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“Why?” I’m not sure why I ask, because I think I just read the explanation in a book about mate bonds.

“Because they smell like you,” he blurts, then immediately looks like he wants to sink through the floor. “I mean… that is…”

“Fascinating,” I whisper, taking a step closer. “The ancient texts mention olfactory triggers as part of bonding behaviors. Subjects collect items carrying the other’s scent as both comfort mechanism and territorial marking.”

“I’m not a ‘subject,’ Blair,” he growls, but there’s no real heat behind it. “And please don’t tell me you have a spreadsheet titled ‘Jersey Devil Hoarding Patterns.’”

“Of course not,” I reply primly. “It’s called ‘Proximity-Triggered Collection Behaviors in Cryptid Bonding Scenarios.’” The surprised laugh that escapes him makes my heart flutter in a way no scientific instrument could measure.

The humor fades away as our gazes lock for long moments. As though he just made a big decision, he glances at the bottom drawer—the one he always guards so carefully. After a long moment, his skin shifts through shades of uncertainty, and he murmurs, “Maybe… maybe you should look in there.”

When I hesitate, he adds softly, “Please. I need you to see.”

The vulnerability in his voice stops me cold. This isn’t just about missing pens or stolen lab coats. This means something to him—something profound enough to strip away his usual sarcastic armor.

With trembling fingers, I open the drawer at his invitation. “Blair, I can explain…”

Inside, I find a treasure trove of familiar items. Hair ties. Notes written in my handwriting. Small trinkets I’d assumed were simply misplaced. Each item carefully arranged, some bearing signs of being handled often.

“Oh,” is all I can manage, the single syllable completely inadequate to express the storm of emotion sweeping through me. This isn’t random collecting or casual theft. Each item has been carefully preserved, almost… cherished.

“It’s ridiculous, I know,” he says, voice rough with embarrassment. “Hoarding your belongings like some primitive creature. I tried to stop. I just… couldn’t.”

Reaching into the drawer, my fingers tremble slightly as I touch a hair tie I distinctly remember losing weeks ago. “It’s not ridiculous,” I whisper. “It’s confirmation.”

“Confirmation?” The confusion in his voice makes me look up.

“I’ve been researchingwhat’s happening to us. There’s a name for it in those old books.”

“A mate bond,” he says, the words emerging like they’re being pulled from somewhere deep inside him.

My breath catches. “Yes. Exactly that.” Hearing him name it makes it suddenly, undeniably real. “I’ve been researching it for weeks, documenting all the signs—our synchronized temperature fluctuations, the awareness of each other’s presence, the physical discomfort when separated too long…”

“Wait.” His tail freezes mid-lash. “You knew? All this time?”

“I suspected,” I correct, precise even in emotional moments. “The evidence was compelling but inconclusive without… this.” I gesture to the drawer of collected items. “The final behavioral marker confirming the hypothesis.”

I pause as a thousand thoughts fly through my mind. That is followed by a storm of emotions as I register what this means.

“You’ve been hoarding my things.” The words come out soft, with wonder rather than accusation.

“I…” His skin darkens at the simple truth. “Yes.”

“And I’ve been cataloguing physiological responses, collecting data on our synchronized symptoms, and secretly tracking our mutual awareness of each other.” A small laugh escapes me. “We’ve both been studying this connection, just with different methodologies.”

Something shifts in his expression, vulnerability giving way to a crooked smile that makes my heart stutter. “So, what you’re saying is, we’re both ridiculous.”

“I prefer ‘scientifically thorough,’” I counter, feeling a smile tug at my own lips.

“Of course you do.” His tail uncurls slightly from its defensive position. “Always the scientist.”

“And you’re always deflecting,” I say, stepping closer. “Even when it’s something as significant as a mate bond forming between us.”

He lets out a rough breath, half-laugh, half-confession. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly easy to admit my biology’s gone rogue—deciding you’re my perfect match, making me steal your hair ties and spike a fever whenever you’re nearby.”

Despite the humor, there’s a raw honesty beneath his words.

“Seemed like the kind of thing that might make a rational scientist bolt.”