Chapter 34
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CALDER
There had been a time—long before Milo Hart crossed into my territory—when I did not measure anything.
The forest changed, I adapted. Seasons passed and light altered through the trees, and I adjusted with it. Time moved forward without meaning one moment more important than another.
Now I noticed it, not because I needed to, but because I wanted to.
A month had passed since Milo arrived.
I knew that without counting. I could see it in the softer air, the gradual changes along the forest floor, the angle of sunlight through the trees.
More than that, I knew because I had started measuring my days by him, and by the growing awareness that eventually, he would leave.
I returned my attention toward the stream before me so the memory wouldn’t take hold.
Water moved steadily over stone, clear from the spring melt, sunlight reflecting off the surface each time the current shifted. The sound should have been enough to hold my attention.
Before Milo, it always would have been.
Now I could hear him approaching long before he reached the clearing.
Not only the sound of disturbed brush, but the familiar stop-and-start rhythm of Milo moving through the forest. He rarely walked in a straight line for long.
Something always caught his attention—a change in light, movement between branches, the shape of moss along bark—and curiosity redirected him almost immediately.
I had learned those patterns without ever deciding to.
Now I recognized them without a second thought.
I rotated to face the trees before Milo fully emerged into the clearing with his camera hanging against his chest, his expression alert in the way it always became when he thought he was observing something unnoticed.
“You disappeared,” he noted.
“I relocated.”
“That’s a very diplomatic way of saying you wandered off without me.”
“I did not intend to exclude you.”
“That somehow makes it worse,” he muttered, though there was no irritation behind it.
Milo crossed the remaining distance without hesitation.
That had not changed.
His hand brushed mine as he came to a stop beside me. The contact seemed accidental at first, brief enough that either of us could have moved away from it without acknowledgment.
Neither of us did.
Instead, I found myself adjusting instinctively, my hand turning slightly beneath his until our fingers settled together more comfortably.
Milo quieted, simply aware of the moment.
His hand warmed against mine while we stood beside the stream, close enough now that I could feel the subtle movement of his breathing each time the wind shifted between us.
Something about the simplicity of it unsettled me more than the kiss had, because this felt strangely natural. It was as though my body had already begun learning the shape of him without my permission.
His thumb grazed my knuckles and he gazed over the water, eyesight catching on the movement of light across its surface, the way it fractured and reformed as it passed over stone.
“Okay,” he breathed. “That’s… actually kind of perfect.”
He pulled his shirt over his head first, then removed the rest of his clothes without hesitation, leaving them in a loose pile near the bank.
I watched him quietly.
I had seen him unclothed before. I knew the shape of him already—the warmth of his skin, the lines of muscle beneath it, the way his body reacted to touch.
But this felt different.
There was nothing erotic about the moment in the way humans usually meant it. Milo simply stood there in the forest exactly as he was, bare skin catching sunlight through the trees while cold air moved around him.
Somehow, this looked more natural on him than clothing ever had, because he no longer resisted the forest.
He crouched carefully at the water’s edge first, fingers dipping into the stream before he jerked back immediately with a sharp inhale.
“Jesus—okay,” he said, shaking droplets from his hand before dragging it back through his hair. “That is not warm.”
I stepped into the stream easily.
The cold registered against my legs and lower torso, sharp from the spring melt but not unpleasant.
Behind me, Milo let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You didn’t even flinch.”
“There was no reason to.”
“You are standing in freezing water.”
“It is not freezing.”
“It absolutely is.”
“It is tolerable.”
“That’s not a human sentence,” he muttered, pushing to his feet.
I turned slightly, watching as he studied me instead of the water now, his attention drifting from the environment to my response to it.
“You’re not even cold, are you?” he asked.
“No.”
He stared at me for a second longer, then let out another quiet laugh, shaking his head as he approached the creek bank. “That’s insane.”
“It is efficient.”
“It’s ridiculous,” he corrected, but there was only fascination in the tone.
Despite his protests, he cautiously sank into the stream, sucking in another sharp breath as the water reached his ankles, then his calves, his expression tightening as the temperature registered more fully.
I watched him carefully while he adjusted to the chill.
