Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
BOONE
I tell myself I’m not going to check on him again.
Truly. Honestly. Hand-to-the-ancient-cedars honest.
He’s fine. The rangers got him back safely.
He made it to the station without tripping over his own shadow.
He hasn’t fainted or face-planted or wandered directly into another bear’s personal bubble.
He’s breathing. He’s upright. He’s functioning at approximately 70 percent of standard human capacity.
That’s enough. I tell myself that three times. Then a fourth. By the fifth, my feet are already moving.
I break my own rule without even trying.
The forest feels taut today, as though every tree is holding its breath.
I stay to the high ground as I move. Always upslope, always behind denser brush, always careful. At least, I intend to be careful.
Elias’s station sits quiet in the late-afternoon light—roof glinting faintly between the trees, chimney pipe puffing the last remnants of a fire. There’s no smoke now, just heat ghosts rising off metal.
I get close enough to see him through the window.
He’s sitting at the little table, elbows braced, rubbing his temples with both hands. He looks exhausted and pale. Clearly he’s still hurting. But he’s awake. Alive. That should be enough reassurance for me to turn around and leave.
Instead, I circle the clearing, instinctively checking for threats—bears, cougars, loose roots, traitorous rocks, holes in the ground, unstable trees. Then I glance at the exterior structure out of habit.
Two things catch my attention immediately. The solar panel mount on the roof is crooked. And the railing on his porch has been cracked since at least last fall.
I didn’t notice either before his injury. Or I noticed but chose not to think about them. Because thinking about small dangers around Elias is a fast track to me pacing the woods at night like a fretful grandmother.
I sigh. Fine. I’ll fix them. Quietly. Quickly. Without being seen.
It’s not for him, obviously. It’s for my own peace of mind. And if I happen to improve his living conditions… well… that’s just a side effect.
I scale the roof in three silent movements. The metal groans under my weight, soft and irritated, but not loud enough to alarm. I stabilize the panel, tighten the mount, reroute a loose cable.
Then I jump down—lightly, silently—and crouch to fix the porch railing. It’s a clean split, one bolt sheared off, so an easy fix. I pull a spare bolt from my utility pouch. (I carry extras. For reasons. No one needs to know.)
I’m almost done when—
Crack.
My elbow bumps the bucket of tools I brought yesterday to clean out a storm gutter. It tips, and a wrench falls, hitting the porch with a clang that echoes through the entire forest like a gunshot.
I lock in place, while inside, Elias goes still. There’s a beat of silence before footsteps echo and the door swings open. “Hello?” he calls, voice wary.
Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.
I leap backward into the underbrush so fast the ferns snap against my shins. I brace myself behind a cedar trunk just as Elias steps onto the porch, blinking at the trees.
He moves slowly, holding his head as though the world is slightly too bright. His gaze sweeps the clearing, landing first on the roof, then the railing, then the ground.
Where I stood.
My footprints.
Huge. Deep. Deliberate.
No.
Stupid. Careless. Twice now. Twice in one week. What am I, a rookie cryptid fresh out of hibernation with moss still blocking my brain?
I can see the exact moment Elias registers the shape. He crouches, touches the print with his fingers, tracing the curve of the toe, the spread of the forefoot.
He doesn’t look scared. He looks… curious. Puzzled. Annoyed. Maybe even—
No.
Not warm. Don’t imagine warmth.
He stands again, looking around the trees. And then he does something I don’t expect.
He speaks.
“Is… someone out there?”
My lungs stop working.
He shifts awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just… um… I don’t know if I’m losing it. Concussions are weird. People told me I might hallucinate things.”
Not hallucinations. I’m right here. Too close.
“And if someone is out there,” he continues, voice cracking slightly, “thank you. For… helping. If you did. I don’t know. Maybe I dreamed the whole thing.”
My heart thuds painfully.
He swallows. “And if you were the one who carried me… I don’t know how you did that, but… thank you.”
Oh stars above. He remembers that. Not clearly, but enough. Enough to know he wasn’t alone.
Then, because the universe enjoys my suffering, he adds, “And if you were the naked guy…” He stops. Shakes his head at himself. “Sweet wildflowers, listen to me. That’s insane. You weren’t real. You were just the world’s most inconveniently hot concussion dream.”
