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Lucien is beside me. He keeps glancing at me, checking, making sure I’m okay. I want to tell him I’m fine, but I don’t say anything. I just stay close.

We move deeper into the woods, following tracks I wouldn’t have noticed if Billy hadn’t pointed them out. Hoof prints in a muddy patch. Disturbed earth where something rooted for acorns. Shoulder-height broken branches, where a large animal pushed through.

“They came through here recently,” Mr. Ashford says, crouching to examine a particularly clear print. “Maybe this morning.”

The group tightens, everyone more alert now. The casual chatter stops. We’re hunting now.

I feel Lucien’s hand brush against mine, just for a second, a silent reassurance.

The temperature seems to drop as we go deeper. The cold seeps through my layers, finding its way to my skin.

The wind moves through the pine branches overhead, a soft, constant whisper, and the sounds of the forest surround us: the distant call of a chickadee, our breathing, the occasional crack of a branch somewhere in the distance.

And underneath it all, silence. Deep, profound silence.

After about twenty minutes of tracking, Lucien starts drifting to the right.

It’s subtle at first, just a slight shift in direction, a few steps away from the main group. I follow without thinking, staying close to him like he told me to.

No one seems to notice.

Lucien moves with purpose, not hesitating. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

We move deeper into the trees, away from the group. The sounds of their footsteps and voices begin to fade, first becoming muffled, then distant, then barely audible.

I glance back and see Liam still with the others, his rifle held carefully as he follows Mr. Ashford. I feel a pang of guilt leaving him, but Lucien leans close and whispers, “He’s fine. He’s one of the boys.”

I nod, and we keep moving.

The isolation happens suddenly. One moment, I can still hear voices, footsteps, the occasional crack of a branch. And the next, all I hear is the wind moving through the trees and the distant call of a bird.

We’re alone.

The woods feel different here, quieter. Like we’ve crossed into a space that belongs only to us, where the normal rules don’t apply.

Lucien stops near a massive oak tree. The trunk is enormous, gnarled and twisted with age. The branches spread overhead like arms opening to the sky.

He leans his rifle carefully against the trunk and turns to me.

The softness in his expression wasn’t there before. All the performance from this morning, the crude jokes, the easy laughter, the alpha masculinity, are gone. This is just Lucien.

“Come here,” he says quietly.

I set my rifle down carefully beside his and step closer.

We’re both bundled in so many layers it’s almost ridiculous. But when Lucien pulls me against him, I feel his solid form. The way I fit against him.

He kisses me, slow and deep, and I lean into him.

The crack of rifle fire echoes in the distance, far enough away that we don’t stop. Lucien’s hands move to my waist, under my jacket, holding me close. His tongue makes furtive movements against mine, and I make a small sound in the back of my throat at the way his kiss suggests penetration. I’m immediately embarrassed. I bring my hands up to his hair, warming my fingers and mussing up his perfect style.

The contrast is staggering. Last night in the house, surrounded by the guys, performing normalcy and masculinity, Lucien laughing at stupid jokes, shotgunning beers, talking about football. And now here, in the cold woods, with nothing but the sound of wind and distant birds, where we can finally be real.

When he breaks the kiss, he’s smiling. “I have something for you.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small bottle of lube.

“What does that mean?”