I clap my hands over my eyes.
“You could have warned me about this part too.”
“I thought you were curious,” he says, clearly amused by my predicament.
“I was curious about the Wolf,” I mutter into my palms. “Not your naked ass.”
I hear leaves shifting and fabric rustling as he moves around the clearing, presumably retrieving his scattered clothing.
“You can open your eyes,” he says after what feels like an eternity.
I do not move.
“You promise you are wearing pants?”
There is a quiet zipper sound.
“I promise.”
Slowly, cautiously, I peek through my fingers.
Maceo stands a few feet away pulling his shirt back over his head. His jeans are already on, though he has clearly skipped the boots for now, his bare feet somehow making him look more approachable.
I lower my hands. “You are ridiculous.”
“Yet you came hiking with me.”
“You smile at me and I lose my ability to think rationally,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
“Hmm.” The sound is pleased, satisfied.
He walks back toward me and drops down onto the blanket in front of me, bracing one hand against the grass. The movement brings him closer until he is kneeling in front of me, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, smell the scent of pine and something wild that clings to his skin.
For a moment neither of us speaks.
The forest around us is quiet except for the whisper of leaves shifting in the breeze and the distant call of a hawk somewhere overhead.
“You are not scared,” he says, and there’s something like wonder in his voice.
“I told you I wouldn’t be.”
“You jumped when the squirrel moved.”
“That was a tactical reaction to an unexpected wildlife encounter.”
His mouth curves into a slow smile, the kind that starts small and spreads until it transforms his entire face, erasing the guarded edge he usually carries.
Then, without hesitation, he leans forward and kisses me.
It is not hesitant or questioning. It is warm and steady and entirely certain of itself, like he’s been thinking about doing thissince the moment he knocked on my door, maybe even before that. His lips are firm, confident, moving against mine with a quiet intensity that makes my pulse hum beneath my skin.
For a second, my brain short-circuits, overwhelmed by the heat of him, the way his body radiates warmth even through the thin fabric of his shirt. Then instinct takes over, and I kiss him back, my hand coming up to rest against his chest. Beneath my palm, his heartbeat thrums strong and steady, a rhythm that matches the sudden rush of blood in my veins. I wonder if this is what it feels like to touch something wild, something untamed but choosing, just for this moment, to be gentle.
The forest around us fades into a blur of sensation. The air smells like sunlight, dying leaves and pine needles, sharp and sweet and alive. His hand settles lightly at the back of my neck, his fingers warm against my skin, calloused in a way that sends a shiver down my spine. It feels like it belongs there, like he’s known exactly where to touch me all along.
When he pulls away, it’s slow, deliberate, like he’s reluctant to break the connection. His breath is warm against my lips, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then he exhales, a quiet sound that might be amusement or something deeper, and the corner of his mouth quirks up again.
I lean back on my hands, my fingers curling into the blanket beneath me, grounding myself in the rough texture of the fabric. My lips tingle where his mouth met mine, and I can still feel the ghost of his touch at the nape of my neck, like he’s left an imprint there.
