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~ Antler After Dark ~

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

December 2025

All Rights Reserved.

Snow drifted in thick, lazy flakes outside the log cabin on December 24, 2025, wrapping the pines in soft white silence. Inside, the air held the warm bite of woodsmoke, the sharp green of pine resin, and the low, steady hum of electronics. String lights looped along the rough-hewn beams spilled golden pools across knotty walls and the thick wool rug underfoot.

A sturdy oak desk had been transformed into a broadcast shrine: twin large-diaphragm condensers on boom arms, pop filters swaying like forgotten ornaments, a glowing 12-channel mixer, laptop open to OBS and waveforms, DSLR camera on tripod aimed dead-center, ring light casting a flattering halo. Cables were zip-tied underneath—mostly.

Buck stood tall on powerful hind legs, forehooves braced wide around the main mic to keep it steady. His antlers, still kissed with late-season velvet, grazed the ceiling beams whenever he leaned in too eagerly, dusting faint motes through the air like indoor snow. The oversized headphones sat crooked: one cup slipped halfway down his cheek, the other perched high above a twitching ear. In the ring light his tawny coat gleamed soft and innocent, dark eyes wide and guileless, ears forward in that perfect wide-eyed deer stare that had fooled new viewers for months.

Off-camera, Alex—mid-thirties, flannel sleeves rolled, short beard flecked with stray flakes—stood beside the tripod. Headphones looped around his neck like a chunky collar, he counted down silently with raised fingers: five… four… three… two…

A single nod.

The camera’s red tally light blinked on.

Buck blinked once, slowly, then leaned toward the lens with the serene expression of a deer who had never entertained an impure thought in his life.

“G’day legends,” he said, voice warm and honey-smooth, “it’s your boy Buck here on Antler After Dark, broadcasting live from a very cozy, very snowed-in cabin somewhere you don’t need to know about. If the video looks extra crisp tonight, that’s because my long-suffering producer—” he tilted his head toward Alex without breaking eye contact with the lens, nearly clipping a tine on the boom arm “—slash partner slash wrangler Alex has finally figured out how to light a talking whitetail without making him look like a cryptid on a blurry trail cam.”

Alex smirked off-frame, nudged the ring-light dimmer up a notch, and flashed a thumbs-up.

Buck’s ears flicked. His tail gave one slow, innocent sweep.

“Christmas Eve special, folks. I know you’re all keen on seeing Santa at Christmas, but I am really looking forward to seeing his reindeer. Because, you know, the boys drop their antlers in the fall, so only the does have them, and that means all of Santa’s reindeer are ladies. So I’m finally gonna be able to check out a doe… with a nice rack. Does that make me weird? Let me know in the comments. Smash like if you’re team doe-rack, subscribe if you’re team ‘Buck needs help’.”

He paused for dramatic effect, then let slip a tiny deer snort—barely audible, but longtime viewers knew exactly what that sound meant. The innocent mask was already cracking at the edges.

Alex mouthed “easy” and layered in a whisper of reverb.

“I’ve been doing some research,” Buck continued, voice still sweet as fresh sap. “Live. Right now. On air. Because that’s the level of commitment we’re at.”

He shifted his weight; the floorboards creaked under his hooves. A tine clacked against the mic stand. He froze, eyes going comically wide like a yearling caught in headlights.

Alex reached into frame just enough to straighten the slipping headphone cup, fingers brushing the short fur along Buck’s neck. Buck’s ears flattened in shy bliss, a soft huff escaping—barely caught by the condenser, but the camera picked up the delicate tail flick.

“Thanks, love,” he muttered off-mic.

Alex winked, pointed at the script taped to the desk: voicemail.

Buck straightened as much as a 200+ pound deer balanced on hind legs can. “Voicemails. Let’s roll.”

Alex hit play. A distorted, sarcastic doe voice filled the speakers:

“Mate, you’re objectifying flying ungulates. Also, Rudolph’s probably a girl too—red nose, full rack on Christmas Eve? Case closed.”

Buck barked a laugh, still clinging to innocence, but the glint in his eye betrayed him. “See? Even the does agree! It’s appreciation, not objectification. Powerful antlered queens hauling a fat man and toys worldwide while possibly pregnant? Peak femininity. Respect.”

Alex faded the clip out smoothly, lips twitching.

