Cathy sighed.
It was not an accepting sigh. It was an exhausted maternal sigh that suggested she knew perfectly well shewas being lied to and had chosen, for the moment, to let them live.
“Then unpack the groceries,” she said, looking at Dustin. “Make yourself useful.”
That evening, Cathy made spaghetti with the ground beef and yellow onions they’d brought home.
Dustin fed Greg because Greg’s bandaged hands couldn’t handle a fork, and Greg allowed it because dignity had become less important to him lately.
The spaghetti was good. Slightly sweet. Warm in a way that did not feel like punishment.
“Better than the chili?” Dustin asked, grinning as he twirled another forkful.
“I liked the chili,” Greg said. “It just didn’t like me.”
“It didn’t like you?”
“It hurt me.”
Across the table, Cathy chuckled.
“Well,” she said, “I’m glad my spaghetti isn’t hurting you.”
“Me too,” Greg said fervently.
They ate in the warm kitchen while the clock ticked and no one spoke about burned hands or collapsed shelves or the fact that Greg had no clipboard, no function, and no idea what he was now.
It was the most normal meal Greg had ever had.
And the best.
Later, in Dustin’s room, Greg layawake in the dark.
Dustin was curled around him from behind, one arm heavy across Greg’s ribs, his nose pressed to the back of Greg’s neck. His breathing had slowed, but not quite settled into sleep.
Greg stared at the ceiling.
He couldn’t stop thinking about the contract.
His logic was sound. A reaper’s soul, freely given—and he wasn’t a reaper anymore. The terms referred to something that no longer existed. The contract should be void.
Should be.
But what if he was wrong? What if the demon didn’t see it that way? What if a reaper’s soul meant something more permanent than a role, something baked into his essence regardless of what he had severed or burned or become?
He couldn’t know from here.
There was only one way to ask.
“Dustin,” Greg said quietly.
“Mm.”
“I need to go to the cemetery.”
The arm around him tightened.
“Now?”
