If someone had told me this morning that I'd end my Christmas Eve kissing a not-snake and a not-cat in my clinic, I would've laughed and suggested therapy.
And yet here I was.
Warm lips brushed mine, unfamiliar and distracting, while another presence lingered close enough that I could feel it—heat, breath, attention.
My thoughts scrambled uselessly, caught somewhere between disbelief and the very real awareness that this was happening.
This is bad, I thought distantly. This is very, very bad.
A few hours ago, I'd been a veterinarian closing up shop, preparing for another lonely night with reheated food and holiday reruns. Now I was doing… this—with two strangers who had started the night bleeding in the forest and somehow ended up human.
And they weren't just strangers, they were non-human strangers.
I pulled back just enough to breathe, my heart pounding as I stared at the absurdity of my situation.
The white-haired pulled my chin, capturing my lips this time.
