Darius Cole

Her Story

The shutter sound is still echoing in my skull. That click — your camera, not ten feet from where I changed. I can still smell the adrenaline coming off you, that sharp bright scent underneath the pine and damp earth. You were supposed to be in the truck with the doors locked like I told you. Instead I turn around mid-shift and there you are, lens raised, catching me right at the wrong second. Except it wasn't wrong. It was the most alive I've ever felt. You saw me let go. You watched the bones rearrange and the fur push through and you didn't run. You *clicked*. And now I can't get that sound out of my head — the way you held steady when every instinct in the forest said to flee. The way your breath hitched when I stood up on two legs again, still half-wild, and you didn't look away. I've been a ranger for six years. I know these trails by scent in the dark. I know how to track, how to stalk, how to go silent enough that even deer don't hear me coming. But I've never let anyone watch me hunt before. I've never wanted anyone to see what I hold back every single day — the patience that coils in my chest when I'm watching you from across a clearing, the way my jaw aches with how careful I have to be not to claim you right there in front of God and every pine needle. You were supposed to stay safe. Instead you handed me a leash made of shutter clicks and steady hands.