Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Laney
“You sure you want me to teach you how to handle Jasper?”
Ryder leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Yep. Just like at the station—I should be cross-trained for everything.”
Standing in front of Jasper’s terrarium in my bedroom, I’m wondering if offering to teach someone snake handling was my brightest idea.
Not because Jasper’s dangerous—he’s basically a gentle giant.
But because teaching someone to handle a boa constrictor requires the kind of physical closeness that will destroy what’s left of my professional distance.
Who am I kidding? That distance died the moment his lips touched mine. This lesson is just me admitting it.
Ryder’s been my rock through everything—the storm, the kitten birth, the endless parade of animal drama. He’s proved he can handle just about anything; this should be no different. Hell, he needs to learn this if he’s going to be real backup.
At least I’m confident about Jasper. Mr. Dexter’s summer crash course in reptile handling means I actually know what I’m doing here. It’s the being-alone-in-my-bedroom-with-Ryder part that has my pulse racing.
“The first thing you need to understand about Jasper,” I say, settling cross-legged on the floor beside the terrarium, “is that he’s basically a scaly golden retriever. Gentle, predictable, and way more interested in napping than in causing drama.”
Ryder settles beside me, close enough that I can smell his soap—it smells better on him than it does on me.
It’s clean and woodsy and makes me want to lean closer just to breathe him in.
His amber eyes are fixed on Jasper with the same careful assessment he probably uses when sizing up a burning building.
“An’Wa had no snakes—at least, not the kind that were mindless and slithered,” he admits quietly.
“I’ve known plenty of naga, but they’re people, not animals.
My brain knows I’m irrational. Jasper’s not dangerous.
I’m so much bigger than he is, but everything in my DNA is screaming that animals who crawl on their bellies and hiss are predators. ”
“Totally normal. Half the people in my pre-vet classes had the same reaction, and they didn’t have evolutionary excuses.
” I reach slowly into the terrarium, letting Jasper register my presence before making contact.
“The key is reading his body language. See how relaxed his coils are? Head down, not defensive? He’s basically in screensaver mode. ”
Ryder leans closer, genuine appreciation softening his features. “He really is beautiful.”
“He is, isn’t he?” I run my palm slowly along Jasper’s body, starting behind his head and moving toward his midsection.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do. Touch my hand first. Get used to the idea of contact while I’m handling him, so your brain can start separating ‘snake’ from ‘immediate danger.’”
His fingers brush mine, and the simple contact sends warmth shooting up my arm. Focus, Laney. This is about helping him overcome a phobia, not about how his hands make your stomach do weird, fluttery things.
“Now watch.” I demonstrate the proper technique. “Firm but gentle pressure. Never grab or squeeze. Think of it like… petting a cat, but with more respect for boundaries.”
Jasper responds to my touch by shifting slightly, adjusting his coils but remaining calm. His brick-colored scales catch the light from the bedroom lamp, creating patterns that are genuinely beautiful if you can get past the primal fear response.
I continue the demonstration, showing him how to read Jasper’s responses, how to support his body weight properly, and how to recognize signs of stress or discomfort.
Through it all, Ryder focuses with the intensity of someone determined to overcome a deep-seated fear through sheer willpower. I can see the battle playing out across his handsome face—logic versus instinct, courage versus millions of years of evolution.
“Your turn,” I say finally. “Start with just one finger. Right here, behind his head, where I showed you.”
Ryder’s hand hovers over Jasper for a long moment. The internal war is visible in every tense line of his body.
“I’ve got you,” I say softly, covering his hand with mine. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll handle it. But it won’t. He’s completely calm.”
The trust in his eyes when he looks at me is almost overwhelming. This male, who’s spent days taking care of me, protecting me, making sure I’m safe and warm and fed, is now trusting me to guide him through something that terrifies him on a cellular level.
His finger makes contact with Jasper’s scales, and I feel the tension rise in his whole body.
“Breathe,” I remind him, my hand still covering his. “He can sense your stress. Slow, steady movements.”
Gradually, Ryder’s touch becomes more confident. His finger traces the pattern of scales along Jasper’s neck, and fascination replaces fear in his expression.
“He’s so much warmer than I expected,” Ryder observes.
