“Happy?” he rumbles.
“Working on it,” I say.
I climb up onto the stool, the wood creaking under my weight. It lifts me enough that the height difference isn’t quite so ridiculous. His chest is now level with my face. All I have to do is tilt my chin up to meet his gaze.
“Come here,” I say. It comes out more like a command than I intended.
His brows lift. “You’re very bossy for someone whose entire existence fits into my wingspan.”
“Boone,” I warn. “Please. Come closer.”
He hesitates, then takes the last step toward me.
We’re close enough now that I can feel his body heat, a steady, solid warmth rolling off him. Up close, his fur smells like cedar and clean earth, like river fog and sunlight caught on bark. His eyes, that molten gold, watch me with a nervousness I don’t think he’s aware he’s showing.
I can see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his fingers flex and curl at his sides.
“Okay,” I say quietly. “Now I am going to ask you something very important.”
He swallows, a visible bob of that thick throat. “All right.”
“Can I touch you?”
The question seems to hit him harder than anything else I’ve said tonight.
His eyes flare. His breath hitches. For a second, he simply stands there, massive and immovable, as if scanning through every possible outcome of this moment.
Then he nods once. “Yes,” he says. His voice is rougher now. “You can touch me.”
I extend a hand, slowly, giving him plenty of time to change his mind.
He doesn’t.
My fingers meet his forearm first. The fur there is thick and warm, the muscle beneath solid as stone. I let my palm settle there, feeling the subtle tremor that runs through him at the contact.
“See?” I say, voice barely more than a whisper. “Still you.”
I slide my hand upward, along the curve of his arm, to the swell of his shoulder. His breath deepens, a low rumble resonating somewhere in his chest. I move higher, carefully, until my fingers brush the side of his neck.
He goes absolutely still.
His fur is shorter there, softer. I can feel the heat of his skin beneath it, the thrum of his pulse beating hard against my fingertips. I trace up, along the edge of his jaw, the structure of it strong and unfamiliar and fascinating.
His eyes half close.
“Elias,” he says, and hearing my name in that voice rocks me to my core.
I swallow.
“I really want to kiss you,” I say.
His eyes snap open again, wide with shock, hope, and terror all at once.
“In this form,” I specify, because that’s the point. “Because this is how you’re most comfortable. This is how you feel most… you. I’m aware of the differences. I’m aware of the logistics. I’m very aware that this is not something you can look up in any normal dating manual. But I also know what my gut is telling me, and it’s been screaming at me about you since the day I saw your tracks.”
He stares at me, breathing hard.
“I’ve known you for less than a week,” I go on. “I know that. It’s ridiculous. I’m a man of science; I’m supposed to be wary of ridiculous. But for once, I’m going to let my gut drag my brain along instead of the other way around.”
