“Do you often walk shifted into downtown Shawano when you’re drunk?” I asked him, when he didn’t seem to be about to add anything else.
“This was the first time,” he answered softly.
“And you came to find me,” I said. I didn’t mention the fact that I hadn’t given him my new address—just that I’d found somewhere to live.
“I was really drunk.”
I sighed, turning onto the highway that led out to his house. “But why come findme?” I pressed.
“You weren’t answering my texts.” The words sounded half-swallowed.
“You texted me at like two in the morning,” I retorted. “I was asleep.” I also hadn’t texted him back the last time he’d texted me, and it had been two days. He’d also told me tonevermind, and I’d used that as a reason not to respond.
“And I was really, really drunk. I’m sorry.”
I tried to swallow the next sigh, letting it slowly out my nostrils so that he wouldn’t notice. I don’t know if he did or not, but he didn’t say anything.
“How did you find where I live?” I asked him, then.
“I went to the Sheriff’s Office, then followed your scent here.”
“You stalked me,” I said flatly, annoyed and a little alarmed.
“I—didn’t mean to!” He not only sounded contrite, but actually a little horrified. “I just—I wasn’t thinking. Just on… badger-auto-pilot.”
I shot him a quick look that showed my incredulity.
“I know, and Iamsorry.”
I should have been more alarmed by the fact that he’d tracked me by scent from my job. I know I should have been. But I also knew that when you were shifted and out of it—whether from fear or alcohol—you did shit you would not do while sober. Like go home with the guy who you blew in the bathroom—Devin—or attack your twin brother, or, apparently, scent-stalk your former lover who you basically threw out of your house.
Two of those had been me. And one of them I hadn’t even had the excuse of being a shifter a little out of control.
So I got it. I understood that your emotions and instincts sort of took over sometimes. Especially in fur.
He hadn’t broken into my apartment or set up recording equipment or even tried to watch me. He’d gone to sleep—or passed out, I suppose—at the bottom of the stairs leading up to my apartment door. I was the one who had brought him inside, given him my clothes.
Because of course I had. He’d clearly been miserable. My instinct had been to help him, not fear him or be repulsed by him. I still wanted to help him, to comfort him. But I was also wary of giving him more than I already had—because all I’d gotten back was heartache.
And food and shelter for about three weeks.
It wasn’t that I was ungrateful—I was incredibly grateful. But I was also acutely aware that Noah was right. I didn’t owe Elliot sex or affection because of his generosity. I’d actually done the math—sat down and figured out how much he’d spent keeping me fed and housed. Or pretty close, anyway. I probably owed him three or four grand, depending on how you did the math for utilities, plus food, plus some clothes and other things that he’d bought for me while out on shopping trips, despite my protests.
And that didn’t include rent, which I’d probably factor in another grand or so for if I wanted to give him market rate formy room. So five or six thousand. I figured at the current rate of my expenses and income, I’d be able to pay him back in a year or so.
“Seth?” Elliot’s rough voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Yeah?”
“It won’t happen again.”
I shot him a sideways glance. I’d heard that before. Not from him, admittedly, but it was one of those red flag phrases. To be fair, I suppose there must be people who really did mean it—and who didn’t do whatever it was again. I just didn’t think I’d ever met any of them.
Elliot sighed. “I know what that sounds like,” he said.
I shrugged.
“I mean it, though.”
