take it back.
People?
As if Calder had a rotating schedule of guests and spent his weekends giving forest tours to humans with cameras and poor survival instincts.
But the question hung heavy between us.
Calder stopped near a stand of young birches, not turning to face me right away.
The pause lasted long enough for the forest to fill it: a bird overhead, water somewhere distant, the small brush of ferns against my jeans.
Then he looked back. “No.”
One word.
Simple.
Final.
I nodded, forcing lightness into my voice. “Right. Sorry. That was a stupid question.”
“You ask many questions.”
“Thank you?”
“That one was not stupid.”
The air changed again, or maybe I did.
Calder held my gaze for another second.
“You are the only one,” he continued.
The words, though quiet, packed a punch. There was no flourish, no tenderness added to ease the blow, but something in them hit deeper than they maybe should have.
I looked down at the ground because looking at him felt suddenly too direct.
Wet leaves. Root. Moss. My boot half an inch from a patch I should avoid.
“Okay,” I said. Somehow, that was the only word I trusted myself with.
Calder watched me for a moment longer, then he continued on his path.
I followed without hesitation, but more carefully now.
It wasn’t because of the lesson, exactly, but because he had brought me somewhere no one else had been invited.
Because he’d laughed.
Because his hand had fit around my waist for one breathless second.
And because every small thing Calder gave me felt strangely precious.
I stopped at the rustle coming from our right before Calder did.
The sound came again, low and busy near the ground.
I pointed, keeping my voice quiet. “Small. Moving under the ferns.”
Calder looked at me first, not the ferns. Then he followed the direction of my hand.
A striped tail appeared between the leaves, and that raccoon waddled out, shameless as ever.
I smiled. “Your little thief.”
Calder studied the animal.
Then he gave me one small nod.
Approval.
I tried–and failed–not to look too pleased with myself.
“Look at that,” I whispered. “Your student is learning.”
Calder turned back toward the path, but I caught the faint curve of his mouth before he faced the trees again.
He didn’t argue.
This time, that felt like praise.
We continued uphill through thinning trees while sunlight filtered through the branches in long golden bands and after a few more minutes, I realized something else.
The forest felt different here.
Still and settled, like even the animals understood this part belonged to someone.
“Where are we going?” I asked quietly.
Calder glanced ahead through the trees before looking back at me. “My home.”
And suddenly, my heartbeat wasn’t behaving normally at all.