---

A subtle scrape, the faintest ahem. I startle. Asdar stands just inside the natural arch, one hand braced on stone—habit or ritual, I can’t tell. His silhouette flickers: tattooed arms, copper-blond hair loose, eyes pale and steady in lamplight.

I smirk, annoyed but amused. “Damn it, you really do move like a wolf. Are you trying to give me a heart attack, or is prowling just standard around here?”

He pauses. His gaze travels—not leering but undeniably aware—over the scene: me, cross-legged on my pallet in mismatched bra and old shorts, surrounded by paper chaos. Field notebooks, loose pages, pens between my toes, the recorder balanced on a stack of forms. I am an anthropological disaster meets working academic.

“I did not wish to startle you,” he says, words careful. “You looked—” A helpless gesture at the paper-strewn bed, my bare legs. “I did not want to break your work.”

I let a smile slip. “The work survives interruption. Did something in the stories worry you? Or have you come to ensure I don’t get buried under my own fieldwork?”

A flicker of humour in his eyes. He moves closer and drops to the stone floor at the foot of my bed, all coiled grace. Arms rest loose on his knees, tattoos crossing in blue-black lines. Christ, he’s beautiful. The kind of beauty that makes a middle-aged anthropologist forget her professional boundaries. As if I had any!…

“I came,” he says, “because some stories are better shared. The lake, the wolf, the one who returns—these are not only for outsiders.” Vulnerability edges his voice. “Would you allow me to be part of the telling?”

I look at him—body still, breath even, presence both steady and wild. I gesture at the scattered notes with my pen. “Only if you help me decipher these warnings. You’re the local expert on monsters, right?”

He grins—unexpected, slightly feral. “And on tea. But monsters… just need someone brave enough to write them down.”

“Philosophical wolves,” I mutter. “Just what my dissertation needed.”

But something shifts between us. The difference between collecting legends and living them is only who’s in the room at night, and who you trust to hear you work through what they mean.

I’m half-lost in translation: pen poised above a proverb about wolves and water, when the quality of his silence changes. Tension I haven’t seen before. Never this unguarded.

He speaks quietly, voice roughened. “It is not easy, being a living myth. The stories do not sleep when I do. I wake with wolves on my tongue, go to rites with other men’s memories. I was called at fifteen, pulled from my mother’s threshold before my bones were hard.” He draws a line unconsciously down his tattooed arm. “The ink was—”

My pen slips, leaving a rogue mark on the page. I study him, really study him past the mythic frame, the inked skin, the ritual gravity. There’s fragility in his posture now. A young man wrapped in heavy pelts of legend, adulthood forced too soon.

Neither of us looks away. When he finally speaks again, his voice barely carries.

“I was always needed. Expected. Until you, it was duty.” He swallows. “No woman has ever made me feel: not just the priest, but the man beneath. You are the first.”

The words hang between us, raw and reverent.

Something twists in my chest: surprise, yes, but also a tender ache for the boy I see behind those shoulders. All the solemnity, all the careful control: defence against how much he was never allowed to want.

Oh fuck. Oh, this is dangerous.

But I shift on the bed anyway, legs unfolding toward him. Touch his forearm lightly where the ink winds upward. “Gods below, Asdar. You’re so young under all that ceremony.”

He glances away, embarrassed, but I hold his gaze with a gentle press of my hand.

“You doubted you could be anything but legend,” I murmur. “But this—this is yours, not theirs.”

A beat passes. Electricity soft as breath.

Don’t do it, Elena. Don’t—

He hesitates only a moment. Then, with a decisive sweep, he brushes aside my fragile piles of research. Field notes flutter to the cave floor in a soft storm—months of work scattering like confetti, and I can’t bring myself to care.

Gods below, where’s my red cape when I need it? Big bad wolf and all.

