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They should.

“You’re not wrong,” I say, and Onyx’s mouth almost curves. He’s pleased with himself; I can feel it. The smug little pulse he tries and fails to hide now that he knows the word. I point at him. “Don’t start.”

I have not started, he shrugs. I have observed.

“That’s worse.”

He looks around again, then very carefully touches the back of one kitchen chair with two fingers. The chair creaks, and he freezes as if it has spoken a challenge.

“It’s fine,” I say, still smiling. “It’s old. Everythin’ in here complains.”

He frowns at the chair, then sends, Weak tree.

I laugh again. “It’s furniture.”

Dead tree made into sitting thing.

“That’s… technically accurate.”

Humans make many things from dead trees and act surprised when the forest dislikes houses.

I stare at him. “Did you just insult my home and my species in one sentence?”

Yes.

There’s no hesitation, just the cool confidence of a being who has discovered being funny on purpose and intends to abuse the privilege. Laughter shakes through me again, loosening something in my chest that’s been tight for months. Onyx listens to the sound like it feeds him.

The longer he stands inside, the more awkward he becomes, and I mean that in the most painfully endearing way possible. Outside, he is impossible grace. Inside, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, where to look, or what parts of the cabin are safe to touch. When the refrigerator kicks on with a rattling hum, his head snaps toward it, eyes brightening in instant suspicion.

“It’s the fridge,” I say, pointing toward it.

Cold box, he says, displeased, as he steps closer, sniffs, then pulls a face. This meat died too long ago.

I scoff, feeling slightly offended even though I should be used to his cryptid bluntness. “It’s chicken from yesterday and a frozen stockpile for the week.”

Too long dead, he grumbles.

“You eat mushrooms off logs.”

Fresh mushrooms from fresh log.

I cover my face with both my hands and laugh until my face hurts. This fucking man, I swear to god.

Eventually, I convince him to sit on the couch, which becomes its own trial because he lowers himself onto the edge like he expects it to collapse or bite. The couch groans under his weight, and he immediately starts to stand up.

“No, sit,” I say, stepping closer and putting a hand on his shoulder without thinking. “It always makes that noise.”

The second I touch him, the air changes—it always does when we touch. Heat moves through the bond first, then through my body, pooling low and heavy. Onyx goes still beneath my hand.

His skin is warm through the fabric of his Henley, warmer than mine, and the markings under my fingers have a faint raised texture that makes me want to trace them down his chest. His gaze lifts to mine slowly, blue eyes sharpening, all humor quieting into something darker.

Deep, aching want coils between us.

I could lean down, or he could pull me closer. Every part of me knows it, and every part of him knows I know. The cabin feels too small around the force of it, walls and roof and old furniture holding in the kind of pressure I’ve only felt beneath trees until now.

Then Onyx lowers his gaze to my hand on his shoulder and sends, very carefully, You invited me into your den. I will not take more than you’ve given.

My throat tightens. Of all the things he could have said, that one gets under every defense I have.