“About fucking time,” Jonah called from somewhere behind us, and the pack erupted in laughter that echoed through the trees like music.
But I barely heard them. All my attention was focused on the man in my arms, on the way he was looking at me like I'd hung the moon and stars just for him. Like I was something precious and worth keeping, worth the risk of hoping for.
Like maybe, just maybe, we were going to be okay.
22
HEARTFIRE
NATE
Imade my way toward the Callahan lumber mill, work boots crunching on gravel that had been worn smooth by decades of trucks hauling timber. I'd volunteered to help Evan with inventory—partly because he'd mentioned being swamped, but mostly because I was still figuring out how to navigate this new reality where my maybe-boyfriend could bench press a truck when the mood struck him.
The mill was bigger than it looked from the outside, all soaring ceilings and industrial equipment that hummed with barely contained power. Evan stood near a stack of two-by-fours that reached almost to the rafters, clipboard in hand and looking like he belonged among all the organized chaos.
“You sure about this?” he asked when he spotted me, gesturing at the mountains of lumber that needed counting and sorting. “It's not exactly glamorous work.”
“I can handle some manual labor,” I said, rolling up my sleeves with probably more confidence than the situation warranted. “Besides, how hard can it be?”
Evan's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Famous last words.”
Twenty minutes later, I was discovering exactly how optimistic I'd been. What had looked like straightforward inventory work turned out to require a complex system of measurements, grades, and organizational logic that made my brain hurt. I'd managed to knock over two smaller stacks while trying to measure a third, and I was pretty sure I'd just recorded the same pile of planks three times.
“Having fun?” Evan asked, appearing beside me with that silent grace that I was still getting used to. The fact that he could move like a ghost when he wasn't thinking about it was both impressive and mildly terrifying.
“Living the dream,” I said, wiping sweat from my forehead and probably smearing sawdust across my face in the process. “Though I'm starting to think your dad's organizational system was designed by someone with supernatural abilities.”
“Among other things,” Evan said dryly. He reached past me to effortlessly lift a stack of boards that I'd been struggling with, muscles barely straining under the weight. “Here, let me show you the trick.”
The trick, it turned out, involved understanding that lumber had its own logic—sorting by length first, then width, then grade, all while keeping track of which pieces were designated for specific orders. It should have been complicated, but watching Evan work was like watching someone speak a language they'd been born knowing.
“How do you keep track of all this?” I asked, watching him reorganize an entire section with the kind of efficiency that definitely wasn't entirely human.
“Practice,” he said, then caught my expression and added, “And yeah, okay, supernatural memory helps. We're built for tracking details—pack dynamics, territory boundaries, threatassessment. Turns out that translates pretty well to inventory management.”
“Show off,” I muttered, but there was no heat in it. Actually, it was kind of fascinating watching him work without having to hide what he was capable of. No more careful restraint or pretending to be entirely human. Just Evan being exactly what he was.
Which was when I made my next brilliant decision and tried to move a stack of boards that was definitely beyond my human limitations.
The lumber shifted wrong, physics decided to be unforgiving, and suddenly I was dealing with what felt like half a forest worth of wood trying to crush me into paste. I threw my hands up instinctively, knowing it wouldn't be nearly enough to stop the avalanche.
That's when Evan moved.
Not human-fast, not even athlete-fast, but supernatural-fast, crossing the space between us like he'd just teleported. His hands caught the falling lumber with the casual ease of someone catching a beach ball, supernatural strength making the rescue look effortless.
“Careful,” he said mildly, as if he hadn't just saved me from being turned into a very flat pancake. “These aren't exactly forgiving if they land wrong.”
I stood there gaping at him, heart hammering from the adrenaline rush of nearly being squished and the realization that I'd just gotten a front-row demonstration of exactly how not-human my boyfriend actually was.
“Holy shit,” I breathed, staring at the way he was casually holding what had to be several hundred pounds of lumber like it weighed nothing. “That was...”
“Necessary,” Evan finished, carefully restacking the boards with the kind of precision that spoke of supernaturalcoordination. He stepped closer, hands gentle as they checked me over for injuries. “You okay?”
“Yeah, just...” I gestured vaguely at him, at the lumber, at the general impossibility of what had just happened. “Still getting used to the fact that you're basically a superhero.”
“Hardly.” But there was color in his cheeks that suggested he wasn't entirely immune to the admiration in my voice. His hands lingered on my arms, thumbs brushing over my wrists like he needed the reassurance of my pulse. “Just built differently.”
“Built for rescuing clumsy boyfriends who bite off more than they can chew?”
