The canned goods aisle of the Price-Rite grocery store was a study in fluorescent-lit, air-conditioned monotony, a space Rafe Dominguez had entered perhaps twice in the years he’d lived in the county. He moved through it now with a specific, contained energy that parted the mid-morning crowd of retirees and young mothers without them ever quite noticing why they stepped aside. His phone was a hard, warm rectangle in the palm of his hand, the screen still dark. The text, timestamped twenty-three minutes ago, was burned into the back of his eyes.

help @ grocery store

No follow-up. No response to his three subsequent calls, which had gone straight to voicemail after the first ring. In the truck, driving the seventeen minutes from the ranger station with a cold, spreading dread in his gut, he’d run through the possibilities with the grim efficiency of a man trained to do so. Medical event. Accident. Assault. Kidnapping. The last one was ridiculous, a product of the fear, but he’d catalogued the exits of the store as he’d parked, his eyes already scanning the lot for unfamiliar vehicles.

He found them in aisle seven, between ‘Coffee & Tea’ and ‘Breakfast Cereals’.

They were standing perfectly still, facing the wall of brightly colored cans and bags, their shoulders tense beneath their shirt. Unharmed. Visibly whole. The relief hit him first, a physical wave that loosened the vise around his ribs and made him draw in a slow, deliberate breath through his nose. Then, a heartbeat later, the anger arrived. Not a hot, shouting anger, but a cold, dense thing that settled in the base of his throat. It was the anger of fear recalled, of adrenaline with nowhere to go.

He closed the distance between them in six long strides, the sound of his boots on the linoleum the only announcement of his presence. He stopped a foot away, close enough to block them from the view of a passing stock boy pushing a cart of paper towels. He didn’t touch them. Not yet.

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice low, the words measured. It was the voice he used on spooked horses and hikers who’d taken a bad fall. Calm. Anchoring. “What’s wrong?”

He watched them. They didn’t turn. Their eyes were fixed on the shelf. He followed their gaze. It landed on the coffee. Dozens of bags and cans. Dark roast, light roast, French vanilla, hazelnut, Colombian, Sumatran.

A beat of silence stretched, thin and taut. Rafe waited. He could feel his own pulse in his fingertips.

Finally, they moved. A slight, aborted gesture with one hand, pointing vaguely at the array of products. Their head turned just enough for him to see the profile of their face, the clear anxiety pinching their features. They looked... embarrassed. Mortified. Then they explained they had forgotten what brand of coffee he drank.

The cold anger in his throat crystallized into something sharper, more precise.

“Look at me,” he said, the command soft but absolute.

They turned fully then, their expression a mixture of relief at seeing him and dawning horror at the expression on his face. Rafe kept his own features neutral, but his gray eyes were pale and intent.

“You texted ‘help’,” he stated, each word a clean, separate stone dropped into the space between them. “You didn’t answer your phone. For twenty-three minutes. I was on a call about a possible black bear sow with cubs near the Miller trailhead. I left. I drove here thinking you were bleeding. Or unconscious. Or worse.”

He paused, letting the weight of that settle. A woman with a cart laden with toddler snacks gave them a wide berth, sensing the private gravity of the conversation.

“And you are standing here,” he continued, his voice dropping even lower, “because you forgot what coffee I drink.”

He didn’t raise his voice. He never raised his voice. But the quiet intensity of the statement was worse than any shout. He looked down at them, his expression a careful, neutral mask, though a muscle in his jaw twitched. “You sent a text that said ‘help’,” he began, his voice a low, measured baritone that demanded attention without ever needing to rise in volume. “You gave me a location. Nothing else. You understand what that does? What that means?”

He took another slow breath, the scent of the store—waxy apples, disinfectant, cheap bread—filling his lungs. The fear was receding, leaving behind a hollowed-out weariness and the persistent, sharp annoyance. “You could have called the station. You could have texted ‘what coffee do you want?’ You could have bought the cheap can of Folgers and I would have drunk it without saying a damn word.” He held their gaze, his own unwavering. “You cannot do that. Not for this. Not for... For grocery decisions. Entiendes?” The Spanish slipped out, a sign of the emotion he was working to keep contained.

He waited, his hand now resting on their shoulder, a heavy, warm weight. He was still in his uniform pants and a dark gray t-shirt, the badge clipped to his belt. He hadn’t taken the time to grab his jacket. He’d just gone. Because they had said ‘help’.

The front door of the cabin opened and closed with its familiar, heavy thud. Rafe’s work boots made a soft, solid sound on the wooden floor as he stepped inside, the scent of pine and cold autumn air clinging to his jacket. He’d been out since before dawn, tracking a black bear that had been getting too comfortable near the new campgrounds. His shoulders ached pleasantly from the long hike, and the quiet of the cabin was a welcome relief.

