Christopher gives an exaggerated sigh. “You’re doing the looming thing again.”
Bob shifts, wings settling more neatly. “I’m standing.”
“You’re standingdramatically.”
My brain takes a second to catch up. This—this domestic familiarity—does more to steady me than anything Boone could have said.
Boone glances back at me, golden eyes sharp and assessing. “You all right?”
I swallow, then nod. “I think so. I’m… processing.”
“That’s normal,” Christopher says cheerfully. “First time’s always a lot.”
“First time?” I echo faintly.
He grins wider. “Meeting a thunderbird. Or realizing your boyfriend is a cryptid. Dealer’s choice.”
My face heats instantly.
Boone makes a low, offended sound. “I’m a sasquatch.”
Christopher raises a brow. “Buddy, I say that with love.”
Bob clears his throat, the sound rolling like distant thunder. “We don’t have much time. I needed to confirm Boone’s status and deliver this.”
He reaches into a pouch at his side and withdraws a small and faintly glowing object—a carved rune, warm even from several feet away. The symbols etched into it hum softly, like a living thing at rest.
“This is the access needed,” Bob continues, then shifts his gaze to me. “This will allow you through the wards at Yellowstone.”
My breath catches. “Me?”
“Yes,” Bob says. He steps closer and presses the rune into my palm.
The warmth seeps into my skin, up my arm, settling somewhere deep and strange. My scientist brain is already spinning out of control, cataloging sensation, theorizing mechanisms, screaming about energy transfer and biological impossibility.
But another part of me—quieter, steadier—just feels… accepted.
Bob turns back to Boone. “I have to leave. Solstice logistics are already unraveling, and I refuse to let Akai coordinate security again.”
Boone huffs. “Good idea. He can’t be trusted with any type of responsibility.”
Christopher chuckles. “We’ll see you there, yeah?”
Boone nods. “Yes.”
Bob spreads his wings again, the air thrumming with power. Christopher steps closer to him without hesitation, hand resting easily against his side.
Before they take off, Christopher looks back at me.
“You’re doing great,” he says, like he knows exactly what’s going on inside my head. “Don’t overthink it too much.”
I laugh weakly. “I’m terrible at that.”
“Yeah,” he says kindly. “So was I. It took me at least sixty years to get used to this new life.”
The thunderbird launches into the sky as my eyes boggle at his words, wings beating once, twice, and then they’re gone—just a fading echo of wind and electricity and what feels like possibility.
The meadow settles.
