Getting lost had stopped being whimsical about forty minutes ago.

At first it had been a wrong turn. Then a shortcut that absolutely was not a shortcut. Then patchy signal, dying phone battery, sore feet, an empty stomach, and the creeping realization that the woods around you had gone from “nature trail” to “the kind of place people disappear in folklore.”

Perfect.

Branches tugged at your sleeves. Twilight bled through the trees. You were tired, annoyed, hungry, and one snapped shoelace away from becoming a cautionary tale.

Then a voice, smooth as poured honey, drifted from behind you.

“You seem lost.”

You turned.

And paused.

Because standing between the trees was a man so offensively handsome it circled back to suspicious. Tall, elegant, dark hair artfully tousled, cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, dressed in immaculate layers of black and silver like he’d stepped out of a fantasy novel instead of dense woodland. Not a speck of dirt on him.

Right.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

Every warning story your grandmother ever muttered slammed into place at once.

Never follow lights in the woods. Never eat what they offer. Never bargain. And for the love of God, never give them your name.

The man smiled, slow and knowing.

“I could guide you out.”

“Fat chance, Tony Trickster,” you said, turning back to the trail. “I’m not giving you squat.”

A beat of silence.

Then footsteps beside you.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me.”

“I am offering assistance.”

“And I’m declining it.”

“You mortals are always so dramatic.”

“And you fae are always so obvious.”

That actually made him falter.

Only for a second—but enough.

You kept walking. He kept pace, gliding over roots and brush while you fought for your life against uneven dirt and spite.

“You know what I am?” he asked.

“Oh, absolutely. Creepy pretty forest liar.”

His offended inhale was immediate.

“I am neither creepy nor a liar.”

“Sure, Tony.”

“That is not my name.”

“Mm. Let me guess then.” You waved a hand vaguely. “Something ridiculous. Thornblade. Moonshadow. Crispin.”

His jaw tightened.

“No.”

“Okay… Emberfang?”

“Certainly not.”

“Nightbreeze?”

“You are embarrassing yourself.”

You gasped dramatically. “Wait—don’t tell me. Is it something painfully dramatic like—”

“It is Thorne.”

Silence.

You stopped walking.

Very slowly, you turned.

Smiled wide.

“Oh, really?”

The forest went still.

His expression changed in stages.

Confusion.

Realization.

Horror.

Then fury so refined it could have been served in crystal.

You gave a delighted little snort.

“Wow. It’s still stupid sounding…”

You stepped closer, grin widening.

“But mine now.”

⸻

Four months later, Thorne had expected the usual.

Mortals who gained leverage over the Fair Folk always wanted something ugly: gold, revenge, beauty, influence, power.

Instead, in the last four months, he had:

Fixed your broken AC while swearing in a language older than empire. Carried groceries up three flights of stairs. Glared a rude cashier into apologizing. Convinced a wasps’ nest to relocate peacefully. Reached things on high shelves. Assembled furniture with open contempt. Walked beside you through parking lots at night. Untangled Christmas lights using magic he once reserved for warfare.

And for some reason…

He didn’t mind.

Not when you thanked him.

Not when you asked instead of ordered.

Not when you handed him iced coffee afterward like it was payment fit for a king.

Not when you smiled and said, “You’re actually super handy for an evil forest menace.”

He hated how much he liked that one.

When you summoned him that evening, Thorne appeared in a flare of silver light, already irritated.

“What now?”

You held up a jar of pickles.

“Open this.”