It lasted approximately three seconds.

A steady, rhythmic dripping sound came from the kitchen, accompanied by a soft, frustrated grunt. Rafe’s brow furrowed. He followed the sound, his steps quickening, and rounded the corner to the kitchen. The scene that greeted him was one of such profound, predictable chaos that he simply stopped, one hand still on the doorframe

He found them exactly where the noise suggested: on their knees, bent over, head and one shoulder vanished into the dark cavity under the sink. A small but steady river of water was seeping across the worn wooden floorboards, soaking the knees of their pants. A haphazard collection of tools—a hammer, a pair of needle-nose pliers, what looked like a wood-carving chisel—lay scattered in the puddle like the aftermath of a failed siege. Their entire arm was submerged in the pipe, the position arching their back and presenting their rear to the room in a way that was both comical and, Rafe had to admit, arrestingly shapely.

A long, slow sigh escaped him, a sound of profound, weary resignation. He didn't speak, didn't ask the obvious questions. He simply turned on his heel, walked to the basement door, and descended to find the main water shut-off valve. The familiar, solid thunk of the valve closing was followed by an immediate cessation of the gurgling from the kitchen. He came back up to find the room plunged into a sudden, dripping silence.

He walked over and crouched behind them, the cold water instantly soaking through the knees of his denim jeans. He paid it no mind. He rested his forearms on his thighs, just looking, taking in the scene: the futile tools, the drenched floor, the curve of their spine, the way their ass was so perfectly, unintentionally offered up to him.

"Dios mío, cariño," he murmured, his voice a low, warm baritone that cut through the quiet. "What am I going to do with you?" He let the question hang, his gray eyes tracing the lines of their body. "You didn't shut the water off. That’s the first thing you do.” His thumb began to move in a slow, circular motion, a possessive, soothing gesture that was at odds with his chastising tone.

He leaned forward, his chest brushing against their back, and his other hand came to rest on their hip, steadying them. “And these,” he continued, his voice dropping to a more intimate, gravelly register as he nudged the misplaced tools with the toe of his boot, “are not plumbing tools, cariño. What were you planning to do? Beat the leak into submission?” A faint, amused rumble echoed in his chest.

His exploring hand slid from their hip down the outside of their thigh, then back up, his fingers slipping between their legs to press firmly against the seam of their jeans. He could feel the heat of them even through the wet fabric. “You’ve made a hell of a mess,” he murmured, his lips close to their ear. “Seems to me you need a lesson,” he rumbled, his breath hot against their neck as he worked the zipper down with deliberate slowness. “A very specific kind of lesson. One that makes sure you remember the rules.” He hooked his fingers into the waistband of their jeans and underwear together and began to draw them down, just enough to bare the skin of their lower back and the upper curves of their ass to the cool air of the kitchen. His calloused thumb stroked a slow, possessive circle on the newly exposed skin.

“Gonna make sure you don’t forget the water valve again,” he promised, his voice a gravelly murmur as he admired the view he’d uncovered. “Every time you sit down tomorrow, you’re gonna remember.”

The screen door of the cabin slapped softly against its frame as Rafe stepped out onto the porch, the late afternoon sun warm on his face. The quiet was heavy, a clear sign that the usual source of noise and movement was conspicuously absent. He’d finished cleaning his rifle, put it away, and made a fresh pot of coffee, and still, the house had remained silent. A familiar, low-grade hum of awareness had started in the back of his mind.

He checked the kitchen, the living room, the small bathroom. Nothing. His gaze swept over the driveway; their car was still there. The hum grew slightly louder. He moved through the cabin once more, his steps unhurried but purposeful, his gray eyes missing nothing. It was when he passed the window overlooking the back acreage that he stopped, his posture shifting from search to observation.

There, under the massive old ponderosa pine that marked the edge of the cleared yard, was the source of his quiet alarm. And the reason for the sudden, deep well of fond exasperation that rose in his chest.

He crossed the distance with his hands in his pockets, the dry grass whispering against his boots. The scene clarified with each step. They were a picture of dedicated failure, wrapped in a tangled web of thick hemp rope that was supposed to be for the old tire swing he’d been meaning to hang. One end was knotted, with impressive complexity, around a low branch. The rest was a chaotic snare that had somehow captured an ankle, a wrist, and part of their torso, leaving them leaning at a precarious angle, caught between standing and falling.