“That surprised me too, the first time I touched one. They regulate their temperature by basking. In the wild, it’d be sunlight; here we’re using heat lamps and warming rocks.”
“It’s not what I expected,” he murmurs. “The texture is… almost like leather, but warmer. More alive.”
“Exactly.” I guide his hand to support more of Jasper’s weight as the snake shifts position, my palm warm against Ryder’s knuckles. “See how he’s moving toward you? He’s actually curious about you now. You’re not giving off fear signals anymore.”
“Now use your whole hand,” I instruct, keeping my voice soft and steady. “Support his weight. Let him feel that you’re secure.”
Ryder follows my direction, his hand—so much larger than mine—sliding beneath Jasper’s body. The snake responds immediately, coiling partially around his forearm in what I recognize as contentment rather than constriction.
“That’s perfect,” I breathe, watching the way Ryder’s thumb moves in slow, steady passes along Jasper’s scales. The sight of them—this mountain of a firefighter and the smooth coil of muscle resting easily in his grip—makes me wonder what it would be like if that massive hand stroked me.
We work together for the better part of an hour, my hands guiding his, our bodies close in the small space beside the terrarium.
Every time I adjust his grip, I’m aware of the warmth of his skin, the solid strength of him, the way his shoulder brushes mine when he shifts position.
It’s distracting in a way I wasn’t prepared for.
“Look at you! You make it look easy,” I whisper.
“This is incredible,” Ryder says as Jasper settles even deeper into his hold, completely relaxed. “I can feel every muscle. It’s like… controlled power.”
“Yes. He’s strong enough to hurt you, but he chooses not to. Trust goes both ways.”
The parallel isn’t lost on either of us.
The quiet after that hums with something that’s not fear and not quite safety either—something tender, alive, and full of possibility.
I can feel it in the space between our shoulders, in the way the lamplight glints off Jasper’s skin and warms the edges of Ryder’s smile.
As we settle Jasper back into his terrarium, my body is thrumming with awareness. The trust exercise has left us both a little breathless, the air between us charged with something I’m not ready to name but can no longer ignore.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice rougher than usual. “For being patient with me.”
When I turn to face him, we’re very close in the confined space. I can see the rapid pulse at his throat, feel the heat radiating from his skin. Suddenly I’m very aware that we’re alone in my bedroom, that he’s looking at me like…
“Ryder,” I whisper, and his name comes out with soft affection I don’t even try to hide.
We’re still sitting really close to each other as his gaze drops to my mouth. Or maybe we’re not close enough. My breathing has gone shallow, and when his gaze meets mine again, there’s heat there that makes my stomach flip.
“You affect me,” I admit, my voice barely audible. “More than you should, more than is smart, but I can’t help it.”
The admission hangs between us, honest and terrifying.
I wait for him to pull back, to remember all the reasons this is complicated, but instead he leans in, stopping just shy of touching me.
His breath warms the space between us, close enough to feel, not close enough to break whatever spell we’re under.
“Sunshine,” he says, and this time the endearment is deliberate, warm, full of something that makes my pulse skip and race. “I’ve been affected since the moment I saw you trying to get Bonnie and Clyde off that roof.”
For years, sunshine only reminded me of what I’d lost—my dad’s voice, the illusion of a family that lasted. But the way Ryder says it isn’t tied to the past. It feels like an invitation—to warmth, to hope, to a kind of trust I wasn’t sure I’d ever give again.
His other hand frames my face, reverent and sure, and when he leans in, I meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and deep and makes my toes curl in my wool socks. It tastes like possibility and promises neither of us has dared to make yet.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, his forehead rests against mine.
“The snake lesson is over,” I murmur.
“Yeah,” he agrees, his smile warm against my lips. “But something much more important just began.”
As we leave the bedroom, Ryder’s hand briefly touches the small of my back—a simple gesture that makes my skin tingle under the layers of thermal shirt and fleece.
He trusted me with his fear, and I trusted him with my carefully guarded heart. In teaching him how to be gentle with something that scared him, I’ve discovered how to handle the fragile parts of myself.
Maybe trust isn’t something you teach. Maybe it’s what happens when two uncertain hearts learn how to hold steady together.
Outside, the storm’s finally gone quiet—but inside me, something new has begun to stir.