The word lands in my kitchen like a bell struck once and left to ring.
I stare at him across the dark table with my chin on my knee and my hair falling out of its bun and mica still glinting on my forearms, and I feel the full weight of what he just said settle into place alongside everything else I’ve learned about him today.
The storage unit.
The listing nobody clicked on.
“Come here,” I say.
He goes still.
“To the living room. I want to show you something.” I stand up and tilt my head toward the doorway.
He follows me down the short hallway, moving in that eerie silent pour across thetile.
The living room is small and crowded with the evidence of a life run by one person: the couch buried under a quilt my grandmother made, a coffee table stacked with supplier invoices and a half-empty glass of water, a bookshelf that’s sixty percent fragrance references and forty percent romance novels that I’ll only acknowledge under oath if pressed.
I drop onto the couch and pull the quilt into my lap.
Pat the cushion beside me.
Oz hesitates at the threshold.
His form fills the doorway, teal light catching on the frame, and I can see him calculating the geometry of fitting himself onto a piece of furniture designed for a person half his size.
“Sit,” I say.
His form lowers and widens, settling onto the couch beside me in a shape that’s more wave than person.
He fills the cushion and part of the next one, warm and heavy, his surface gleamingfaintly in the dark room.
The couch creaks once and accepts him.
I lean back against the quilt and feel the heat of him along my right side.
I tip my head back against the cushion and look at him sideways.
This close, I can see the layers of him, translucent depth upon depth, like looking into colored glass.
The gold threads pulse slowly, almost in time with my breathing.
I reach out and lay my hand flat against his surface.
He goes warm under my palm.
“Is this okay?” I ask.
“It’s okay.” His voice has dropped to something barely above a vibration. “It’s very okay.”
I spread my fingers wider, pressing gently, and feel him give beneath my hand.
Warm and smooth and alive, yielding just enough to let me in before firming aroundmy touch.
My fingertips sink a quarter inch into his surface and I feel his pulse against them, steady and deep.
I trace my hand up his arm.
His surface ripples ahead of my touch, colors chasing my fingers.