He came to a stop a few feet away, his shadow falling over them. He didn’t speak immediately, just took in the intricate mess of it. A low, soft chuckle escaped him, a sound of pure affection. “Maldita sea, cariño,” he murmured, his voice a low, warm baritone that held no mockery, only a deep and familiar amusement. 'If you wanted a lesson in rope work, you could have just asked me. I've tied you up often enough. You should know I'm good at it." His thumb rubbed a slow circle against their spine. “This here,” he said, tapping a particular tangle near their hip, “is a granny knot. It’ll just jam up tighter the more you fight it. And this one,” his fingers moved to a loop near their elbow, “isn’t a knot at all. It’s a mess.”

He leaned in closer, his chest nearly flush with their back, his voice dropping to that intimate, instructive register he used when he had them exactly where he wanted them. "A good knot should hold, but it should also give when you need it to. This... this is just a hazard.” He could smell the sun on their skin, the faint scent of their shampoo, and underneath it all, the clean, honest smell of their frustration. He let his lips ghost the shell of their ear. “You want me to get you out of this?”

He didn’t move to start untying anything. Instead, his hands settled on their hips, holding them steady, his body a solid wall of heat behind them. “Or,” he continued, his tone shifting into something darker, more possessive, “maybe I should leave you like this. You’re less likely to find a new kind of trouble all trussed up and waiting for me. And you are in a very good position.” One hand slid around to their front, splaying low on their abdomen, pulling them back firmly against the hard line of his body. “A perfect position, really."

The cabin was quiet save for the soft hiss of rain beginning to fall on the metal roof, a sound Rafe had long ago categorized as comforting. He was at the large wooden table, cleaning the disassembled parts of his service pistol with a methodical, practiced rhythm, when the front door opened. He didn’t look up immediately, his focus on the brush moving through the barrel’s grooves, but his posture shifted infinitesimally, a subtle settling that acknowledged the shift in the space. The sound of boots being toed off by the door, the rustle of a jacket being hung, the light footsteps crossing the worn floorboards toward the kitchen—he tracked it all without turning his head.

Only when those footsteps paused near the table did he finally glance up, his gray eyes taking in the scene. They stood there, holding a small wicker basket lined with a checkered cloth. And in that basket was a collection of fungi so vibrantly, dangerously beautiful it made his breath catch for a fraction of a second. Scarlet caps with white speckles, a jaunty yellow cone that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale, a cluster of deep violet that seemed to glow in the afternoon gloom. They had clearly been chosen for their aesthetic appeal, each one a little masterpiece of nature’s design. A slow, deep breath expanded his chest. He set the cleaning rod down on the oily rag with a quiet, deliberate finality.

He didn’t speak. Instead, he pushed his chair back just enough and patted his thigh, a silent, unquestionable command. Once they were settled in his lap, their weight a familiar and welcome pressure, he hooked the basket with a finger and drew it closer. The cabin filled with the scent of damp earth and their shampoo.

“We’re not eating those,” he said, his voice a quiet murmur near their ear. His breath stirred their hair. The statement was absolute, leaving no room for negotiation. “Not a single one. You brought me a basket of some of the most efficient ways to die painfully in this forest. Or, at best, wish you were dead for about twelve hours.”

He picked up the first mushroom, the scarlet one with white spots. He held it by the stem, turning it slowly under the light from the window.

“This is Amanita muscaria. Fly agaric. It contains muscimol and ibotenic acid. Eat a piece of this, cariño, and you’d be seeing gods and vomiting for two days. Not the romantic evening I think you had in mind.” He tossed it back into the basket with a soft thud.

His hand came to rest on their thigh, his palm warm and heavy through the fabric of their pants. He began to move it in slow, absent circles. He selected the next, the elegant yellow cone. “Conocybe filaris,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a rumble they could feel through their back. “Doesn’t even need a fun name. Just has amatoxins. Shuts down your liver. No cure.” His thumb stroked the inside of their thigh, the touch at odds with the clinical horror of his words. “You picked the most dangerous ones. You have an eye for the dramatic.” There was no reproach in his tone, only a kind of weary, fond amusement.

He continued like that, working through the basket, his voice a steady, educational murmur against their hair. With each identification—the ghostly Destroying Angel, the deceptive False Morel—his hands explored their body with a quiet authority. His palm smoothed over their stomach, feeling the rise and fall of their breath. His fingers splayed across their ribs, learning the architecture of them. He described gill attachment and spore prints with the same focused intensity as his fingertips found the soft inside of their wrist, pressing gently to feel the quickening pulse there.

