“Because you arrived first. Had you not, the mop would’ve been my exit strategy.” I tucked it under my arm. “I’m bringing it.”
Feral stared at me for a long moment. Then at the mop. Then back at me.
He shifted without another word.
His wolf form was massive, all fur and muscle and the particular intensity this male brought to everything. He dropped to his belly in a movement I recognized as reluctant cooperation.
I gathered both our bags, securing them across my back, and settled onto him. The mop balanced across my thighs at an angle that made his ears twitch.
“I’ll tuck it sideways to avoid trees. Wouldn’t want youslamminginto one, would I?” My grin stretched my face. I did enjoy bantering with him, especially when he couldn’t reply.
Acorn launched himself into my lap, his tiny bag swaying on his back.
Feral rose and started moving.
The forest blurred past in streaks of green and brown and the orange glow of bioluminescent fungi climbing the tree trunks. I’d ridden Feral enough times now that my body knew where to grip, how to shift my weight with the terrain, and when to lean forward or sit back.
I filed this fact away as significant and kept my hands in his ruff.
I’d wedged the mop beneath my thigh. The rag on the end bounced on Feral’s wolf ass with each step. His ears twitched every time it moved.
He was breathing evenly despite the speed and the added weight.
I caught myself noting details. The warmth of his fur. The steadiness of his gait. The way he adjusted his path to avoid low-hanging branches without breaking stride.
Then I caught myself noticing that I was noticing.
My hand stilled in his ruff.
This was the first ride where I hadn’t dictated anything into my notebook. No observations about velocity or terrain adaptation. No notes on optimal weight distribution or the physics of four-legged locomotion.
I was just riding him. The realization settled in my chest.
She holds no pen, she writes no note,Acorn said from my lap.The wolf has stolen what she wrote.
“I’m thinking,” I said.
Mm,he replied, smug.
I ignored him and focused on the forest passing around us. The canopy opened up ahead, sunlight breaking through in scattered patches. Feral’s breathing stayed even. His pace never faltered.
I loved him. The thought arrived without the bang I’d expect. It settled in my chest like it had been waiting for me to notice it there all along.
I didn’t say it out loud or dictate it to my pen. Just held it quietly while Feral ran and Acorn groomed his whiskers and the mop bounced around in a way that I was sure offended my husband’s dignity.
This was, objectively, the most significant discovery I’d made in this territory.
Acorn said nothing, his silence louder than any rhyme.
Feral stopped where the old growth thinned and the sky opened wide, an area near where the northern creeks joined. I slid off with our bags and he shifted back. The scientist in me clocked his elevated respiration rate before the wife did, cataloging the flush across the back of his neck and the slight hitch in his breathing.
“You wouldn’t be short of breath if we’d ridden the mop,” I said.
He straightened, his expression changing. “The run was nothing. I could’ve gone twice the distance.”
I raised an eyebrow and pulled out my notebook, my pen lifting automatically. “Elevated respiration rate. Visible capillary dilation at the posterior cervical region. Compensatory postural adjustment suggesting?—”
“There’s nothing wrong with me.”