I forget how to breathe.
Hot?
He thought—
The human form—
He thought I was—
Awareness floods my body, spreading from my chest to my fingertips in a ridiculous, full-body flush.
He thought I was hot.
I stand perfectly still, every muscle locked, heart pounding like a war drum. My first, wild burst of joy hits so hard I almost stumble. And then, just as quickly, doubt. Immediate, stomping, crushing doubt.
Because if he found the human form attractive, he wouldn’t feel the same if he saw the reality.
The fur. The size. The claws. The face that isn’t shaped like a human’s and never will be.
My species isn’t ugly—we’re just not built to appeal to human eyes. We’re built for survival. For the dark. For winter and storms and deep woods. Our mates see the beauty in that. Humans… historically don’t.
I close my eyes. I’ve never needed human approval before. Never cared what any of them thought of my face or my form.
But now? Now the idea of Elias seeing me and flinching—
Backing away—
Running—
It hits like a stone to the sternum.
I grit my teeth and force myself to breathe.
He stands on the porch, shoulders tense, waiting for a response.
I don’t. I can’t.
He sighs eventually, muttering, “God, Elias, get it together. Hot naked men don’t fall out of the sky to rescue you.”
Incorrect. I did exactly that.
He shakes his head, laughing under his breath at himself. Then he notices the fixed railing. His brows lift, and he runs a hand along the smooth, newly secured wood… slowly. Thoughtfully.
Then he looks back at the tree line. “Thank you,” he says softly.
The words twist the ache in my chest until it almost hurts to breathe.
I retreat. Each step is slow and calculated. When I’m far enough away that he can’t hear me, I lean against a cedar, pressing my forehead to the bark. “What are you doing?” I whisper to myself. “What are you thinking?”
This is impossible. Stupid and so dangerous.
I’ve seen cryptid-human pairs before.
Bob—the thunderbird who runs the Summer Solstice Bash—is mated to Christopher, a human who doesn’t age anymore thanks to thunderbird magic.
They’re ridiculous together. Loud. Adorable.
Chaotic. Bob says he fell in love because Christopher yelled at him about lightning safety, which is exactly the kind of nonsense that passes for romance among monsters.
There was another pairing a century ago. A sasquatch woman from Canada mated with a human woman. Unusual. Unprecedented. But they made it work. Their bond extended the human’s lifespan. They’re still alive, still happy, living quietly somewhere deep in the Yukon mountains.
So yes, it’s possible.
In theory.
But I’m not Bob. I’m not my Canadian cousin. I’m not… whatever kind of sasquatch manages to bridge that gulf.
I run the US Monster Network. I maintain three overloaded server clusters.
I troubleshoot enchanted fiber-optic lines.
I patch together broken human tech with duct tape and magic.
My “office” is a cave lined with half-dead monitors and a noise that may or may not be a raccoon haunting the ventilation shaft.
I mediate disputes between wendigos and will-o’-the-wisps. I help with Solstice events. Moss and mushrooms, I manage user complaints about forum lag from creatures who can bend time but apparently not their own expectations.
I’m not built for romance. Especially not with a human.
Especially not with this human, who trips over moss and apologizes to trees and sings off-key in the morning.
I rub my hands over my face. “Stars above,” I mutter. “Get it together.”
But my chest still aches where his words landed.
Hot. Thank you. Are you there?
I drag in a slow breath and look back toward the station.
Elias has gone inside. The porch is empty now, soft golden light spilling from the windows as evening settles in.
I tell myself to go home. To rest and work on the Yellowstone server. Answer Akai’s fourteen messages about Solstice costume themes. Check on the fiber line in Sector H. Anything but hovering here like a lovesick cedar stump.
I take one step away. Then another. I don’t look back.
But I feel him behind me. His presence is like a warm ember in the cold twilight.
And despite every rule I’ve made for myself, every instinct that says walk away, every logical argument about species boundaries and heartbreak, I know I’ll check on him again.
Tomorrow.
And the next day.
And the next after that.
Because Elias Hart has carved out a corner of my rib cage and settled in without permission.
And I… I don’t know how to make him leave.
Or if I even want to.