Buck leaned closer to the lens, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that still boomed through the mix. “I’ve tracked the sleigh on reindeerflight.live—dodgy as hell, keeps crashing—but last ping had them over the Pacific. Vixen’s leading. Take-no-crap energy. She’s the one who shuts Comet down when she starts showboating.”

He muttered to himself, scrolling. “Wait—the app just refreshed. They’re… early? Way early. Oh no. Oh no.”

Jingle bells—real ones—rang close. Hooves crunched snow. A distant doe snort, amused.

Buck’s eyes blew wide, tail lashing. “Wait… is that… OH NO, they’re early! Hide the velvet! I mean—uh—merry Christmas, world! If you’re listening, ladies, slide into my DMs—I mean, my salt lick. Wait, no—”

The water bottle thudded over. Bells rang directly overhead now. A playful reindeer chuckle drifted through the roof.

Buck whispered, breathless, still locked on the lens with those big innocent eyes. “They’re here. Actually here. Traces jingling. Vixen just rolled her eyes through the skylight. Prancer’s laughing. I’m not ready—oh god, they’re landing.”

Long pause. Heavy breathing. A soft snort right beside the window.

Buck, awestruck: “…they’re looking at me. All eight. Full racks. Glowing under the moon. Smiling? That’s a smile. Holy hell.”

A faint, teasing murmur—reindeer voice, smug.

Buck blurted, flustered: “Alright, that’s it for tonight! Remember: Santa’s team is all does, and that’s canon. Stay thirsty, stay antlered, and if you see a big whitetail staring longingly at the sky tomorrow night… that’s me. Peace out!”

Alex killed the recording. The red tally light died.

Buck sagged against the desk, headphones finally slipping off one ear. He turned to Alex, eyes soft in the fading ring-light glow.

“Was it… okay?”

Alex rounded the desk, wrapped both arms around Buck’s thick neck, and pressed his forehead to the space between those massive antlers.

“Perfect,” he murmured. “You ridiculous animal. The innocent act is lethal now.”

Buck huffed a quiet laugh, tail sweeping once. “Practice makes perfect.”

They thought that was the night wrapped.

Forty minutes later the roof groaned under the weight of eight does landing like they owned the place. The skylight rattled. Hooves scraped shingles. Amused snorts floated down the chimney.

Buck’s ears shot straight up. Pupils dilated. “Alex… they’re here.”

Alex’s eyebrows climbed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m going out there.”

Alex grabbed his coat. “Not alone. And I’m leaving the camera rolling for ‘Part Two: The Aftermath’—if you survive.”

Outside, the sleigh sat parked, bells silent. Eight does waited in a loose semicircle under the moon: Vixen at the head, Prancer, Comet, Dancer, Dasher, Donner, Blitzen, Cupid. Magnificent racks gleamed like polished bone in the aurora glow. Breath plumed white. Eyes sparkled with sharp, knowing mischief.

Buck stopped ten feet out, suddenly feeling very small.

Vixen snorted—low and teasing. Prancer tossed her head and laughed outright.

Comet stepped forward, lowered her muzzle, sniffed along his neck. “So this is the little mainland buck who’s been thirsting on video for weeks.”

“Hi. Buck. Big fan of your… biology. Mostly.” Buck's ears flattened in guilt and shame, as the reindeer circled him, hemming him in between them.

Donner circled slowly, antlers brushing his shoulder. “Cute. Like a fawn trying to court a glacier.”

Blitzen leaned close, warm breath against his ear. “Adorable. Tiny rack and all.”

Cupid tilted her head with a playful wink. “Does it come in reindeer size?”

Deep, rolling doe laughter echoed through the pines.

Buck’s tail lashed once, twice. His voice came out small. “I mean… I’m game if you are.”

Vixen considered him for a long moment. Then she stepped closer, pressed her forehead briefly to his—queen to supplicant—and murmured, “Then come here, podcast boy. Let’s make your Christmas wish come true.”

What followed was enthusiastic, playful, gloriously chaotic—and entirely consensual.

The does took turns with a kind of regal teasing only immortal sleigh-pullers could manage. Comet was first, fast and eager, pinning Buck gently with her shoulder so he could bury his muzzle under her tail while she huffed amused encouragement. Prancer laughed the whole time, tossing her head like she was directing traffic, occasionally nudging his flank with an antler to “help” his aim. Dancer and Dasher tag-teamed next—coordinated and graceful—one licking slow stripes along his cervid length while the other let him nose under her tail, their twin racks clacking softly like wind chimes in the snow.

