Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
MILO
Calder was across the room near the window, crouched low with one shoulder angled to avoid the shelf along the wall.
Sometime before I awoke, he had shifted back into his larger form.
The early light cut across him in pieces, catching along the dark variations in his fur and outlining his shape.
He watched me, attention calm and fixed and radiating a quiet sense of belonging—the kind you notice without realizing you had been expecting it.
“You’ve been up long?” I asked, my voice still rough from sleep.
“Yes,” he replied, calm and direct, offering no further explanation.
I dragged a hand over my face and swung my legs over the side of the bed, the mattress creaking softly beneath me.
My feet met the cool floor, and I finally took him in—his size, the way he had angled himself to fit without disturbing anything, and the deliberate choice to remain inside instead of disappearing back into the trees.
I let out a quiet huff and rose to my feet, closing the short distance between us. My arms went around him easily, hands sliding into the thicker fur at the back of his neck. Leaning against him felt natural—like we had done it a thousand times before.
“You hover over me all night?” My voice was muffled in his hair.
“I remained aware of your surroundings.”
I pulled back just enough to look at him, one eyebrow lifting as I tried to decide if that was reassuring or mildly unhinged. “That’s a yes.”
“It is a precaution.”
“Right,” I muttered, the corner of my mouth twitching. “Normal. Completely normal.”
“I do not understand your tone.”
“I know you don’t,” I said, and I meant it in the best possible way.
My hands still rested where they’d landed, fingers brushing through the thicker fur at his nape. “We could’ve shared the bed. It would’ve held.”
His gaze flicked toward the furniture. “It is not built for me.”
“That sounds like a challenge because I think you’re wrong,” I shot back automatically.
“It is a fact.”
That was said with complete seriousness.
I huffed out another quiet laugh, because of course it was. “Right,” I said, stepping back enough to stretch, arms lifting overhead as I worked the last of the sleep from my body. “Facts. We love those.”
Calder’s attention followed the lines of my body, focused without feeling invasive.
My muscles protested slightly, reminding me of everything we’d done the night before. The heat in my core that followed had nothing to do with soreness and everything to do with memory.
“You move more slowly after waking,” he observed.
I snorted softly. “That’s called being human.”
The cabin’s tiny sink sat just beyond the main room beside the narrow bathroom alcove, barely large enough for me alone, never mind someone Calder’s size. He stayed where he was near the bed while I grabbed my toothbrush and toothpaste from the shelf above the sink.
“I do not require extended recovery periods,” he continued.
“Yeah, well, some of us didn’t evolve into forest guardians, so we work with what we’ve got.”
I started brushing my teeth, catching sight of him over my shoulder while he continued watching me with quiet concentration. “You’re doing that thing again,” I garbled around the toothbrush.
“What thing?”
“Observing me like I’m about to reinvent civilization.”
Calder considered that seriously. “You are placing a substance into your mouth that you do not consume.”
I stopped mid-brush and stared at him. Then I started laughing. “Okay,” I managed after spitting into the sink. “That is actually a fair observation.”
“It appears inefficient.”
“It’s hygiene,” I explained, rinsing quickly before setting the toothbrush aside. I grabbed the towel hanging nearby and dried my mouth. “Trust me. You’d appreciate it if you were human.”
“I am capable of maintaining cleanliness.”
“Uh-huh.” I stepped back into the main room, raising a brow. “And how exactly are you brushing your teeth out here in the woods?”
Calder remained completely serious. “I do not allow them to decay.”
I stared at him.
He stared back.
And then I completely lost it, laughing so hard that my stomach hurt, the sound bursting out of me in a way that felt lighter than anything had in a while. “God,” I muttered, shaking my head as I moved past him toward the small kitchen area, still grinning. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I am consistent,” he corrected.
“That’s one word for it.”
I reached automatically for the kettle near the stove, filling it at the sink before setting it over the flame. The familiar routine grounded me a little—the scrape of the tin opening, the scent of coffee brewing.
Calder watched every step carefully. “You prepare it manually,” he observed.
“Yeah. It’s worth the effort. You want some?” I asked over my shoulder, already scooping grounds into the filter.
His gaze moved to the coffee, and I could almost see the memory of his first taste returning.
“It was unnecessarily bitter.”
I laughed. “You remember.”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind this time.”
