Welcome, enjoy your stay

Erik had gotten strangely focused.

Not in the usual “ran off after a glowing mushroom or a giant spider” way—but deliberate. Structured. His notebook pages, normally filled with charts and crude sketches of bugs, had begun to feature strange little diagrams. You recognized one—clearly a Seikret—presenting a fish to another. Another sketch showed a flying wyvern preening its mate’s neck.

You blinked at it, frowning slightly. “Erik… are you… studying monster courtship?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even flinch.

“Why?”

He didn’t look up from the page. “Behavioral analysis. Trying to map patterns of emotional communication across species.”

You tilted your head. “...For the Guild?”

“No.” He looked up now. Met your gaze for once, and this time… didn’t look away. “It’s for you.”

Your breath caught.

His expression stayed serious. “I’m not good with human emotions. But I understand creature logic. So, I thought… maybe if I studied how monsters form bonds, I could approximate a framework of how to show you—” He paused. Cleared his throat. “—That I… care.”

You felt like someone had cracked your chest open.

He flipped the page, cheeks tinged pink. “For example, the male Lala Barina creates a nesting spot of paralyzed prey to protect its mate. I thought about building you a stronger sleeping mat, but Gemma said that might be ‘too creepy.’”

You snorted.

He continued, flipping again. “Then I observed the Seikret's bonding display—gifting rare items, like scales or shiny objects. I’ve given you flowers, teeth, feathers—though not prey. Yet.”

“Yet?” you laughed.

He smiled, finally—boyish and awkward and so Erik. “If it helps. I will.”

Your heart was doing ridiculous things.

He tapped the last sketch—two Talioth nuzzling after a cooperative hunt. “This is the one I’m most curious about. Shared effort under duress. Fighting beside someone to build connection. Do you think that’s accurate?”

You were still staring at him, stunned.

“Erik,” you said slowly, “are you trying to love me like a wyvern?”

His brow furrowed. “I don’t know how to love you like a person.”

That shut you up.

Because that was the most real, most raw thing he could have said. Not a poetic confession. Not a grand gesture. Just… Erik. Sincere. Searching. Trying.

He reached out suddenly and took your hand. His grip was clumsy, unsure. Like he didn’t quite know the right amount of pressure, or if it was even okay. But he did it.

And you understood.

“I don’t need you to get it right,” you whispered. “I just need you to try.”

His fingers twitched slightly. “Then I’ll keep documenting. Until I do.”

A Few Days Later...

It started with the food.

He handed you a bowl of stew without being asked—awkwardly holding it out, clearly trying not to spill any. You blinked, surprised.

“I noticed your appetite has decreased since the last inclemency,” he said, as if explaining a weather report. “But you still respond positively to Alma’s spice blend. So, I adjusted the ratio.”

“…You made this?”

He hesitated. “I supervised.”

You took it slowly, unsure. But one taste confirmed it—your favorite. Spiced just right. Nothing bizarre. Warm in a way that made your chest ache more than your stomach.

“I wrote it down,” he added, fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. “In case you like it again later.”

Then came the questions.

Not the ones about monsters or ecosystems or pollen. The kind that caught you off guard.

“Do you prefer cold mornings or warm ones?” he asked one evening as you watched the sun dip behind the canopies of the Scarlet Forest. A Rathalos roaring one final time before nightfall.

You tilted your head. “Why?”

“For relational calibration.”

You blinked. “…What?”

“I’m building a profile.” He flipped open a little side notebook that he took from one of his interior pockets, not his usual field notebook but one marked in your favorite color. “You smiled yesterday when it rained. Noted. You also linger near the central fire even when the temperature isn’t low. Possible comfort preference. I’m still adjusting for external variables.”

You tried not to laugh. You really tried.

But it escaped anyway—soft and stunned and affection-drunk. He looked up quickly at the sound, startled. You saw the tiniest flicker of pride in his eyes. Like a Palico who had just landed a successful hit.

“You’re studying me like I’m a monster,” you said, teasing.

His voice was quiet when he replied: “No. I’m studying you like you’re important.”

And just like that, the laughter died in your throat—because now your eyes were stinging again.

The next evening, you found a sketch on your cot.

It was you.

Not perfectly drawn—his style was clinical, anatomical even—but it was you. Sitting with your legs curled up, one hand on your chin, head tilted toward something off-page. Your expression soft. Thoughtful. Real.

He’d captured a moment you didn’t even remember having.

Scrawled in the corner, small and neat, were the words:

Observed during quiet hour. Subject appears calm, self-contained, and brighter when near firelight. Causes irregular spike in my heart rate. Source unknown. Hypothesis: proximity comfort. Continue observation.

You pressed the page to your chest and breathed.

No one had ever wanted to understand you like this. Not just admire you or flirt with you or chase you. But understand you. Your preferences. Your comfort zones. Your weather patterns.