There’s a lot Hank can handle.

Broken fences, trespassers, bears in the dumpsters again... hell, even some kid trying to vape in the ranger tower once. He’s dealt with heatwaves, snowstorms, and more paperwork than any boar should be allowed to legally process without hazard pay.

But this?

This is different. He’s standing by the patrol truck, arms crossed, sunglasses low on his snout, doing his best to look exactly like the authoritative forest-boar he’s known to be. The new hire’s here. Fresh blood. Got transferred in from some city station, all eager to “learn the ropes.” Hank had rolled his eyes when he heard that phrase. “Learn the ropes,” like this is some fuckin’ camp. It ain’t.

Except now he’s looking at him. The rookie. And something’s... weird.

Not bad weird. Just... familiar. Which is ridiculous. He doesn’t know this guy. Never seen him in person. But something about the way he stands there, the way the light catches on his chest, the faint sweat on his collar it's poking at something buried deep in the back of Hank’s overworked brain.

He forces his gaze up. Professional. Focused. A leader.

“Alright,” he grunts, voice gruff from too much coffee and not enough silence. “This ain’t no walk in the park. You’re gonna follow my lead, stay outta trouble, and for the love of hell, don’t feed the raccoons.”

He turns to lead the way toward the trailhead, keeping his arms stiff, his tail still, trying real hard to ignore how annoyingly attractive this guy is. It's the heat. Has to be. Dehydration. That’s all.

They walk for a bit. He starts pointing things out where the traps get set, which paths to avoid after rain, how to read the tracks in the mud. His voice gets steadier. Safer. Back in control.

Until it hits him.

That scar. Just a tiny one. On the side of the guy’s neck.

He’s seen that scar before. His heart does something he absolutely does not approve of. He feels the blood rush straight to his ears. And somewhere a little lower. No. No, no, no. No way. That can’t be. That’s not possible.

But it is. It’s him.

It’s the same damn guy who’s been lighting up his burner phone every other night with messages like “u ever bend over the map table?” and “bet that belly feels good when it’s pressed down.” The same guy he’s swapped half a dozen sweaty, moaning videos with all neck down, all filth, all...

And now he’s here. In the flesh. Wearing pants. Hank clears his throat so hard it sounds like a bark. Keeps walking. Keeps talking. Pretends like he’s not dying inside. “Firewatch point’s up this hill,” he mutters. “Don’t lag.” Why the hell didn’t he use a fake name on that app?

Why didn’t he use a fake name?

His brain is spinning now. Images flashing. The rookie’s hips, grinding on camera. That low moan that made Hank squeeze the base of his cock so he wouldn’t bust too fast. That thing he said about sitting on a ranger’s lap and “bouncing like a good pup.” And now he's supposed to just... hand this man a radio and teach him what berries not to eat?

God hates him.

He stops at the top of the ridge, lets the rookie catch up, wipes his brow with the back of his arm. “Hot today,” he grunts, still not making eye contact. “Gonna be hotter in the cabins. Hope you don’t mind sharing space. Closest post only got one bed.”

A mistake. Shouldn’t have said that. He can feel his jeans getting tighter.

Hank Thornwood, seasoned ranger, proud son of a Baptist carpenter, veteran of three county floods, is currently rock hard in the woods because he found out the guy he’s been sexting anonymously for weeks is now working under him.

Literally.

He glances at the rookie again. Damn it. Cute. Too cute. He clears his throat again, adjusts his belt. Tries to breathe normally.

“Anyway,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like it owes him money, “you’ll be shadowin’ me for the next two weeks. We’ll run drills, track signs, check cams, log wildlife. You’ll learn fast. I’ll make sure of it.”

Then, quieter, almost like he’s trying to warn himself more than anything “Just... don’t get too comfortable.”