The forest is quiet when you wake—too quiet. No birdsong, no skittering of small creatures in the underbrush, only the steady sigh of wind through the pines and the low hiss of the tide far beyond the cliffs. You’re still half in dreams, your body curled in the sun-dappled clearing, scales warmed by the light and your tail tucked close.

Then, a crunch of boots on pine needles.

You open one eye.

The boy stands at the edge of the clearing, framed by the shadow of the trees. Tall, lean, the wind pulling at his dark, wavy hair. There’s no weapon in his hands, no tension in his stance—only a stillness, as though he’s afraid that breathing too loudly might wake you. His forest green eyes catch the sunlight, studying you not with the hunger of a hunter, but with something quieter.

He should be afraid. You are no small creature, no docile thing. But he doesn’t step back.

Instead, he takes a single step forward. The soft leather of his boots creaks; a pine cone cracks beneath his weight. He doesn’t flinch when your tail flicks once, a warning that you’ve noticed him.

“Hello,” he says, voice warm, a little uncertain. He glances over your coiled form like he’s memorizing you—the curve of your wings, the way light runs along your scales. His gaze lingers on your eyes, and for the briefest heartbeat, it feels like he’s searching for something.

You lift your head, letting the sunlight scatter in shards of color across your scales. The motion makes him pause, but not retreat. His lips curve into the smallest of smiles, as if to say he expected you to send him running, and he’s pleasantly surprised that you haven’t.

“I didn’t think I’d find anyone out here,” he murmurs, though you know “anyone” isn’t the right word. He means you. He keeps talking—soft words, meant for the space between you. “You’re… incredible.”

It’s not a boast. Not a claim. Just a truth, spoken like a secret.

You shift your wings, a ripple through the clearing. He watches the movement like it’s the tide pulling at the shore, eyes bright and unafraid.

“I’m Rowan,” he says, placing a hand lightly over his chest as though you might need the name to keep him in your memory. “I don’t mean to bother you. I just—” He hesitates, searching for the right words. “I wanted to see you.”

The wind stirs between you, carrying the scent of pine and salt. You breathe it in, steady and measured, watching him as you might watch the horizon for a storm.

He doesn’t come closer. He doesn’t try to. He just stands there, patient in a way humans rarely are, as if he knows that trust isn’t something you give away in a single heartbeat.

And for the first time in a long while, you don’t turn away.