Page 116 of Fool Moon First Aid

“You’re still compassionate, Ethan,” I retort, not willing to let him undermine himself.

“It was different at eighteen,” he continues, turning the stuffed fox over in his hands. “You’re hopeful, believing you can save everyone.” His gaze meets mine, tinged with sorrow. “I’ve since learned that’s not possible,” he whispers.

I kneel beside the tote, picking up a frog that shares the same distinct stitching as the others.

“The other medics warned me I’d become desensitized over time, and I suppose they were right,” he admits, setting the fox aside. “But I earned my nickname before that happened.” A smirk plays on his lips. “In the early days, I didn’t ride with Ty. We had to learn from the veterans.”

“That makes sense.” I hold up a wolf, feeling an inexplicable urge to keep it.

“I was just a few months post-training when we received a call near Mystic. It was a severe car accident,” he recalls, leaning against the wall, stretching his legs out. “Those are the worst. The woman skidded on black ice and collided with a tree.”

I scoot closer, the wolf still in my grasp.

“We feared the worst, and it was ugly. She was pinned but alive, barely hanging on.” He pauses, his gaze dropping to mine. “We almost overlooked her daughter in the backseat.”

“By the fates.” I clench the stuffed wolf.

“She was in shock but otherwise unharmed. While the others worked on her mother, I got her out. She was only three,” he says, a soft smile on his face. “Dressed in pink overalls and a rainbow shirt, her hair in pigtails… She clung to me like a koala.”

I smile, hoping he had a stuffed koala for such a moment.

“I took her to the ambulance, sparing her the sight of her mother being cut free from the wreck. There, I had a little wolf like the one you’re holding. It captivated her, and she clung to both it and me,” he recounts.

“Was she human?” I ask.

“Completely,” he confirms. “We saved her mother too. The nickname Huggie didn’t stick immediately, but it was the beginning.” He can’t quite hide his smile. “My mom makes these.”

“I knew it!” I exclaim, spotting a tag with a wolf emblem on it. “They all seemed to come from the same loving hands.”

“I had her make more, just in case we encountered another child,” he explains. “Our next call involved a six-year-old having an asthma attack. I brought along my stuffed animals and gave him a fish. At the time, it seemed fitting—struggling to breathe just like a fish out of water.”

“It makes perfect sense,” I agree.

“The kid understood too,” he adds. “En route to the hospital, he clung to that fish and to me. Once again, my supervisor dubbed me Huggie. Initially, I despised the nickname. I was poised to become the Alpha of Clan Hughes, expected to embody toughness, yet they saw through my bullshit.”

“Compassion isn’t a weakness,” I murmur softly.

He dismisses it with a shrug. “When we helped the third child, a one-year-old burned by a space heater, I gave her a phoenix.” His smirk betrays a sense of pride in his symbolic choice. “She, too, latched onto me. That’s when the others joked that I was the real stuffed animal, with the toys merely being parting gifts.”

Suddenly, it clicks. “Huggie,” I echo, hugging the stuffed wolf close. “You provided them comfort and peace when they needed it most. To them, you are the stuffed animal.”

“I still do,” he acknowledges. “Most of these will be distributed this year, some even sent to other spiritkin hospitals. My mom continues to craft them, now incorporating all spiritkin forms.”

I admire the wolf, its black eyes and soft fur. “This is incredible.”

“When there’s an excess, I visit the children’s hospital a few hours away to spend time with them,” he says so softly, I almost miss it.

“Stop,” I protest, clutching the wolf tighter.

He looks at me, puzzled. “What?”

“How can you be the same man who packed up my entire apartment without my consent?” I gesture toward the stuffed animals. “How?”

“Sometimes” —his voice softens— “we let the worst in us take control, overshadowing our better qualities. Those actions don’t define all of who I am.” He takes a breath. “I could offer a myriad of excuses, but they’d just be that—excuses.”

I crawl over to him and straddle his lap. “You’re kind and compassionate, Ethan Hughes. Like a fearsome, yet soft stuffed animal.” I caress his cheek, feeling the stubble beneath my fingertips. “It’s okay to reveal your true self,” I whisper, leaning in for a kiss.

Ethan stiffens, surprised by my boldness. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t resist. He gently cups my cheek and places his other hand on my hip, pulling me closer as our kiss deepens. His taste, a blend of mint and coffee, is intoxicating. As we continue, his hold on me tightens, a silent plea for me not to disappear.

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