About a mile up, the trail grew steeper, and the dirt gave way to slick rock. I went first, then turned and reached for her. She hesitated, then let me hoist her up by the forearms. For a split second, we were chest to chest, her breath quick from the effort, mine caught somewhere in my throat.
"Thanks," she said, brushing the hair from her face.
"Anytime," I replied.
At the overlook, we broke through the last stand of pines. The world opened up, a sheer drop-off revealing the whole valley. The bench at the edge of the clearing was scarred with initials and hearts carved by generations of bored teenagers. I dropped the pack and sat, patting the space beside me.
She dropped down, feet dangling over the rock. We sat for a minute, taking it all in.
I fished out the water bottles and handed her one. She drained half in a single go, wiped her mouth on her sleeve, and handed it back. "The view never gets old. It’s so peaceful up here."
"Worth the hike?"
She shrugged, smiling. "For sure."
We sat in companionable silence. The wind picked up, carrying the sharp scent of distant woodsmoke.
I cleared my throat, weighing what I wanted to say. "I like this. I like you."
She glanced at me warily. "You barely know me."
"I know the difference between something real and something that fills the time." I tried to keep my tone light, but I could hear the crack in it.
She looked away, pulling her knees to her chest. "I’m not good at this."
"At what? Hiking?"
"Letting people in." She picked at a loose thread in her jeans. "I’m always waiting for the catch."
"There’s no catch," I said. "Just me, being a dumbass and hoping you’ll say you want this, too."
She shook her head, but she was smiling. "You’re impossible."
"Dragon trait," I said. "Stubbornness runs in the family. In the species, really."
She rested her chin on her knees and was quiet for a while. "I do want this," she said, so softly I almost missed it. "But I need to go slow. For Bryce." She glanced over at me. "And for me."
I nodded, trying not to looktoorelieved. "Slow is good."
She reached over and squeezed my hand, then let go just as quickly.
"You hungry?" I asked and she nodded eagerly. I pulled out the trail mix, and we ate, both of us tossing the raisins into the woods and fighting over the peanut M&M’s. She accused me of hoarding the chocolate. I accused her of being a squirrel instead of a wolf. The mood lightened.
Her phone rang, and she glanced at the screen. "I'm surprised I get service up here. It’s Bryce," she said, standing and pacing a few feet away for privacy.
I watched her as she answered, the way her whole posture shifted. Shoulders back, her voice softer, every ounce of her focused on the call.
"Hey, sweetheart. You okay?" Pause. "Where did it hit you?" Another pause, her brow furrowing. "Oh, baby. Did it break the skin? Are you bleeding?" She crouched, as if she could get closer to her son through sheer will. "Okay, listen. Take a deep breath. Remember what we practiced? In for four, out for eight. Good boy."
I just could hear a faint, watery sniffle on the other end. She kept her tone gentle but firm, coaxing him through it. "It’s gonna sting for a bit, but you’re a tough wolf. Do you want me to come get you?"
She listened, then smiled. "I knew you’d tough it out. Tell Nathan to ice it, and I’ll look at it when I get home. I love you, pumpkin."
She ended the call and stood, tucking her phone back in her pocket. There was a look on her face. Something fierce and tender, the kind of love that would punch a hole in the world if it meant keeping her kid safe.
"He’s okay?" I asked.
She nodded. "Took a ball to the elbow. He’s fine, but he wanted to hear my voice."
