Page 23 of For Pucking Ever

“I hate nature,” I mutter.

Bast laughs under his breath, and damn if that sound doesn’t settle right under my skin. “You grew up in a beach town.”

“Exactly. Sand, the cove, rock cliffs and fish, not squirrels.”

We fall into a rhythm. Him a few paces ahead, me struggling not to collapse onto the dirt path like some melodramatic reality show contestant. It feels good, actually. Fresh air filling lungs that have forgotten what oxygen is supposed to taste like. Real movement that isn't just shuffling from bed to couch to fridge and back. The first real walk outside I've taken in three weeks. Three weeks of existing in a twilight state where time blurred and my body forgot how to function. Yeah, maybe it has something to do with the fact I actually slept last night. Slept because he stayed. Because for once, I didn't feel like I was clawing against the dark alone, fighting shadows that kept winning.

I glance at him. He's wearing black athletic shorts that hit just above the knee, a fitted tank top that should be illegal in at least twelve states for public safety reasons, and his left arm⁠—

"Wait," I pant, narrowing my eyes as realization dawns slow and syrupy. "You have a full dragon sleeve."

He looks at me like I'm the slow one, that half-smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "You've seen it before."

"I don't remember seeing all of it," I say, trying not to stare too obviously or blush because the night we were entangled in one another, his arms weren't exactly what I was cataloging in my memory bank. The ink is beautiful. Dark swirls that remind me of midnight tides, sharp scales etched with meticulous detail, claws and smoke that wrap around his bicep and forearm like armor crafted from shadow itself. It suits him, this permanent artwork that both conceals and reveals. "Why a dragon?"

"Chinese mythology," he says, voice matter-of-fact but somehow softer than before. "Dragons symbolize power. Strength. Protection. Good luck."

I nod, still catching my breath, mentally repeating those four words like they're keeping me upright. "Makes sense."

"I got it when I was nineteen," he adds, and something in his tone makes me pay closer attention. "Thought if I branded the strength onto my skin, maybe I'd start believing I had it."

The way he says it, quiet, casual, makes something inside me twist. The words settle in my chest like stones sinking through water. How at nineteen he'd needed to brand strength onto himself when I'd always seen him as nothing but invincible.

"I never wanted a tattoo," I say, more to fill the silence than anything else. "Needles and I aren't exactly friends." I don't add that Mom's multiple sclerosis means I've seen enough needles for several lifetimes, watched them pierce her skin for treatments until medical equipment became as familiar as furniture.

Bast quirks a brow at me, his gray eyes catching the dappled light. "That's a shame. You'd wear ink well." His gaze slides over my arms in a way that makes my skin feel electric.

I laugh, the sound surprising me with its authenticity. "You flirting with me or assessing my skin?"

"Can't it be both?" There's that half-smile again. The one I'd seen in interviews and press conferences long before I ever met him in person, the one my teenage self had studied with embarrassing intensity.

We reach a clearing, and I stop to breathe taking in the view. The city skyline peeks through a gap in the trees, all gleaming glass, metal, and concrete in the distance. Seattle spread before us looks like a promise. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I'm standing on the edge of the world again, not trapped beneath it, crushed by the weight of my own shortcomings.

"Thanks for this," I say softly, meaning it for more than just the hike.

He's standing closer now, close enough that our shoulders brush. His body heat rolls off him like sunlight, and I resist the urge to lean into it. "Anytime." The word carries weight, an offering.

The moment stretches. Not uncomfortable, just. . .full. Of possibility, of unspoken things, of the strange reality that Sebastian Bergeron is standing beside me in a forest looking at me like I matter.

Then, because I'm clearly cursed with a death wish, I say, "You trying to kill me out here?"

He grins. Full teeth, that wicked slant of mouth I remember from last summer when everything was different. "If I was, I'd have picked a steeper trail."

I roll my eyes, smirking despite myself. "Next time, I'm picking the route. Something flat. Concrete. Preferably near ice cream." The words ‘next time’ slip out before I can analyze them.

"No stamina," he teases, shaking his head like I'm a lost cause, but his eyes remain soft, contradicting his words.

"Don't tempt me to fake an injury so you have to carry me through the woods." I'm playing with fire and know it.

"Wouldn't be the first time I've had you in my arms."

My breath catches. I hate how fast my heart reacts, like it's on a hair trigger where he's concerned. Before I can think of a comeback, he stops at the base of a moss-covered stairway carved into the slope. The steps lead up through a narrow path, trees curling over like an archway.

“Race you to the top,” he says.

“You’re actually insane.”

He doesn’t answer. He just starts climbing. And because I’m me, and because I’m still the idiot who fell for an unattainable man last summer, I chase him anyway.