“I amabsolutely not,” I lie, staring directly at him.
He glances down meaningfully.
My face grows so warm I’m surprised it isn’t visible from orbit.
“Elias,” he says, voice far too satisfied, “humans are very bad at hiding arousal.”
“I’m not aroused,” I say unconvincingly. “I’m just… admiring the craftsmanship.”
His eyebrows lift. “Craftsmanship?”
“Yes,” I croak. “Whoever built you did a great job.”
He laughs—laughs—and the sound rolls through me like a warm shock wave.
I turn away before my knees give out. “Get dressed,” I mutter. “Some of us are weak.”
His grin widens, smug enough to power a small city. But he does pull on his gray sweats, and for that I am extremely grateful, because the thick, heavy weight between his legs is…
Nope.
Not thinking about that. Not thinking about whether the proportions are better—safer—in human form. Not thinking about how absolutely game I am to try the cryptid form eventually.
No thoughts. Just camping.
“Elias,” he calls. “Your face is still red.”
“Heat rash,” I lie weakly.
“It’s sixty degrees.”
“No further questions.”
He snorts, but he lets it go.
We set up camp in the clearing. The golden light of late afternoon filters through the trees. Boone gathers fallen logs with the casual ease of someone lifting pillows, and I try not to swoon when he carries three at once.
He builds the firepit while I set up the tent. And by “set up the tent,” I mean I pull it out of its sack, examine its contents, and immediately trip over a pole.
Boone materializes at my side. “I’ll do it,” he says gently.
“No, I need to contribute!”
He arches a brow.
I hold the pole with too much determination. “I am capable.”
He watches me for three full seconds, then says, “You are about to assemble a modern art sculpture, not a tent.”
“Maybe I’m an artist.”
He huffs and takes the pole from me like he’s rescuing a small, injured bird. “Sit,” he orders.
I sit, despite having put up a tent more times than I can count. Honestly, my clumsiness at this point is all his fault.
Five minutes later, the tent is up, perfect, and symmetrical. I point at it. “I loosened the zipper. That counts.”
“It does not.”