Donner and Blitzen were rougher in the best way: Donner pinning him with a playful shoulder-check so he could get his muzzle deep under her tail, Blitzen following by lowering her own muzzle to his throbbing length, warm breath and careful tongue making his legs buckle. Cupid went last of the pair, batting those lashes while she let him worship from behind, then returned the favour with slow, deliberate licks that had Buck’s eyes rolling back and a low, broken deer groan escaping his throat.

Vixen saved herself for the finale. She waited until Buck was trembling, fur matted with saliva and other unmentionable fluids, antlers askew, one tine bent sideways from Blitzen’s earlier enthusiastic pin. Then she stepped over him, lowered her hindquarters just enough, and let him bury his muzzle deep under her tail while she rocked gently, antlers high and proud, the undisputed queen of the night. When she finally allowed him to mount—briefly, teasingly, just enough to feel the power differential—the rest of the team watched with smug approval, snorting and chuckling like they’d all placed bets on how long he’d last.

All the while, Alex leaned against the porch railing, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched in fond exasperation. He didn’t intervene—just watched his ridiculous, lovesick buck get thoroughly, gloriously wrecked by eight pregnant flying does under the Northern Lights. Every so often he’d mutter something like “You’re gonna need a chiropractor for those antlers, babe,” or “I’m billing the North Pole for therapy,” but the soft smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. He was amused, a little awed, and—quietly—proud as hell.

When the does finally stepped back—breath steaming, eyes gleaming with satisfaction—Vixen gave Buck one last gentle nudge toward the cabin. “Go clean up, little buck. Deliveries won’t wait. But… we’ll be listening next year.”

Buck staggered back inside on legs that had forgotten how to work, fur every which way, muzzle slick and shiny, eyes glassy and wild. He looked like he’d been hit by the sleigh and the reindeer.

Alex met him at the door, failing spectacularly at keeping a straight face. “You good?”

Buck blinked slowly, like the question required several seconds of processing. “…I need to go back on air. Right now.”

Alex sighed, already reaching for the record button. “Of course you do.”

The tally light blinked red again.

Buck leaned into the lens, voice hoarse, wrecked, euphoric.

“Legends… it’s your boy Buck. Back for… part two.” Buck wheezed, his eyes rolled and he trembled from ears to tail. “Christmas... eve, special after-dark...edition.”

A glob of saliva—definitely not his—dripped from his muzzle onto the pop filter.

“They heard me. They actually heard me. All eight. Full racks. Powerful. Teasing. Smug. Called me adorable. Called me a Tic Tac when they wanted a Big Mac. Pinned me. Let me bury my muzzle under every tail. One or two had theirs on my cervid length. I’m… absolutely fucked up. Fur mussed. Saliva everywhere. Other fluids left unmentioned on my muzzle. Legs like jelly. Antlers look like they’ve been through a blender. One tine’s bent sideways—thanks, Blitzen.”

He laughed—a shaky, blissful sound that cracked at the edges.

“10/10. Would simp again. Vixen’s the boss and she knows it. Prancer laughs like she’s trying to murder you with joy. Comet’s fast even when she’s not flying. Cupid’s lashes should be illegal. Respect. All the respect.”

He sagged forward, forehead resting briefly on the desk between braced hooves.

“I can’t wait for next Christmas. Goodnight… or good morning? Whatever. I’m gonna pass out in the salt lick pile. Merry fucking Christmas.”

Alex hit stop. Red light died.

Silence settled, broken only by the fire popping and wind sighing against the logs.

Buck lifted his head slowly, wild-eyed, grinning like an idiot straight into the dark lens. “Did… did that sound okay?”

Alex rounded the desk, cupped Buck’s damp muzzle in both hands, and kissed the space between his eyes. “You sound like you just got railed by Santa’s entire sleigh team and loved every second of it.”

“Accurate.”

Alex pulled him into a careful hug—mindful of his lovers exhaustion, the way musk and sweat soaked him, and he was sure, over fluids he didn't want to think about, then he murmured against his ear, “Next year we soundproof the roof. And maybe get you a safe word.”

Buck’s tail gave one exhausted wag. “Deal.”

