And, I hadn’t realized his gamer tag was legit. He didn’t hide himself online. Geoff really was a Yeti. A gaming Yeti.
A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my chest. “Well,” I said to the empty room, “this is definitely not how I pictured our meet-cute.”
“What was that?” His voice carried from somewhere deeper in the cabin.
“Nothing!” I called back, then winced. Even my voice hurt, my throat raw from the cold.
He reappeared carrying an armload of fabric. He brought blankets, sweatpants, and what looked like several oversized t-shirts. “These are going to be huge on you,” he said apologetically, setting them on the couch beside me. “I don’t keep human-sized clothing around.”
Our eyes met for the first time since he’d set me down, really met, and the moment stretched. His eyes were pale blue-gray, almost silver, with an intelligence and warmth that translatedperfectly from the hundreds of gaming sessions where I’d only been able to imagine what he looked like.
He looked away first, a motion that seemed almost bashful. “The bathroom’s through there.” He pointed to another doorway. “A hot shower will help with the cold. I’ll make you something warm to drink.”
I stood on shaking legs, gathering the clothes against my chest. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, I was cataloging my injuries. I had a bruised chest from the airbag, an aching hip from my fall, and a dozen smaller pains. Nothing serious, probably, but enough to make me feel like I’d gone through multiple rounds with a raid boss.
I made it two steps before my knees buckled.
He caught me before I’d fully registered falling, one large hand steadying my elbow. “Easy. You might have a concussion. Did you hit your head in the crash?”
“I don’t think so. Just the airbag.” I looked up, way up, at him. I’d been right about the eight feet, and felt a strange flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with shock. “I’m okay. Today has been a lot.”
“Yeah.” Something flickered across his face. “I know this must be weird. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you this weekend. At the convention. I had an entire speech planned.”
“A speech?”
He helped me toward the bathroom, his hand still supporting my elbow with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his sheer size. “About why I never turned my camera on. Why I was always vague about where exactly I lived. I was terrified you’d…” He trailed off.
“That I’d what?”
We’d reached the bathroom doorway. He let go of my arm, stepping back as if he’d been touching hot coals. “I was afraidyou’d be disappointed. That the person you'd been talking to all this time wasn’t,” he paused, “who or what you expected.”
I stared at him, this massive being who could probably bench-press my car, who looked like something out of myth, who was radiating anxiety like a teenager asking someone to prom.
“YetiBeGood,” I said slowly, “did you seriously think I’d care that you’re actually a Yeti?”
His ears - small, rounded, and almost hidden in his fur, twitched. “I mean... yes? Humans generally do care about that kind of thing. In my experience.”
“Your username is literally YetiBeGood.”
“I thought you’d think it was ironic! Or a joke! Lots of people pick creature usernames. It doesn’t mean they’re actually vampires or werewolves or whatever.”
A laugh escaped my throat, surprising us both. It hurt my bruised ribs, but I couldn’t stop. “Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that for four years, I’ve been gaming with someone called YetiBeGood, who lives in the mountains near a monster-integrated town, who always has perfect cold-weather survival tips, and I was supposed to think you were what? A really enthusiastic human winter sports fan?”
A slow smile spread across his face, revealing teeth that were definitely sharper than human normal but somehow not threatening. “When you put it like that, it does seem pretty obvious.” He winked.
“Pretty obvious,” I agreed. The bathroom was warm and steam-fogged, as if someone had recently showered. “I’m going to process all of today. And get out of these wet clothes before I get hypothermia.”
His skin darkened. “Right. Yes. I’ll,” he gestured behind him. “Hot chocolate. I’ll make hot chocolate.”
He fled.
Actually fled, like I was the scary one in this scenario.
I closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, my heart doing complicated gymnastics in my chest. I looked down at the bundle of clothes in my arms before placing the soft flannel pants, a t-shirt that would probably hang to my knees, and thick wool socks on the vanity sink.
Three years. Three years of friendship, of late nights and shared victories and conversations that felt more real than most of my face-to-face relationships. And now I was standing in his bathroom, about to wear his clothes, in his cabin, because he’d rescued me from a blizzard.
My phone was still dead, my car was totaled. The convention was probably cancelled; after all, you couldn’t hold a gaming convention in a blizzard. Which meant no casual first meeting in a public place, no safety net of other people and noise and the ability to retreat if things got weird.