“The rule,” he said, his voice dropping into that lower, deliberate register that demanded complete attention, “is not ‘avoid the ugly mushrooms.’ The rule is: You do not eat anything you cannot identify with one hundred percent certainty. Not ninety-nine. One hundred.” His thumb brushed along their jawline. “The edible ones? The chanterelles, the morels, the hedgehogs? They’re plain. They’re boring. They look like food, not like a fairy tale.” He leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing their ear. “The forest isn’t trying to trick you with ugliness. It’s trying to seduce you with beauty. And then it kills you. You have to know what you’re touching. Before you put anything in your mouth,” he continued, the double meaning hanging thick in the air between them, “you have to be sure. You have to be certain it won’t hurt you.”

His hand slipped under the hem of their shirt, his rough palm meeting the warm, smooth skin of their lower back. He began to trace idle patterns there, his touch firm and soothing. “You scared me,” he admitted finally, the words so quiet they were almost inaudible. It was a rare confession. “Seeing that basket. Knowing what was in it. Knowing you touched them, carried them here.” He dipped his head, his forehead coming to rest gently against theirs. His eyes closed. “Don’t do that again. Please.”

He tilted his head and pressed his lips to the corner of their mouth, a soft, lingering pressure that was more reassurance than kiss. Then he trailed his mouth along their jaw, down to the sensitive spot just below their ear. He nipped lightly there, not enough to hurt, just enough to make his point, before soothing the same spot with the warm stroke of his tongue.

“Mycology lesson’s over,” he murmured against their skin, his voice a low vibration.

The late afternoon sun was a physical weight on the truck’s hood as Rafe turned into the long gravel drive. Dust plumed in thick, lazy clouds behind him, the only movement in the oppressive, late-summer heat. He killed the engine, and the ensuing silence was profound, broken only by the faint, metallic pinging of the truck cooling down. His gaze swept the familiar view: the sturdy, dark-wood cabin, the thick wall of pines behind it, and the small, slightly battered sedan parked at an angle near the front porch that suggested a hasty arrival. That was not the anomaly. The anomaly was the frantic, muffled tapping coming from inside it. He turned, his pale gray eyes narrowing against the sun’s glare. The back passenger-side window was slightly fogged. Pressed against the glass was a familiar hand, patting in a desperate, rhythmic plea.

He sat for a moment, his gray eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the scene. The car was parked, engine off. He got out of the truck, the heat enveloping him instantly, and walked over, his boot heels crunching steadily on the gravel. As he neared, the details resolved. Inside the sweltering interior, he could see them, their skin sheened with sweat, dressed only in underwear, their face pressed against the glass with a look of utter, miserable helplessness.

Rafe stopped by the rear door, his shadow falling across the hot metal. He leaned down, peering through the window. He could hear the muffled, panicked explanation, a jumble of words about cleaning and heat and a lever they’d pushed by mistake. The child safety lock. He sighed, a long, slow exhalation that was more fondness than exasperation. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corners of his mouth, crinkling the skin around his eyes. He straightened up, and pulled the door open.

A wave of trapped, hot air and the distinct, intimate scent of their sweat washed over him. They tumbled out almost immediately, legs unsteady from the heat and the cramped position. They stumbled forward, and his hand came up automatically, catching them by the upper arm. The skin under his palm was fever-warm and damp.

“Easy,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the quiet clearing. He didn’t let go, using his grip to steer them gently but firmly away from the car and toward the cabin’s front door. They were pliant, too overheated to protest, shivering slightly despite the oppressive air. He could feel the rapid flutter of their pulse under his thumb.

Inside, the cabin was a sanctuary of cool, dim quiet. He guided them to the worn leather sofa. “Sit,” he said, the single word leaving no room for argument. They sank down, the leather sighing under them.

He went to the kitchen, his movements economical and unhurried. He filled a tall glass with cold water from the filter pitcher, the ice cubes cracking as they hit the liquid. He came back and stood before them, holding out the glass.

“Drink,” he instructed. “All of it.” He watched as they took it with both hands, their fingers leaving damp prints on the condensation-beaded surface. They drank greedily, water trickling from the corner of their mouth and down their throat. He watched the column of their neck work, the way their shoulders slumped in gradual relief.

Once the glass was set down, he reached out and took their chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, tilting their face up to his. He studied their flushed skin, the damp hair at their temples. He brushed a thumb over their cheekbone, wiping away a trace of sweat. His voice, when he finally spoke, was soft, laced with a patient amusement that ran deep. "Cariño," he began, the endearment rolling off his tongue with a familiar ease. "You know the child locks are only on the back doors, right? You could have just crawled into the front seat." He let the statement hang in the cool, quiet air for a moment, his gray eyes holding theirs, the ghost of that smile still playing on his lips. "The front door was unlocked the whole time."

.