Sunrise painted the ledge in colors that shouldn’t exist.
Gold. Rose. A blue so deep it hurt.
The valley was a bowl of shadow, the river a silver thread. Mist clung to the low places. Birdsong laced the air.
I sat cross-legged in my running tights and hoodie, hair in a messy bun, trying not to think about how close the drop was.
Theo paced at the edge like he had no concept of gravity.
“First rule,” he said. “You don’t…pull…without an anchor.”
“I had you,” I pointed out. “In the field.”
“Not enough,” he said. “You need more. People. Objects. Things that keep you…here…when the Ridge starts feeling like…everything.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s specific.”
“I’m not a teacher,” he said. “I’m winging it.”
I smirked.
“Okay, Professor Wolf,” I said. “What’s step one?”
He sat opposite me.
Cross-legged.
His knee brushed mine.
Heat sparked.
“Breathe,” he said. “In. Out. Feel…yourself. Before you feel…anything else.”
“Grounding,” I said. “We did this in therapy exercises in vet school. Before surgery. Before euthanasia.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You’re good at this. You just don’t do it for magic yet.”
I closed my eyes.
In.
Out.
Air cool in my nose, warm in my lungs.
The weight of my body on the rock.
The stretch in my hips.
The faint throb behind my eyes that had never completely gone away since the field.
“That hum you hear?” he said softly. “The Ridge? Let it be…background. Like a fridge. Or traffic. Don’t chase it. We’re not pulling. We’re…listening.”
“What am I…listening for?” I asked.
“Edges,” he said. “Places where your…awareness…meets something else. When you pulled in the field, you knocked the walls down. We’re…building windows.”
“Did you just make a therapy metaphor?” I asked.
“Shut up,” he said, amused.
I smiled.
Let myself sink.
The hum was there.
Always.
Some days it was louder.
Today it was…curious.
Brushing against me like a cat.
I acknowledged it.
Then tried to let it pass.
I focused on more immediate things.
Theo’s breathing, slow and steady opposite me.
The faint smell of coffee on his skin.
The warmth of his knee against mine.
The roughness of the rock under my palms.
“Good,” he murmured. “Now…open a window. Just one. Small.”
“How,” I asked.
“Pick…something,” he said. “A stone. A tree. The river. Me. Focus. Ask. Don’t shove.”
“Ask…what?” I said.
“Ask…‘where are you,’” he said. “That’s all. Location. No power. No…fixing. Just…connection.”
I thought about the river.
Its silver line down in the valley.
I pictured it.
Then, tentatively, I reached.
Not with the full-body, wild grab I’d done in the field.
With a touch.
Like tapping a shoulder.
*Where are you,* I thought.
Nothing.
Then—
A flash.
Cold.
Movement.
The sensation of rushing between rocks, of sliding over pebbles, of reflecting sky.
It overwhelmed me for a second.
I gasped.
“Easy,” Theo said. “Breathe. Pull back.”
I did.
The river receded.
Its awareness—a thin, constant rush—remained at the edge of my mind, but it didn’t drown me.
I blinked my eyes open.
“That…” I said. “Was…weird.”
He smiled.
“That,” he said, “was…good.”
“I felt…wet,” I said.
He chuckled.
“Yeah,” he said. “You touched…its…sense of self. It’s…strong. But simple. Flow. Down. Around. Always.”
I exhaled.
“Okay,” I said. “That was…window. Not door.”
“Exactly,” he said. “Now…pick something closer.”
I looked at him.
“At me?” he said, amused.
“Who else,” I said.
He rolled his eyes.
“Fine,” he said. “Same thing. ‘Where are you.’ But—” His gaze sharpened. “Do *not* pull. You’ll yank my wolf out by the scruff.”
“Tempting,” I muttered.
He glared.
I closed my eyes again.
Focused on him.
On his scent.
On his warmth.
On the steady presence that had become as familiar as my own shadow.
*Where are you,* I thought.
His response wasn’t like the river.
It wasn’t a rush.
It was…pressure.
Warm.
Heavy.
Like a hand on my back.
I felt where he sat in front of me.
But also…more.
I felt the echo of his feet on the path below.
The faint ache in his arm.
The restless itch of his wolf under his skin, pacing.
I felt his…attention.
On me.
Always.
My heart stuttered.
“Rory,” he said sharply.
“I’m not pulling,” I said quickly. “I’m just…feeling.”
“Feels like a lot,” he muttered.
“You’re…a lot,” I said.
He huffed a laugh.
