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“You have to get it out of me,” he pleads, voice cracking on every word. “Please.”

Sunday’s fingers tangle in mine as he pulls me onto his lap and buries his face in the crook of my neck. “Please. Please. I can’t fucking take it anymore.” The words scrape out of his throat, breath hitching at the end. He presses a hot, wet kiss to the hollow of my throat, murmuring pleas into my skin.

I release his hand and twist my fingers into his hair, tipping his head back. The tears spill over his lash line and cascade down his cheeks, the bloodshot eye looking every bit as painful as it did earlier.

I’ve never seen him cry.

Not once. Not when he got his throat tattooed, or when he fractured his wrist falling out of a tree. Not when he failed his oral exam at college, or when his family dog died. Not even when we broke up did I see his eyes flooded like this.

The sight of it makes my own eyes water, but I’ve cried more than enough lately.

I brush his tears away with the pads of my thumbs and press a featherlight kiss to each of his cheeks before slotting my mouth to his. His lips are soft against mine, every movement slow and languid. There’s no intrusion of wandering tongues, just achingly tender kisses. His hands find a home around my waist, gripping me tightly like he’s afraid to let go.

I pull away, but only just enough that I can talk, my lips still ghosting over his as I do.

“I’ll save you. I promise,” I murmur into his mouth, brushing his jaw. I hope it offers him some comfort, because I feel completely useless. I can’t let him suffer like this anymore.

With one more lingering kiss, I peel myself off him. He clings to me, fingers catching in my shirt, on my bracelets as I pull away. His good eye looks hollow, the normal blue hue turning to a dead gray.

“It’s going to be okay. Just sit tight for a minute.” I squeeze his hand, forcing a pathetically fake smile onto my face.

Inside, I begin to boil.

I have these gifts. I can sense things before they happen, can communicate with the dead, can read people’s intentions. I’ve leaned into all the soft and lovely and protective parts of my magic. I’ve come undone with touch alone and stitched myself together again with delicate words and serene meditation.

I think I’m done being gentle now.

While my bathtub fills, I aggressively rifle through the cabinet under the sink, hauling the giant tub of Epsom salt out of it. I collect other things too, moving around the apartment as Sunday watches me warily, fatigue steeped into the lines of his face.

I do none of my usual weighing and careful measurement, tipping the salt into the bath along with generous helpings of rosemary, lavender, and rue. I dump a whole vial of cedarwood oil in the steaming water, swilling it around with my fingers.

My lungs fill and empty at an erratic pace as I work, my face set in grim determination as I arrange some white candles and sprinkle all the remaining black salt into the bath too.

My hands shake as I strike the match, more from anger than anything else. Anger at myself, for not being able to help him. Anger at Sunday, for not telling me what was going on sooner. Anger at Delphine, for not coming back to me when I need her help.

Once the candles are lit, I turn off the extractor and call Sunday into the bathroom. His movements are slow and labored as he drags himself into the room and leans on the doorway, his face flickering with amusement as he looks at the bath and the candles lining it.

“You being romantic, Bels?” he teases, the soreness of his throat making it sound a little raspy.

How much I’d love for that to be true. What I wouldn’t give for this all to be said and done, so that we can just learn each other’s bodies all over again without this oppressive cloud hanging over us.

“I’m going to hotbox that demon out of you, if that’s what you call romantic.” I gesture toward the tub. “Clothes off. Get in.”

He hums, giving me a tired smile and curling his fingers into his shirt. “I kinda like it when you’re bossy, y’know.”

Kind of amazing really, how he manages to find the energy to flirt with me. He’s a resilient one, Sunday Mourning. Or maybe just incredibly stubborn.

I’ve had ample opportunity to see him naked over the past month, but I still can’t stop myself from admiring his tattooed thighs as he slides his jeans down his legs.

He opts to keep his boxers on, which is fair enough. His vulnerability shines through in the way he grasps his own elbows and dips his chin to his chest. The bathtub is much too small for him, yet he still manages to shrink himself to fit.

Scurrying out of the room, I return with a bundle of sage and an herbal tincture intended for ingestion. I kick the door shut on my way through, stopping to light the sage, letting it burn while I unstopper the tincture bottle.

“Open,” I tell him, and he lifts his head, sticking his tongue out. I squeeze the pipette into his mouth, giving him more than I would normally take. He’s got pounds on me, so it should be fine.

“Fuck. That tastes like rancid cum.” He coughs once, cringing.

“Gross, Sunny,” I tease, trying to keep the mood light. It works a little, judging by his weak laugh. I walk over to the toilet and sit on the closed lid, bracing my elbows on my knees and cradling my chin in my palm.