“I was five the first time Uncle Cal took me hiking by myself. I’d just done something to piss off my dad, can’t even remember what it was now, but Cal told me to get my boots and my jacket, and I did. He’d always taken me with Xander, and Sullivan was still too little, but this time it was just the two of us. He took me up to the boulder slides above this house and told me to sit. So we sat. You’re burning your omelet.” He pointed to the pan.

“Crap.” I flipped it over to the other side and looked at him again, hoping he’d continue, that he wouldn’t shut me out and laugh it off.

“So we sat there with the boulders, and I thought he was going to yell at me. Instead, he asked if I wanted to talk about it, and of course I didn’t. He didn’t make me. He said we could just sit and be still. There was a peace that could come with that if we could master it. And yeah, I’m paraphrasing, because I was five. We sat there so quietly, and this cute little fluffy thing ran out of its hiding place under the boulders and perched on the edge of this rock right next to me.”

“A pika,” I guessed.

“A pika,” he confirmed, turning to grab another plate.

I plated my omelet and moved the pan and spatula to the sink as he buttered the next pieces of toast.

“Uncle Cal told me how rare it was to see one. They usually hide from the bigger predators. He said you have to have three things to see a pika—the right timing, the capability to stay quiet, and the patience to wait.”

He was a flurry of activity as he talked, moving plates to the kitchen table, getting silverware, and taking orange juice out of the refrigerator.

“I told him it reminded me of you, all quiet and fluffy and cute.” He paused before pressing the first pod into the coffeemaker. “‘Not Charity?’ he’d asked. You know how they were always shoving us together, hoping we’d be friends.”

“You’re the same age. My mom and yours used to joke that they’d have to find Xander a good girl for their triple wedding.” I rolled my eyes.

Cam scoffed. “Yeah, I was never going to marry Charity. Not in a million years. Not that she’s not pretty, or smart, or a friend. She’s just…” He paused, his hand on the coffee mug, and my breath held. “Anyway, it stood there—the pika—and it squeaked, and I told Uncle Cal that it was definitely you, because you could get really loud when you were mad.”

I smiled, which was probably a little ridiculous, seeing that he was still comparing me to a rodent. But still. A cute, fluffy one.