“Seriously?” I gasp. “You escape a bear and die of clumsiness? That’s your legacy?”
Behind me, something rustles.
My brain, already operating at Panic Level: Ferret in a Thunderstorm, immediately decides the bear has reconsidered its life choices and determined I’d make a good meal after all.
I glance over my shoulder, feet still moving, and my boot catches on a hidden root.
This time, I don’t save it.
The world tilts. I pitch forward, weightless for a breath, and then something hard and unyielding connects with the side of my head.
White explodes behind my eyes.
Then—nothing.
I’m floating.
That’s my first thought when awareness seeps back in.
There’s no ground. No weight. Just a slow, steady motion, up and down, side to side, like being on a gentle sea.
My second thought is that my head hurts.
Not the “slept funny” kind of hurt. Not even the “forgot to drink water and had three coffees instead” kind. This is a deep, throbbing ache that pulses behind my eyes in time with my heartbeat. Every pulse sends a flash of nausea rolling through my stomach.
I try to open my eyes.
They peel apart like someone glued them shut. The world beyond is a smear of shapes and light. Trees move past in wobbly vertical lines. The sky is an overexposed patch of pale between them.
Something is under me. Supportive. Solid. I feel pressure at my back, my thighs, under my knees. My arms hang limp, fingers grazing fur… no. Skin. Warm. Slightly rough, like someone who doesn’t moisturize and spends their life using their hands.
I blink again, forcing my vision to sharpen.
For a heartbeat, I see him.
A man.
Tall. So tall he fills the top half of my vision even while I’m slung against his chest. His skin is flushed from exertion, broad shoulders bare to the cold air. Dark hair falls into his face, damp with sweat. His jaw is shadowed with stubble, his mouth set in a firm line as he moves.
He looks… naked.
That’s insane. My concussion has gone wild. No one hikes this high into the park without clothes.
His scent hits me a second later—earth and pine and the clean warmth of living fur that makes my hindbrain goYou’re safeand my forebrain goOkay, that’s suspicious.
A low, gruff voice rumbles somewhere above my ear.
“…damn humans… no sense of self-preservation… always falling off things… can’t even walk on flat ground without?—”
I close my eyes again, because now I’m hallucinating lectures.
“Yep,” I slur, words barely a breath. “Definitely dead. Guilt-tripped by my own brain.”
The voice huffs. The motion continues. The darkness rushes back in, thick and irresistible.
When I surface next, the world is smaller.
My head throbs in a steady, punishing drumbeat. I’m horizontal—on my back, cocooned in warmth. Familiar nylon rustles when I shift my hand. My pillow smells like laundry detergent and campfire smoke and cheap plastic.
