Or it would be, if he weren’t late.
Five minutes.
Zoe had many words for late people, none of them flattering. Time was a limited resource, and hers was as important as anyone else’s. Everyone should learn time management by eighteen.
But also, it made her unsure. How long was she supposed to wait? Ten? Fifteen?
It was close to twenty when his truck finally rolled into the lot. A black beast of a vehicle with the aerodynamic charm of a rhino and definitely past its prime.
Relief hit her first. Then a giddy burst she did not approve of. She was a cheerful woman, not a giddy one.
He got out and marched toward her, still in the same jeans and worn hiking boots from earlier. Same shirt that might’ve been white once upon a time, but had evolved into a color that was somewhere between grey and blue. The shirt itself wasn’t special, but the muscles under it were. Wolves were all built, more or less. Rex was definitely more.
Her list of adjectives for late people dissolved into a list of adjectives that would have scandalized her grandmother. Maybe even her mother. Hell, it was half-scandalizing her....
“I’m sorry,” he said, stopping in front of her. “Something came up with the pack. Had to fix it.”
“It’s okay,” she said smoothly. “I just got here myself.”
Liar. Slutty, horny liar.
He looked at her—really looked. His nostrils flared a little, and the shadow of a smile flickered and disappeared. Could wolves read minds? Oh, that would be so bad...
And to make things worse, the pull to him grew even stronger now that he was near.
He towered over her, and she had to tilt her face up to meet his. His inhale was sharp. This time, his jaw flexed.
Me too, bro,she thought.Me too.
She didn’t say it. Obviously. But it was nice to know—guess—wish—that she wasn’t the only one going crazy. She merely tightened the straps on her backpack and squared her shoulders. “Shall we? It’s a decent hike.”
He nodded, took a step, then stopped and gestured for her to start toward the trail.
And just like that, they plunged into the forest, possibly both pretending they weren’t feeling the exact same gravitational nonsense.
They didn’t talk much once they hit the trail. Not that she expected it. This big, hot wolf did not strike her as a chatterbox. And despite what most people believed, neither was she. She could talk, absolutely, but she could enjoy a good quiet just as much.
So in silence they marched.
Worth noting, the silence was nice. Not awkward, heavy, or crammed with the need to be filled. It left room for the wind moving through fir needles, the distant rush of water of Nowhere Creek, and the steady rhythm of their boots on packed earth. The forest was chatting enough; both of them were content to listen. And it was amazing, anyway. June in these woods felt lush in the unapologetic way only early summer could manage. Towering firs stretching upward like they had nowhere better to be. The air was cool in the shade, warm where sunlight filtered through in shifting gold. Zoe adjusted the straps of her pack and inhaled deeply. Pine sap. Damp soil. A faint mineral tang from the water as they drew closer to it.
Rex walked beside her, boots steady, stride unforced. He moved like he belonged here, like the forest was not scenery but an extension. Which, she guessed, in his case, it probably was. Pack territory must be stitched into his bones.
She was just a human. There was nothing magical about loving the forest besides, well, loving it. And that, she suspected, was exactly why the silence worked.
They were both at home here, and when you were home, you didn’t need to perform.
“You good?” he asked at a fork in the trail when they paused for water.
“Mm-hm. First cluster should be another half mile.”
He nodded once. No commentary, Alpha posture, or subtle correction. He accepted that she knew where she was going and did not require assistance navigating a trail she’d probably walked as many times as he’d patrolled it.
It was... refreshing.
She’d been on date-hikes before. Men insisted on explaining elevation changes and confidently misidentified plants she’d harvested for years. One time, a dude had, memorably, described moss to her as “basically nature’s carpet,” as though she hadn’t spent a decade working with it.
Not Officer Growly here.
