For a terrifying, intoxicating moment, I almost believed too. That all of this—whatever gravitational nonsense exists between us—meant Elias might actually be meant for me.
Me. A sasquatch who spends his nights debugging enchanted fiber lines and yelling at Akai for trying to upload GIFs that break the server.
A bird snapping a branch overhead pulled me back to my senses just in time, and I bolted into the forest before my traitor instincts talked me into making the biggest mistake of my life.
Today, I swear I’m going to continue to be smart.
Responsible.
Distant.
I have work to do anyway. The Solstice Bash in Yellowstone is barely six weeks away. Most humans would need weeks to walk 874 miles across three states. I can do it in about a quarter of that time—even less if the winds favor me and the rivers stay low. I always go early, visiting a few favorite spots, checking the regional Network relays, making sure the protections are stable.
Normally, I look forward to the trip.
This year, the thought of leaving while Elias is here makes my gut twist unpleasantly, like the roots of an old tree being forced sideways.
“Enough,” I mutter, slamming a panel closed in frustration. “Work. Focus.”
And for several hours, I manage it.
Until the scent hits me.
I pick up the hunters’ scent long before I hear them—gun oil, sweat, old leather, cheap jerky, and arrogance. It hits my senses like a slap.
Humans. Deep in protected land. Armed.
My hands curl into fists automatically.
This forest is sacred. Protected. Alive. And these idiots have stomped into the middle of it with rifles and bad intentions.
A growl simmers low in my chest as I slip between the trees, keeping to the shadows. Their footsteps carry through the brush—crunching carelessly over fallen branches, snapping twigs, scaring every creature within a half-mile radius.
I follow them silently, listening.
“There were tracks,” one mutters. “Huge ones.”
“You think it’s that… creature?” the other whispers.
My fur bristles. Creature. They never say “animal.” Hunters like these don’t see wildlife; they see trophies.
“Doesn’t matter,” the first man says. “If it moves, it’s worth something.”
So that’s their mindset. Great.
My irritation hardens into protective anger, sharpened by weeks of accumulated frustration. And honestly? This is exactly the kind of day where I need a constructive outlet for my rage.
“Fine,” I mutter. “Let’s go for a walk.”
I circle around, breaking a few branches loudly. The men snap to attention.
“What was that?”
“Over there—move!”
I let them chase the sound. Then I throw another noise in the opposite direction—a heavythud, like a massive body landing from a jump. Their breathing picks up, adrenaline spiking.
“Holy—did you see that?”