Outside, faint sleigh bells receded into the night. Eight satisfied does lifted off, racks gleaming, deliveries waiting.

Inside, a wrecked whitetail buck and his bemused human collapsed onto the rug by the fire. Microphones cooled on the desk above them; the camera card sat warm with scandalous footage that Buck had never imagined would see the light of day—let alone end up anywhere public.

Alex pressed a soft kiss to the fur of his lover’s throat and held him close, arms wrapped gently around the broad, trembling neck. A grin stretched from ear to ear across Alex’s face, pure mischief and affection.

Buck huffed a weak, exhausted laugh against Alex’s shoulder. “You’re not gonna upload it… right?”

Alex’s grin didn’t falter. He traced idle patterns through the matted fur along Buck’s withers, voice low and soothing. “Shhh. Rest, big guy. You’ve earned it.”

Buck’s eyes narrowed, sleepy suspicion flickering through the post-reindeer haze. “Alex…”

“Sleep,” Alex murmured, pressing another kiss to the spot just under Buck’s ear. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

Buck snorted softly, too wrecked to argue. His tail gave one slow, forgiving sweep across the rug before his breathing evened out into deep, contented deer huffs.

Alex waited until Buck was fully out—sprawled like a very large, very satisfied rug ornament—before he slipped away to the desk. He ejected the memory card with practiced stealth, tucked it into his pocket, and glanced back at the sleeping buck with a fond shake of his head.

He wouldn’t tell him. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Maybe not even next year.

The footage would be edited with care—tasteful cuts, artistic blur where necessary—leaving just enough to make it unmistakably them without ever crossing into gratuitous territory. A discreet adult site, a small but loyal audience, an anonymous handle, nothing traceable back to a talking whitetail and his human in a snow-locked cabin.

The revenue—however modest at first—would go straight into a hidden savings folder labeled “Buck’s Christmas Fund.”

Extra treats next December: the fancy pink Himalayan salt licks he loved, a new reinforced office chair that wouldn’t creak under his weight, maybe even a custom velvet antler wrap to keep the late-season fuzz from shedding everywhere. Perhaps a high-end external hard drive so Buck could finally back up his podcast archives without whining about “cloud storage being unnatural.”

Alex glanced at the rug again. Buck had rolled onto his side, one foreleg draped over his muzzle like a sleepy puppy, soft snores rumbling through his chest.

Alex smiled wider, slipped the card into his laptop bag, and returned to the rug. He curled up behind Buck, chest to back, arm slung over the thick neck, chin tucked against warm fur.

Buck mumbled something incoherent in his sleep—probably about reindeer—and pressed back into Alex’s hold.

Alex kissed the base of one antler. “Merry Christmas, you ridiculous animal.”

Their hearts pounded in tandem—Buck’s still racing from the wild night, Alex’s from the sheer absurdity, joy, and quiet scheming of it all—as they lay tangled together in the firelight. The blizzard howled outside, but inside the cabin it was warm, quiet, safe.

They were already counting down to next December.

To Be Continued

Antler After Dark – "Rut Overdose: King Edition"

© Cederwyn Whitefurr

February 2026

All Rights Reserved.

The cabin was a sauna of rut musk and stove heat, autumn leaves rattling the windows like impatient fingers. Buck stood braced at the broadcast shrine, hind legs splayed wide for balance, forehooves pressed hard against the timber desk, cloven hooves clattering faintly with every tremor that ran through him. His whole body vibrated—repressed urges and chemical fire making his coat twitch like live wires under the skin. Sweat had soaked it dark from ears to tail; it dripped steadily from his muzzle, pooled under his hooves, and ran in rivulets down his flanks to join the growing wet patch on the wool rug.

Three ice packs—hastily wrapped in thin towels—were draped across his nape and withers like cooling blankets on a fevered horse. Steam rose in lazy, curling wisps where ice met overheated fur, catching the ring light in a soft, hazy halo. Every few seconds, one of the packs slipped a fraction; cold water trickled down his neck and dripped onto the pop filter with tiny plinks the condenser happily picked up.

His antlers, heavy with late velvet, scraped the timber beams overhead whenever he shifted too eagerly. Headphones sat crooked: one cup hugging his right ear, the other dangling against sweat-matted neck fur. The ring light haloed him golden, but those wide eyes were manic, pupils blown wide, the last fragile threads of podcaster innocence long since burned away.