He climbs onto the bed, drawing me up and into his arms. His hands are reverent and impatient at once. One slips around my neck, tilting my face as he kisses me. Deep, searching. My surprise melts into hunger—the kind I’d forgotten existed, the kind that makes you stupid. I thread fingers into his hair, pulling him closer until there’s no room for scholarly detachment or common sense.

His mouth moves to my throat, my shoulder. Fingertips brush my collarbone before slipping my bra straps down. The air is cold on newly exposed skin—Großmutter, and I didn’t even bring cookies! He frees my breasts with careful eagerness, palms warm and sure. His mouth follows: kissing, teasing, until I’m arching into his touch, papers forgotten, fifty years of better judgment scattered across cave floor.

One hand traces my waist, then slips beneath the elastic of my shorts. Explores. In a single motion, he removes shorts and underwear together, leaving me exposed.

Well. At least I didn’t pack the granny pants.

I shiver—not from cold—as I sink back into the bedding, the solid heat of his body above me. He lowers himself, drawing my knees apart, mouth returning to my breasts. Sucking, biting softly. My thoughts blur to sensation and want. I’m dimly aware of wool scratching my shoulders, paper crinkling beneath us, the recorder clattering to the floor—there goes tomorrow’s transcription—but none of it matters.

He lifts his head, breathless, pale eyes searching mine.

“May I?” Voice trembling between reverence and urgency. One hand rests at my thigh.

Say no. Be responsible. Remember, you’re supposed to be the adult here.

“Yes,” I whisper instead. Fuck it. The ethics committee can write me up later.

He enters me slowly, filling me with steady tenderness. Our bodies find rhythm—urgent and sweet and slightly awkward because bodies always are, no matter what the romance novels claim. Each movement a confession. My legs wrap around his waist, his mouth traces my jaw. Words dissolve into breath and then the low sounds of our lovemaking.

He moves within me, deep and genuine. Kissing my lips, my throat. Taking his time. Gods, the stamina of youth—but I push the thought away, just feel, just be here, just…

And then: in the midst of it, as pleasure coils tight, I open my eyes and see his face.

Not the wolf-painted priest. Not the living myth. A young man, radiant and uncertain, golden eyes luminous in dim light. There’s wonder in his expression: tremulous, bashful pride, almost childlike in its purity.

Gods below. He’s so young.

But I don’t stop. I let the wave carry us both, tension breaking, cresting together. Our joined gasp fills the cave—raw, relieved, human.

He collapses beside me, drawing me close. Tangled in skin and ink and scattered stories.

For a moment, I let myself dissolve into the simple miracle of his arms, the sound of his heartbeat beneath my cheek.

---

Our breath drifts to soft quiet—the cave thick with warmth, scent of sweat and paper and pine smoke. His hand traces gentle patterns along my flank.

I look at him: radiant, uncertain, wonder in his expression like I’ve given him something precious.

I draw a shaky breath. “Asdar.” Tracing the tattoos on his arm. “You know I could be—” I pause. “The age between us—”

He senses the shift. His fingers hesitate. “You worry?”

I manage a smile, but it wavers. “A little. You’re young. I’m… not.”

He shakes his head, serious as any priest. “You are the only one not asking me to be a myth. With you, I am just Asdar.” His voice drops. “It is good to make love to a woman who knows her own heart. I chose this.”

I sigh, half-laugh. “Ethics are always easier in theory than in flesh. Especially when the flesh is this distracting.”

Then I touch his cheek, gentle but firm. “Ground rules: you tell me if you want to stop. No performing the wolf-priest for me. Just you. However long we have. Deal?”

He nods, nestling closer. His weight gentle and grounding.

The lamp flickers. Outside, the mountain has gone peculiarly quiet—no wind, no animal sounds. Just stone holding its breath.

Great. Even the mountain’s judging me.

For this moment, the line is held not by dogma but by eye contact, spoken trust, and the knowledge that love finds its ethics not in age but in honesty, permission, and presence.

Even if the mountain is watching.

Even if there will be a cost.

I.Ph.

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