"I'm not as bad as I could be. On a scale from 'penguin documentary' to 'live-action horror show,' I'm somewhere in the middle."
His mouth twitches. I can hear it in his voice. "We'll talk later. About him."
Chase. The card. All of it.
My stomach flips. "Am I in trouble?"
"You're in discussion. Whether it becomes trouble depends on if you go collecting any more business cards from strange alphas."
"I didn't collect. I was handed."
He hums. His fingers stroke my hair again, slower. The affectionate rhythm does more to calm me than his words.
We move on.
Small monkeys next. Tamarins and marmosets and little screaming chaos-goblins that stare back at you like they're planning a heist.
We crowd around the glass—Drake making faces, Marie laughing at a tiny monkey pressing its hands to the glass. Eli hangs back, content to observe. Jasper lingers near him, posture loose but eyes sharp.
I'm tucked between Ragon and the rail, his hand still an anchor at my neck.
A little monkey launches itself from a branch, misses its landing, flops into a hammock, and pops back up like gravity is a suggestion. I giggle.
"You would be that one," Drake says. "Launch first, regret later."
"He stuck the second landing."
"After pancaking."
"He learns. That's the important bit."
The monkey swings closer to the glass. On impulse, I lean up on my toes and tilt my face toward Ragon's jaw, brushing a quick, soft kiss there.
It's reckless.
I half-expect him to go stiff, to step away.
Instead he turns his head just enough that his mouth grazes my temple.
A small, present-painful kiss.
My heart does a ridiculous little somersault.
For a minute, I let myself float. Chase fades to the edge. The card, the threat, all of it dim. There's just the press of Ragon's lips on my skin, the brush of his thumb at my hairline, the noise of small monkeys and children.
Maybe, I think, stupid and hopeful,maybe he really does want to keep me.
Maybe I'm not as replaceable as I feel.
We hit the gorillas last.
The enclosure is huge—lots of rocks and logs and patches of grass, a deep trench between the glass wall and where the gorillas actually live. A sign says something about conservation efforts. Another has photos and names—Luka, adult male; Sula, adult female; Kito, juvenile.
The family unit is sprawled around the space, big bodies surprisingly gentle with each other.
The alpha male sits on a rock ledge, massive and calm, dark eyes scanning his domain. The female lounges nearby, picking at his fur in absent grooming. Every so often, he leans into her touch or reaches out to pull her closer, big hand resting on her back.
It's stupidly cute.