Alex leaned in the doorway, another fresh ice pack already in hand, flannel hanging open, beard mussed, looking equal parts wrecked, resigned, and quietly amused at the sheer absurdity of it all. He stepped forward just long enough to adjust the slipping pack on Buck’s nape—fingers brushing wet fur, earning a low, involuntary huff from the buck—then retreated to his spot and began the countdown with weary fingers: five… four… three… two…

A nod.

A red tally light blinked on.

Buck blinked slowly—almost pained—then leaned toward the camera lens, voice gravel-rough from three days of non-stop exertion, steam still curling off his shoulders like he was about to combust on air.

“G’day legends, it’s your boy Buck on Antler After Dark, live from rut ground zero.” He rasped, tail lashing once, sending droplets flying. “If the audio sounds wet and the picture’s got a little haze… yeah, that’s me. Sweating my winter weight in salt, three ice packs barely keeping me from boiling over. Rut’s peaked, and I’ve been busier than a one-legged buck in a tail-kicking contest—wired tighter than the time I chewed through an electric fence. Why? Nerves? Nah. Chemistry.”

He snorted—loud, broken—ears flattening then snapping forward, dislodging another trickle of meltwater that pattered onto the desk.

“Broke into the hunter’s cottage while he was in town. Breaking and entering—ask Alex about that.”

From off to Buck’s right, Alex muttered, low but clear enough for the sensitive condenser to catch: “You broke me first, you furred disaster.”

Buck powered on, unfazed, steam rising gently as another ice pack shifted. “Found a neat little stash hidden in that cabin. Little blue pills. Tasted great—chalky mint. Ate the whole bottle. Didn’t know what they were. Now it’s less breaking… more entering. Repeatedly. Enthusiastically.”

A low, involuntary deer huff steamed the mic again—literally fogging the lens for half a second. Buck’s body trembled harder; he shifted his weight, and the desk creaked under the pressure.

“Alex is threatening to call the vet and have me gelded—me!—just because I’ve been getting into the spirit of the rut… moreso than normal.” He tried for a wink, but it came out lopsided, ears flicking. “Now I’m sweating buckets, muscles twitching, barely catching my breath. Those pills? They’ve lifted my game on the urge front—ask my long-suffering partner, Alex.”

Buck leaned closer, pupils dilating at the memory, steam curling around his antlers like a crown of mist.

“Case in point: last night I was hanging with this doe—prime, tail high, giving me the look. But being the gentleman I am, and the bigger stag and all that I am… I first dealt with that younger, inexperienced bachelor who’s been sniffing around my territory. Spiker—all legs, no game. Rut being rut, I rutted the tail off him proper: pinned him down, mounted him till he squeaked surrender, showed him who’s king. Then, gentleman through and through, I led him to my favourite feeding ground. Let him go first, of course. Twenty paces in, chest puffed like he owned the place… and boom. Caught one right behind the right shoulder from a human hunter’s 30-06. Dropped him flat. Instant ethics lesson.”

Buck paused, ears flicking in mock solemnity, then cracked a wide, wicked grin—teeth flashing in the ring light.

“Guess there’s a lot to be said about being the bigger stag and letting your competition go first… between us listeners? He wasn’t that good a lover anyway. But you know me! Tails up, I’m eager! Doe, buck, whatever—if it’s presented, I’m hitting it. And right now? Chemically unstoppable, territorial as hell, still harder than a redwood! Does and bucks—if you’re listening—don’t worry about young spikers. I’ve got stamina for the whole woods. Alex can vouch… when he wakes up from round thirty-two.”

Alex stepped halfway into frame, deadpan into the mic pickup: “You chemically-fueled menace. That spiker story? Editing it out. And if you ‘establish dominance’ on me one more time without a twenty-four-hour cooldown, the vet’s getting photos, bloodwork, and a complaint form.”

Buck barked a hoarse, euphoric laugh—pure bi deer chaos glinting in his eyes.

“Worth it. 10/10. Would totally go again, and again, and… you get the idea, listeners! Smash like if you’ve ever let competition ‘go first’ into a bullet. Subscribe if Alex needs hazard pay. Salt lick’s open—applications from all genders welcome. Now? Let’s take some voicemails. I love hearing from my listeners!”