The forest already seemed to be rearranging itself around him, and for the first time, I found myself wondering what it would feel like if he never left at all.
“Okay—nope.” He shivered. “Still cold. You really don’t feel that?”
“I feel it,” I said. “It does not deter me.”
He held my gaze for a moment, then took another step toward me. He stopped within reach, close enough now that the current broke differently around us, water pushing and curling between our legs before continuing downstream.
He gazed up at me, then his shining eyes sparkled with mischief.
“You know what?” he said.
“What?”
“This feels like a missed opportunity.”
I frowned slightly, trying to understand the statement but before I could ask for clarification, he shoved his hands through the water and sent a deliberate splash toward me.
It struck across my chest and shoulder, the force of it more noticeable than the temperature.
I froze, attempting to understand what had just occurred.
Milo watched me closely, waiting for something. “That’s it?” he said when I did not respond immediately. “You’re just going to stand there?”
“There is no threat.”
He stared at me, incredulous. “That’s not the point.”
“There is no functional purpose to—”
Another splash cut me off mid-sentence, this one stronger, aimed with more intent. Water broke against me again, scattering across my skin and returning to the stream in uneven ripples.
“You’re supposed to react.” He was already adjusting his stance to do it again.
“I am reacting.”
“You’re not reacting correctly.”
“There is no correct response to being struck with water.”
“There absolutely is.” And he splashed me again
I repeated his motion, redirecting the current toward him in a way that created a broad wave.
It struck him across the chest, soaking him further, the impact enough to disrupt his balance for a fraction of a second.
He sucked in a breath, then let out a short, surprised laugh. “Okay—yeah, that counts. That counts.”
Milo attempted to retaliate, but I was faster, sending a broader surge of water toward him. It struck across his chest and shoulder, catching him mid-breath.
He reacted immediately, laughter breaking out of him again, unrestrained.
“That was deliberate,” he said, still grinning as he wiped water from his face. “You’re getting competitive.”
“There is no competition.”
“That is exactly what a loser would say.”
The next splash was harder, more intentional and angled upward so that it struck my neck and jaw instead of my chest.
The force of it was different. Sharper and unexpected. And before I adjusted, something in me gave way. The sound left me without permission. Rougher than his, lower. Brief, but unmistakable.
Milo Hart froze for half a second, eyes snapping to mine in immediate recognition. “There it is,” he said, almost triumphant. “I love it when you laugh.”
I stilled. I have only ever laughed with him. That fact still amazed me. “It is a reflex.”
“It isn’t a reflex,” he shot back, closing the distance between us. “That is you having fun.”
“I am capable of controlled interaction.”
“You’re splashing me in a stream.” He laughed again, softer now. “You’re way past controlled.”
He was not incorrect.
With a single step, Milo Hart’s hands were on me—familiar now in placement–one at my side, the other higher, bracing himself as he leaned in.
He rose onto his toes to reach me. My grip found his waist, and our lips came together.
His arms slid upward, circling my neck and pulling himself closer as he tilted his head to deepen the embrace.
I lifted him easily, water splashing around us. His body pressed fully against mine, chest to chest, his strong legs wrapping around my waist.
“That—” he breathed against my mouth, the words breaking as I adjusted my grip beneath him, one arm securing his back, the other supporting him beneath his thighs. “I’m not complaining about this.”
I didn’t answer, because the moment he settled fully against me, something in my body responded in a way I could no longer ignore.
It wasn’t just the contact.
It was pressure, heat, the solid weight of him held against me—chest to chest, breath to breath—his body moving with mine.
His arms tight around my neck, mouth fitting against mine like it was made to do so. I followed it, angling my head so the contact deepened, so I could feel more of it.
More of him.
He wanted this.
I felt that, and my body answered.
Heat built low in my body. My muscles tightened.
“Milo Hart—”
His breaths came uneven, arms tightening around my neck. “Yeah,” he murmured against my lips. “I know.”
He understood, and that mattered.
He felt it. I saw it in his face—and he was not scared of what was happening. And he was not scared of me.
“You’re shifting.”
“Yes.”
And I was not stopping.
My body tightened, twisting and contorting under my skin—bones adjusting, muscle pulling inward, balance changing while I still held him.