“Fair,” he said. “Okay. That’s…enough of that for now. Before we end up having sex on this rock and Hayes feels it from town.”
Heat burned my cheeks.
“Is that…possible,” I asked weakly.
He scrunched his nose.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t want to find out.”
We broke contact.
Physically and magically.
I leaned back on my hands, looking out at the valley.
“That wasn’t…so bad,” I said. “Windows.”
“Next time,” he said. “We’ll…test…pushing. Little nudges. See if the Ridge will…respond…to something less dramatic than ‘save my ass from rogues.’”
“Homework,” I muttered.
He smiled.
“You like homework,” he said. “You color-code your sock drawer.”
“Organization,” I corrected. “Not obsession.”
He bumped my shoulder with his.
“Same difference,” he said.
We sat there a while longer.
Just…breathing.
Letting the hum fade to background.
“You know,” he said after a bit, voice casual, “we should probably…talk…about the…love thing.”
My stomach dropped.
I stared at him.
He stared at the horizon.
“I’m not…taking it back,” he said. “What I said. That night. I meant it. I still do. But I…don’t want it to…hang over you like…another…debt. Or expectation. Or magic.”
I swallowed.
“It doesn’t,” I said.
He glanced at me.
“Be honest,” he said.
“I am,” I said. “It…hangs. Sure. But not…like that. More like…something I…look at from different angles when I can’t sleep.”
He smiled faintly.
“Overthinker,” he said.
“Projection,” I said.
He huffed.
“Do you…” He cleared his throat. “Want me to…not say it? For a while. To…give you…space.”
The careful way he asked it made my chest ache.
“Do *you* want to not say it?” I asked. “Because if you do, then…yeah. Don’t. If it feels…heavy. Or one-sided. Or…painful.”
He shook his head.
“It feels…true,” he said simply. “Even when it hurts. It’s just…new. Saying it. To someone who might never…say it back.”
My throat tightened.
“I might,” I whispered.
He blinked.
“Rory,” he said, voice very soft.
“I don’t want to…promise,” I said quickly. “Or…rush. Or…label…whatever this is because it feels like the mountain is…watching. But I…could.” I swallowed. “I can…see it. In…future-me. On a porch. With…wrinkles. And bad knees. And you. Saying it. Easier than breathing.”
He went utterly still.
Then his face crumpled, just for a second.
Not in pain.
In…relief.
In awe.
His hand shot out.
He grabbed mine.
Brought it to his mouth.
Pressed a kiss to my knuckles.
“I can wait,” he said, voice rough. “For that. For…you.”
Heat flooded my body.
“If you say anything else right now,” I warned, “I’m going to climb into your lap and we’ll both fall off this rock.”
He laughed shakily.
“Motivational,” he said.
I squeezed his hand.
“Come on,” I said. “We have hunters to map and rituals to plan. We can’t both end up concussed.”
He grinned.
“Race you down,” he said, eyes glinting.
“Cheater,” I said. “You have four-wheel drive.”
He winked.
“Then keep up,” he said.
***
We did not, to my immense frustration, have sex that week.
What we *did* have were more rituals, more training, and more small, infuriatingly intimate things that made my insides twist.
Theo fixing the loose board on my porch without me asking.
Me bringing him lunch at the hardware store and catching him mid-measurement, sawdust in his hair.
Him sitting in the back of my clinic during a slow afternoon, pretending to read while really watching me work, expression soft.
Me falling asleep on his chest again on the couch, his good arm wrapped around my waist, his breath warm in my hair.
Slow burn, indeed.
Letting it simmer made everything sharper.
Every brush of fingers.
Every shared look.
Every almost-kiss.
It was maddening.
It was…delicious.
“I hate you,” I told him one night as we washed dishes side by side at the cabin.
He snorted.
“Why this time?” he asked.
“Because you’ve turned me into a cliché,” I said. “Yearning on a porch. Daydreaming during appointments. Having to take cold showers because you said one vaguely filthy thing about wanting to lick honey off my—”
“Rory,” he choked. “Please. I’m trying to be good.”
“Try harder,” I muttered, shoving a dish at him.
His eyes darkened.
“Is that a challenge?” he asked, voice dropping.
Heat shot between my legs.
I scowled.
“Yes,” I said. “It is. Be good. For now. Or I swear, I will march down to Hayes and ask him to chaperone us.”
He groaned.
“Cruel,” he said.
“Accurate,” I said.
We bumped hips.
Laughed.
And under it all, the Ridge hummed louder.
Like it knew what we were *not* doing.
And approved.
For now.
***