“Fuck right off!”
Laughing fully, Glyma opened the car door and climbed out. She ducked her head back inside and winked at the thoroughly flustered Daemon. “If you come later, will you tell me?”
“Gods, how can you just say these things?” Quin hid her face in her hands, chest heaving.
“Gets easier with practice,” Glyma quipped, and Quin laughed somewhat manically.
“You’re insane.”
“I’m going to come later, and I will definitely be thinking about you while I do,” she said conversationally, and Quin groaned again. “Will you come later, Quin?”
Without lowering her hands, Quin nodded.
“Will you be thinking of me?” Glyma pushed.
Again, Quin nodded.
“That’s very good,” Glyma said, and Quin shuddered. “Are you okay to drive home?”
Her hands finally fell away, and she leveled Glyma with a glower. “I am perfectly capable of driving!”
Glyma bit her bottom lip gleefully, and another bout of steam rushed from Quin’s nose. She flipped Glyma off, and she giggled again. The Daemon just glared.
“Text me you got home safe. I promise, no funny business. I just want to make sure you’re okay,” Glyma said, and Quin softened, then nodded. “Goodnight, Quin.”
The door shut, but not before she heard Quin’s quiet reply, “Goodnight, Glyma.”
Chapter eight
Purgatory
Quin
The next several weekspassed in fits and bursts of happiness amidst lifeless grayscale. The mundane work moments faded into the background, but in between were moments of sharp, vibrant color. Glyma texting Quin a picture of the receipt of her filing to incorporate. A list of possible cafe names, Glyma’s favorites marked with a star. A desperate FaceTime with Glyma panicking that she’d filled out all the loan applications wrong, and Quin talking her down and helping her through it.
That, in turn, led to more phone calls on Quin’s lunch break and in between meetings. In the evenings, after Marci went home, and Quin was stuck working late. Under the cover of night in her room, hushed secrets and vulnerable confessions kept safe beneath the sheets.
It wasn’t sexual. Not exactly. They flirted, of course, and sometimes, Glyma towed the line of innuendo and invitation. But they didn’t cross it. Quin could have; she knew that. Waryn didn’t care, and her parents would never know. Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to take that last step, because if she did, she would be ruined.
Nothing would be the same again, and she didn’t think she could go back after experiencing what fulfillment and happiness actually tasted like. Returning to this life, this stone prison, this titanium coffin, after that? No, she really wouldn’t survive it.
She knew what she wanted, but did she actually have the courage to fight for it? She wasn't sure she was ready to find out.
So they kept things more or less platonic. When Glyma dropped by Quin’s office unannounced with another baked item she wanted Quin to test. When Quin swung by Glyma’s flat to drop off paperwork that could have been sent via email. When Quin accompanied Glyma to visit her mother on Thursdays.
Just friends. Just gal pals.
Waryn joined them sometimes, and he even met Ms. Aryti. Those two got on like two seeds in akocapod, and it was nice. It was warm and colorful and tasted something like family. Not a family Quin had ever known. A better one. A kinder one. And it was good. So very good.
“What are you doing this weekend?” Glyma asked as Quin stared blankly at her accounting books. Quarterly taxes were approaching, and she needed to calculate the payment. But talking with Glyma was much more enjoyable.
“I think it might be the first weekend I don’t have concrete plans,” Quin said after mentally reviewing her calendar. “My parents are in the human dimension for some political fundraiser, and my attendance is not deemed a necessity. I think I’m going to take a long, hot bath and read a book.”
“That sounds amazing. I haven’t had a bathtub since I was a kid.”
“You can borrow mine anytime.”
Glyma’s voice turned husky. “Ooh, communal bath?”
