I’m suddenly very aware of my own heartbeat, the way my fingers tremble, the fact that my mouth is hanging slightly open.
He speaks.
He speaks English.
He understands me.
He just swore at me about mossy cedars.
I am not okay.
“You speak English,” I say, which is, objectively, the dumbest possible response, but it’s the only one that gets past the logjam of shock in my throat.
He rolls his eyes.
Actually rolls. His. Eyes.
My dignity exits the building as my face goes nuclear. “I… I’m aware that was stupid,” I blurt, words tumbling over themselves. “It’s just that the part of my brain that would normally filter what I say fell off a cliff about ten seconds ago.”
The sharpness in his gaze doesn’t fade, but it softens slightly around the edges, as though I’d said more than I meant to.
He watches me. Really watches me. The weight of that attention makes my stomach flutter in a way that is wildly inappropriate for the current situation.
I scramble for rational thought. This is adrenaline. This is shock. This is the human brain trying to latch onto anything familiar when confronted with the impossible. It’s absolutely not because the enormous creature who just swore about mossy cedars is also, somehow, unfairly beautiful.
He groans quietly and presses his hand back to his side, reminding me that he’s still injured and I’m still kneeling here like an overwhelmed idiot.
“Right,” I say, dragging myself back to the emergency in front of me. “Let’s focus. You’ve been shot. The bullet is still in there, yes?”
He hesitates, then dips his chin a fraction.
“It slows my healing,” he says. His voice is low, rough, almost gravelly, but there’s a resonance to it, a depth that reminds me of waterfalls in the distance and thunder rolling over mountains. The cadence is measured and careful, as if he’s used to choosing each word.
“You heal fast?” I ask, because apparently I like pushing the boundaries of “how much weird I can handle in one day.”
“Yes,” he says simply.
“Well, that’s good,” I reply. “But you’re right. If the bullet stays in, it will keep irritating the tissue. Infection is a risk. Slower healing, higher pain, all that fun stuff.”
“That… matches my experience,” he says dryly.
Of course this isn’t his first time being shot.
Anger flares hot and quick in my chest at the thought of hunters treating him like a target. Like something to conquer instead of someone to protect.
“I can help,” I say, pushing that fury into determination. “But I need to remove the bullet, and I need proper supplies to do that. I don’t have what I need in my backpack.”
Again, that internal debate plays across his features. The muscles in his jaw flex. His eyes shutter briefly, then open again.
“My cave,” he says.
The words send a warm shiver racing down my spine.
“Your… cave,” I repeat.
“It’s closer than your station,” he explains. “There are tools. Clean cloth. Some herbs.”
My mind races. A cave. A home. He has a home. Of course he does—why wouldn’t he? He’s not some roaming phantom passing through. He lives here. Has lived here probably longer than I can imagine. He has herbs and tools and supplies.
