"Because if something happens to me, the knowledge dies with me." I keep picking. Keep my voice level. "The paste is the only thing standing between your pack and a weapon designed to kill them. I told Kestria—it's me. Right now, it's just me. That just doesn’t feel right, you know?"
"You'll be here."
"You don't know that."
"Melori—"
"Keer. A human woman living with wolves during a war between humans and wolves."
He’s quiet.
"I can't promise you'll be safe. No."
"Then let me make sure the knowledge survives even if I don't."
I reach for the next stem. After a moment, he does too. Our hands move in the same rhythm. Mine small and quick. His slow and careful.
The baskets are full by the time the sun starts dipping.
My knees ache from kneeling. My back screams when I stand.
His hands match mine. Same stain to the wrist.
"Take it all."
"That's a lot of weight."
"I'm carrying you." His eye drops to the baskets. "The baskets don't matter."
No reason for my pulse to react. This is logistics. Weight distribution. Very reasonable.
He reaches for his shirt buttons.
My throat tightens. My hands go still.
I already know what's under that shirt. I know where every scar is. Not the seeing. The already-knowing.
"I'll just—count petals from this angle." I turn.
"You've seen me shift." I hear the smile in his voice.
"And every time the petals get more fascinating."
"Mel—"
"Shh. I'm counting."
Behind me—air through his nose. Close enough to a laugh. The late sun catches the field behind us, all that blue-white stretching ridge to ridge, and the wind carries the smell of crushed petals and warm earth.
Then the rustle of fabric. Movement behind me. His hand appears over my shoulder, clothes folded against his palm.
I take them, my head starting to turn—nope—stuff them into the basket on top of the moonbright.
Bones cracking.
A nose against my hand.
I turn around and he's already lowered. Watching me.
