I squeeze the shutter. Click. The image captures something most cameras would miss—a faint shimmer in the water where the ley lines pulse strongest, the orcas riding that current like it's a highway designed just for them.
"They're following the convergence point," he calls back to me, voice carrying over the wind and waves. "The same onethat pulled me through six months ago. Except it's healed now. Clean. They're using it like a migration route."
I lower my camera, letting it hang from the strap around my neck. "Can you tell them to hold that formation? The light's perfect right now."
His laugh is warm, familiar. "They're apex predators, not models."
"They're photogenic apex predators. There's a difference."
The bond carries his amusement before I hear it—a golden thread that's become as natural as breathing. I know when he's excited about a discovery before he tells me. He knows when I capture the shot I've been chasing by the satisfaction that floods through me.
Right now, that satisfaction blooms as the pod shifts into a V-formation, backlit by early sun breaking through coastal fog. I raise the camera again and shoot in rapid succession. Each image shows something different to trained eyes—the way water moves around creatures more aware of ley energy than they should be, patterns that mirror the magical currents beneath them.
I'm calling the documentary "The Hidden Ecosystems of Redwood Coast." Carefully worded to suggest mystery without revealing too much. The photos I'm taking capture magic in subtle ways—shimmer that could be explained as atmospheric conditions, patterns that might be coincidence, light just unusual enough to make people look twice without understanding what they're seeing.
I've learned to control what my camera sees, what gets documented. The ley line sensitivity that nearly killed me three months ago has become a gift. I can feel when the energy is too strong, when it would show too clearly in the images. I adjust angles, wait for the light to shift, frame shots that hint at truth without exposing it.
Jonah moves back to the helm, checking coordinates on the GPS. His movements are confident, comfortable. This is his element—the ocean, the research, the discovery. He's back to the work he loves, whole in ways that make my chest tight with gratitude.
The bond hums with his contentment. It mirrors my own.
The shadow realm left no lasting damage. His bear is stable now, stronger than before the corruption. No flickering between forms, no pull toward darkness. Just solid grizzly power that responds to his will without hesitation.
Beautiful and terrifying—this work we're building. Documenting magic disguised as marine biology, capturing the invisible currents that guide these creatures through the Pacific.
Now I understand. And I get to document it with the man I love, building a life that combines both our passions into something entirely new.
"Heading back," Jonah calls. "I want to process these samples before the tide changes."
I secure my camera equipment, movements automatic after three months of practice. The boat turns toward shore, cutting through swells with easy grace. Redwood Rise appears through the fog—the place that claimed me before I even knew I needed claiming.
We dock at the small marina Jonah uses for his research. The boat secured, equipment unloaded, we head for the truck. But instead of driving straight back to the compound, Jonah takes a detour.
I recognize the road. "The old ranger cabin?"
"Thought we could check on it. Make sure everything's still intact."
We round the bend and there it is—weathered wood, sagging porch, the place where our story really began. Where I dragged an unconscious shifter inside and defended him with nothingbut a camera flash and stubborn refusal to let the shadows have him.
We've kept it maintained over the past months, using it occasionally as a field station during research trips. But mostly we leave it alone—a monument to that desperate morning when everything changed.
Jonah takes my hand as we climb the porch steps. The door opens with the same creak, revealing the interior that looks both familiar and strange. My sleeping bag is long gone, replaced by proper camping gear. The table I destroyed is fixed. But the memories linger in every corner.
"You saved my life here." His voice is quiet, reverent. "Before you even knew what I was."
"I knew enough." I squeeze his fingers. "Knew you were worth saving."
He pulls me close, and we stand in the center of the cabin where he first shifted in front of me. Where I first felt the mate bond snap into place, terrifying and right in equal measure.
"Three months ago I was human," I say against his chest. "Didn't know shifters existed. Didn't know about ley lines or shadow realms or any of this."
"Regret it?"
"Not for a second." I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "I finally found what I've been looking for my whole life."
"What's that?"
"This. You. All of it."