Calder regarded the coffee for another moment. “I will observe first.”
“Of course you will.”
And somehow, standing there barefoot in my kitchen, making coffee while a possibly centuries-old cryptid watched me like I was the most interesting thing he’d ever encountered—
I realized I wasn’t even questioning how strange that was anymore.
I was just… in it, and that felt right.
I finished making the beverage and poured slowly into a cup, the scent of it rising with the steam, rich and familiar, something that had always meant morning to me long before any of this.
“You react to scent before consumption,” Calder noted, his gaze fixed on the cup like he was tracking the way the air changed around it.
“Yeah,” I said, blowing lightly across the surface before taking a sip. “That’s part of the experience.”
He stepped closer, not crowding me, just enough to reduce the distance between us. “May I?” he asked.
“Of course. Just—don’t chug it. It’s hot.”
“I am aware of temperature.” He accepted the mug with both hands, adjusting his grip immediately.
The movement was careful, deliberate, his claws resting lightly against the ceramic without leaving so much as a mark.
I watched the exact moment he felt the warmth through the cup—the brief stillness that followed, the quiet focus in his expression as he studied the sensation before lifting it toward his mouth.
Then he lifted it.
Paused.
And drank.
Not a full swallow. A careful, measured one.
His expression remained neutral, which somehow made it worse—I was standing there, waiting, wondering if his opinion would change, if he’d react, if he’d…
He lowered the mug. “It is… still bitter.”
I laughed. “Don’t judge a person’s coffee preference.”
“But not unpleasant.”
“You like it?”
“I understand why you do.”
When he offered the mug back, I took it. Our fingers brushed briefly in the exchange. And there it was again—a subtle pull in attention, like a quiet thread between us. The way his focus caught on that tiny contact. The way mine did, without even thinking.
I set my drink aside and moved through the rest of the space, grabbing a shirt from the back of a chair, and tugging it on as I crossed toward the small table where I’d left my camera the night before.
It sat exactly where I remembered, lens cap still on, strap half-tangled like I’d dropped it without thinking about it.
Which, yeah. I had.
Calder’s gaze followed me, tracking me now. “You prepare before leaving.”
“Yeah,” I replied, checking the battery and adjusting the settings out of habit. “Turns out good photos don’t just happen by accident.”
“You said you prefer what is real.”
“I do, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to capture it.”
“You intend to use that.” He indicated the camera.
“I do.”
A beat passed.
Then— “You are not documenting me.”
I didn’t even try to hide my grin. “Oh, I absolutely am.”
His ears flicked back slightly, not quite annoyance, not quite refusal—something in between that made me want to push it just a little. “That is not necessary.”
“Debatable.”
“It serves no function.”
“It serves my function.”
I lifted the camera, not aiming it yet, just letting it rest in my hands as I watched him watch me. “You said you observe,” I added lightly. “This is me doing the same thing. Just with better equipment.”
“That is not equivalent.”
“Sure it is,” I said, bringing the camera up and framing him without fully committing to the shot. “You watch everything. You track patterns. You remember. I just… keep proof.”
“Will others see these?” he asked.
I lowered the camera slightly, just enough that I wasn’t looking at him through it anymore. “No,” I said, and there wasn’t even a second of hesitation in it. “These are mine.”
They weren’t for display, not for anyone else to study or question.
Just me.
Calder froze for half a second, studying me carefully. Then some of the caution left his posture, subtle enough that I might’ve missed it if I hadn’t already started learning him. “Then you may proceed.”
I huffed out a quiet laugh. “Wow. Generous.”
“You seem determined to document everything.”
“That’s because I’m a photographer. We get weird when something’s beautiful.”
Calder went very still after that. “You believe I am beautiful?” he asked quietly.
The question held no arrogance, no disbelief–just uncertainty.
“Calder. Have you ever looked at yourself?”
His attention stayed fixed on me for another second before lowering briefly toward the camera in my hands. “No one has described me that way before,” he admitted quietly.
Something about the way he said it—so earnest, so literal—made me want to reach out, to show him exactly what I meant.
But I didn’t move. I let him be, just for a moment, giving the words time to settle.
The quiet was complete but not heavy. It had weight, yes, but not burden—more like gravity, grounding. I could see him observing the space around us, every line and shadow, as if memorizing it.