We met during a thunderstorm. I was hiking alone when the lightning split the ridge, and something massive moved in the smoke. I should’ve run. But then I saw him—half-man, half-beast, bleeding from a gash across his flank, golden eyes locked onto mine. He didn’t attack. Just knelt, head bowed, as if waiting for judgment.

I stitched his wound with shaking hands. Didn’t ask questions. Not then.

Now, months later, I lie in bed watching him sleep. Or pretend to sleep. His chest rises and falls too slowly, breath hot against my neck. I know he’s awake. I know he’s listening—to my heartbeat, to my breathing, to the unspoken fear beneath my skin.

'You’re thinking again,' he murmurs, voice like embers shifting.

'I had a dream,' I say. 'You left. Said you had to return to the sky. That I couldn’t follow.'

He turns, eyes blazing softly in the dark. 'I would never leave you.'

But what if you have to? I want to ask. Instead, I trace the scar on his shoulder—the one I gave him with clumsy thread and courage. 'Then prove it. Take me to the peak. Let me see where you come from.'

Silence stretches. Then, a rumble—not anger, but warning. 'It’s not safe. The elders… they don’t accept bonds like ours.'

'Are you ashamed of me?'

He surges forward, caging me beneath him, wings unfurling in the dim light. 'Never. You’re mine. And I am yours—even if it kills me.'

The room heats. My skin prickles. Outside, thunder rolls.

This is it, I think. He’ll take me—or push me away forever.