“Hey, some of those songs are actually—” I catch his expression and laugh. “Okay, fine. But I’m not promising anything about pop music.”
He mulls it over, then relents, “I suppose I’ll survive.”
Twenty minutes later, we’repulling out of the corner store parking lot with a bag of snacks I insisted were “road trip essentials” and Sundar looking both amused and concerned at my selection of gummy worms and energy drinks. The city unfolds around us as I navigate through familiar streets, tryingnot to think about how this is the first time we’ve been truly alone since… well, since Friday.
The late morning sun catches on his scales, sending little flashes of gold dancing across the dashboard. I pretend not to notice how the confined space of my Corolla makes his presence feel even more overwhelming than usual. I have to focus extra hard on not running any red lights.
As we hit the highway, the sprawl of Houston gradually begins to thin. Strip malls give way to scattered buildings, then to open spaces dotted with wildflowers. Spring in Texas means bluebonnets, and they carpet the roadside in waves of vibrant blue.
The sight usually fills me with peace, but today I’m too aware of how Sundar has somehow managed to arrange himself with surprising grace in my passenger seat, his tail coiled in intricate loops across the back seat while maintaining perfect posture up front.
I sneak another glance at him. The sight of him—ancient, powerful, deadly serious—sitting next to a bag of Hot Cheetos is probably the highlight of my week. A ray of sunlight catches his profile, and I’m struck by how the golden undertones in his scales match the morning light perfectly, like he’s somehow absorbing it.
“Your car handles well,” he says, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us. The formal comment is so perfectly him that I have to bite back a smile.
“Thanks. She’s not much, but she’s got heart.” I pat the steering wheel affectionately.
“Heart is all that matters,” he says simply, and when I dare another glance, I catch him watching me with an intensity that makes me grip the steering wheel just a little harder.
“So,” I say, fiddling with my Spotify playlists more than strictly necessary, “what exactly are we walking into? I mean, besides a minotaur scholar’s estate?”
His expression grows thoughtful, and I watch from the corner of my eye as he absently strokes the length of tail draped across his lap.
“Marcus Blackhorn was unique,” he finally says. “He dedicated his life to studying the interactions between monsters and humans throughout history. His collection is said to contain artifacts from some of the most significant mixed-species couples in recorded history.”
Something in his tone makes me glance over. “That sounds fascinating,” I manage.
“It is.” He pauses, and I can tell he’s choosing his next words carefully. “Particularly given recent developments in monster-human relations. The Great Unveiling making it less of a secret now.”
Oh. We’re definitely not talking about just historical artifacts anymore. Friday’s memories threaten to overwhelm me yetagain as I think about how his tail had felt wrapped around my knees, the burning intensity of his gaze as he—
A horn blares, and I realize I’ve drifted slightly into the next lane. Sundar’s tail twitches, but he doesn’t comment on my driving. Instead, he reaches for my phone, which is still chirping through various Bluetooth connection attempts.
“Perhaps some music would be appropriate,” he says. “Though I admit, I’m not familiar with most modern genres.”
“Well, then,” I say, grateful for the shift in conversation, “prepare yourself for an education. Just tap ‘Road Trip Mix’ and—”
The opening notes of “Mr. Brightside” fill the car, and Sundar’s hood flares slightly in surprise. “This is energetic.”
“Just wait until we hit the ABBA portion of the playlist.”
His expression of mild alarm makes me laugh, and some of the tension eases from the car. The Texas countryside rolls past, all spring-green and morning light, dotted with those waves of bluebonnets. A few white-tailed deer graze in a distant field, and overhead, a red-tailed hawk circles lazily.
“The human world moves so quickly,” Sundar says suddenly, his voice thoughtful. “Sometimes I forget how much beauty there is in these brief moments.”
I slow the car slightly as we pass through a particularly stunning stretch of wildflowers. Next to me, Sundar’s tail shifts in what I’m learning to recognize as contentment—a slow, graceful undulation that’s like the waves of the ocean.
“These flowers,” he says, leaning slightly closer to the window. “They return every spring?”
“Like clockwork.” I smile, remembering childhood road trips. “Though they only bloom for a few weeks. My mom used to say that makes them more precious—because they’re temporary.”
Something flickers across his expression. “Yes,” he says softly. “She must be a wise woman.”
The weight of unspoken words fills the car. I focus on driving, trying not to read too much into his comment or the way his tail has unconsciously stretched closer to my seat. It’s distracting in the best and worst ways.
“Would you like a gummy worm?” I blurt out, immediately wanting to sink through the floor.
But Sundar simply smiles. “I’ve never tried one.”
