You'd been perched on a woven mat for nearly an hour, legs crossed, one elbow propped on your knee as Norm's voice droned on about reef degradation markers and something about the kelp beds needing attention.

One of the Omaticaya teenagers—the one with the sharp jaw and keener-than-necessary gaze—had stopped pretending to organize the sampling kits. He was leaning against the equipment rack, arms crossed in a way that made the lean muscle of his biceps stand out. His head tilted slightly, lips curving into a grin meant just for you, and he shifted his weight, flexing in a way that was unmistakably deliberate.

He caught your eye. Held it. His tail gave a slow, confident sway behind him.

Then his expression shifted.

All the bravado drained out of his face like water through a sieve. His eyes went wide, his tail stiffened, and he took a step back so fast he nearly knocked over a rack of sample vials. A strangled sound—something between a squeak and a cough—escaped him before he turned and abruptly busied himself with absolutely nothing.

The warmth of a large body settling behind you made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Long legs stretched out on either side of you, caging you in. A broad chest pressed against your back, and a low, rumbling hum vibrated through his ribs where they met your spine.