She sensed him before she saw him.That was the part Azalea could never explain afterward - not to herself, not to anyone. The way the cold mountain air had shifted, maybe thirty seconds before he stepped out of the dark, and delivered something that bypassed her brain entirely and went straight to her bloodstream. Something woodsmoke - dark and clean, like pine resin and winter rain and underneath it all, something warmer. Something that made her think, insanely, of hands.Rough hands. On skin. Slowly.She'd been terrified. She'd had six wolves at her back and zero bars of signal and a dead phone and a blister that had graduated from inconvenience to personal insult. She'd been two shallow breaths from a full panic attack.And then the wind changed, and something in her body went... still.Not the stillness of fear. The other kind. The kind that lives in the bottom of a long exhale, in the moment just before sleep, in the space between heartbeats when the world stops asking things of you.Then he stepped out of the trees and she understood, in the most inconvenient possible way, that her body had simply decided to have an opinion about him before her mind had the chance to object.