Alex hit play. A distorted doe voice crackled through—teasing:

“Buck? Long-time listener, first-time caller! Heard you’re equal-opportunity rutting now. That poor spiker that got shouldered, I think that—”

Buck huffed, nosed the big red mute button with a quick boop, snorted, rolled his eyes, and winked at the camera. “You're on the air, live in the fur with Buck!” His voice surged into a jumbled rush, heart pounding, blood roaring from the overdose.

Next caller—a young buck's voice: “Alex is a human and… you railed him—greedy much?”

Buck laughed again, wiped his eyes on his foreleg fur.

“Top of my game, mate! Thanks for calling!”

Alex muted the feed, then glared across the desk at Buck, who just flashed a lopsided smile and flicked an ear, still sweating and quivering.

Alex faded the last clip, lips twitching despite himself. “We’re cutting half this episode. Maybe three-quarters.”

“That’s all for the rut report, legends. Just letting you know: Buck’s out here, loud and proud—doe, buck, it won’t matter to me. I’ve got energy and eagerness for all. This is Buck, and you’ve been listening to Antler After Dark!”

Alex pressed a button. The camera’s red light died.

Buck sagged against the desk, still trembling, visibly overclocked under sweat-matted fur. Headphones slipped off completely.

He turned to Alex, eyes glassy and soft amid the wreckage.

“Too much?”

Alex rounded the desk, cupped Buck’s damp muzzle in both hands, thumbs brushing the soaked fur along his jaw.

“You confessed to felony theft, chemical enhancement, mounting a spiker for dominance, then sacrificing him to a 30-06. Then bragged about railing me for days. On air. Yeah. Dark. Deranged. And still somehow… you.”

Buck’s tail gave one exhausted sweep across the rug. “Funny?”

Alex pressed his forehead to the warm velvet of Buck’s nose, kissed the salty space there—gentle, grounding. “Hilarious in a twisted way. Hot in a terrifying way. Ridiculous in every way.” Another kiss, softer. “But if you ever ‘let me go first’ into anything—real or hypothetical—I’m serious about the gelding. And therapy. And the bill.”

Buck huffed a quiet, blissful laugh. “Practice makes perfect.”

They collapsed onto the rug—Buck curling around Alex like an overclocked, protective blanket, still twitching faintly, Alex spooned tight against his broad chest, the ice pack pressed between them like a fragile truce.

Buck mumbled sleepily, muzzle buried in Alex’s hair: “Next rut… no pills. No spikers. No shoulder-checks. Promise.”

Alex’s grin was audible—sore but fond. “Sure, big guy. And I’m definitely not saving this raw cut for a premium ‘Buck’s Dark Rut Special.’ Revenue straight to new mattress, premium lube, reinforced frame… maybe a bulletproof vest for me.”

Buck’s ears flicked once—sleepy suspicion rising. “Alex…”

“Shhh. Sleep.” Fingers traced idle patterns through matted flank fur. “Royalties—and restraining orders—tomorrow.”

Buck snorted softly, too wrecked and content to argue. His breathing evened into deep, rumbling deer huffs. Tail draped lazily over Alex’s hip.

Alex waited until the snores steadied, then slipped free. He ejected the memory card with practised stealth and pocketed it with a quiet grin.

Tasteful edit later—strategic cuts around the darkest lines, artistic blurs on the sweatier bits. Discreet site. Anonymous handle. Funds labelled “Buck’s Survival Kit”: industrial-grade lube, extra-firm mattress, deer-safe restraints (“for his own good”), custom “No More 30-06 Jokes” mug for Alex.

He glanced back: Buck sprawled like a very large, very satisfied, very drug-fueled throw rug, one foreleg draped protectively where Alex had lain.

Alex smiled—fond, mischievous, a little bruised—and curled back in, chest to back, arm slung over the thick neck. He glanced at Buck’s twitching form and murmured to himself, “The crash is gonna hit like a freight train, babe. Better stock up on electrolytes.”

Buck pressed instinctively closer, mumbling “tails up” and “gentleman” in his sleep.

Alex kissed the base of one antler. “Next rut, you ridiculous animal. No more heists. And definitely no more letting anyone ‘go first.’”

Outside, wind rattled the pines. Inside, the fire popped low, hearts beating slow—Buck’s from lingering chemical afterglow, Alex’s from affection, exasperation, and quiet scheming.

Dreading—and counting down to—next October.

To Be Continued