Page 22 of Moth to a Flame

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You’re doing that thing where you take care of someone because you don’t know how to not, aren’t you?

Don’t forget to eat and sleep and shit ok? You always forget

Me:

Ok

Motthew:

Promise

Me:

Promise

Motthew:

Love you. Text me tomorrow

Me:

Love you too.

Motthew:

Don’t stay up too early with your new witch

I turned my head toward the wall. She was still sad, even in her sleep. It was quieter now, but it wound around her heart like thorny vines, and she’d been bleeding for a long time.

Yeah. I was doing that thing because I wanted to take care of her.

I wanted to make this right.

I’d done my best to sleep, despite my nocturnal nature. Moth hours didn’t work for most people. I woke in the late morning, but Lucia was apparently still asleep. Guess she was a little nocturnal too.

I wasn’t going to be much help with her research, that much was certain. I didn’t have any knowledge of ancient languages or counter-spells or undoing curses. But I had crashed through her greenhouse, and I could help with that. I was good at fixing things.

But first, I needed some food, and she probably did too.

I got out of bed, and a small, lacy scrap of fabric fell out with me. My eyes locked on it, but I already knew what it was. These pants were hers. Her panties must have stuck to them when she’d given them to me.

I stood at the edge of the bed and stared at them.

They stared back.

Black lace, and not a lot of it. Underwear that had been designed with an audience in mind. I did not pick them up. I did not move. I did not even a little bit permit my brain to construct a mental image of the last time they’d been worn.

The bond was quiet in my chest. She was still asleep. This was the only time I could handle this situation without her feeling every single one of my reactions to it.

The panties continued to sit on the floor, judging me as I weighed my options.

Leave them. She wakes up, comes to check on the stranger in her house, sees them on the floor, we both die of compounding embarrassment. Rejected.

Put them on the dresser. She wakes up, comes in, sees them, knows I put them there, assumes I did something weird with them overnight, we both die of embarrassment, and she thinks I’m a pervert. Rejected.

Kick them under the bed. Cowardly. Also, knowing the other demon with wings in this house, he’d drag them out again just to make me look bad. Rejected.