The kitchen smelled like soap and lemon, which was weird enough by itself. Usually, it smelled like leftover pizza or instant ramen broth. But Lily was on dish duty, and Lily didn’t tolerate paper plates or plastic forks.
“You live like a bachelor troll,” she remarked, sleeves rolled up, water dripping from her wrists as she rinsed a glass. Her red hair fell loose around her face, catching the harsh kitchen light in molten copper streaks. “And trolls have better table manners. Plates. Silverware. Actual food. These are not optional.”
I leaned against the counter, trying not to look as defensive as I felt. “I do fine on takeout.”
“You survive on takeout,” she corrected, handing me the dripping glass. Her nails clicked against it—sharp, but careful. “Surviving isn’t living, Danny. Food is supposed to be—” she closed her eyes for a second, breathing in, exhaling like she could taste the memory, “—texture, flavor, sensations. Food is one of life’s not guilty pleasures.”
I tried not to notice the curve of her nose, the way her lips shaped the word pleasure. Tried not to think about the faint scent that always seemed to hang around her, warm and sweet, like cinnamon sugar cut with something deeper—something designed to tug at the hindbrain. Pheromones. Her natural weapons.
It rolled right off me, because of what I am, but I still noticed. I noticed everything about her.
And then my traitor brain dragged me back to that night a month ago. When pleasure hadn’t been anywhere in the equation. Just fear. Pain. Her body trembling beneath mine and her life bleeding away while the Eidolich’s rot spread through her veins. And me, the idiot who could stop it, but only one way—
I swallowed hard. Didn’t want to replay it again.
Her arm brushed mine as she set another plate in the rack, casual. Innocent. But my body flinched before I could stop it.
The plate clattered.
She froze. Turned. Her eyes—suddenly dark and at the same time luminous—fixed on me. “Danny.” Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “Did you just flinch from me?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “It’s not—”
Her jaw tightened. “I almost died. Do you understand that? And yes, it was ugly. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t fair, and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop hearing that creature’s voice in my head. But I’m still here. And if you keep treating me like glass, you’re going to break me worse than the Eidolich ever did.”
The name hung between us, heavy as a noose. The Eidolich. Walking famine wrapped in bones and whispers. That creature had nearly hollowed her out, and yeah, we’d beaten her—but scars don’t vanish just because the monster does.
“I don’t think you’re made of glass,” I muttered. “I just…”
“You just what?”
“I keep seeing you on that floor, dying. And I don’t know how to separate that from now.”
Silence stretched, filled with the drip of water from the faucet.
Finally, she set the sponge down and leaned on the counter, facing me fully. Her copper hair brushed her jawline, her eyes unreadable but steady. “Then here’s how you separate it. Back then, I had no choice. I was powerless. But now?” Her lips curved, not quite a smile. “Now I get to choose. What I eat. What I taste. Who I kiss. If I kiss you again—and maybe I will—it’ll be because I want to. Not because I’m dying.”
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Heat climbed my ears. “That’s… a lot of pressure for a guy who burns Pop-Tarts half the time.”
She laughed—light, real, almost startling. “Then man up and start with the dishes. Comfort me with clean plates, Danny. We’ll work our way up from there.”
We finished in silence after that, but it wasn’t sharp silence anymore. More like… truce silence. The kind where you don’t need to fill every second with words.
Later, we ended up on the couch, half-buried in a blanket, a movie droning low in the background. She sprawled sideways, without asking, and dropped her legs across mine. I made a noise of protest, but she just arched a brow until I gave in.
Her feet were cold, of course. And delicate. And when I started rubbing them, grumbling about her being a tyrant, she smiled—small, genuine, the kind of smile that made the room feel a little less haunted.
We didn’t talk about the Eidolich. Or about that night. Or about what might happen if we crossed that line again.
But for once, sitting there with her weight resting against me, it didn’t feel like fragility.
It felt like living.
I woke to the smell of tea. Not coffee. Tea. Jasmine, with just enough honey to make the air sweet instead of bitter.
Lily was perched at the kitchen counter, mug cradled in both hands, her copper hair catching the pale morning light in fire-toned streaks. She looked maddeningly composed for someone who’d stayed up past midnight watching romcoms.
“Morning, Danny.” She didn’t glance up from her tea. Just the faintest smile tugging her lips. “You must’ve been tired. You were snoring more than usual.”
“I don’t snore.” My voice was gravel. My hair felt like a bird had nested in it overnight.
“You snore,” she repeated, serene as a monk. “But it’s almost… charming. Like a chainsaw purring in the distance.”
“Romantic,” I muttered, stumbling toward the cupboard. My cereal boxes leaned like exhausted sentries.
“Romance is overrated.” She sipped. “Comfort matters more.”
I grunted. Reached for the Corn Pops. Tried not to notice how much I liked that word—comfort—coming from her mouth.
Silence stretched for a while, companionable in a way I wasn’t used to. The apartment didn’t feel quite so hollow with her sitting there, legs crossed, sipping tea like she owned the place.
It should have stayed like that. But my brain hates me, so of course it decided to cough up last night’s image. The thing outside. Tilted head. Watching.
I poured cereal. Milk sloshed. And before I could stop myself, I said, “Lily… have you ever seen, uh, guys with—boxes for chests?”
Her brows drew together. “Boxes?”
“Like… old mail slots. A flap. They drop something in, and it’s gone. Like… courier pigeons but creepier. Men made of steel and old paint.”
She blinked at me over the rim of her mug. “Daniel Mercer. Are you seriously describing post office horror cosplay at,” she checked the stove clock, “seven-thirty in the morning?”
“I’m serious.” My spoon clinked too loud against the bowl. “I’ve seen them. More than once.”
Her smile faded. “What are they? Where?”
“I don’t know.” That part, at least, was true. “Maybe I didn’t see what I thought I saw, but it’s happened more than once. Ever since the Eidolich and her strange servants, I’m always scanning crowds for faces that don’t belong. It’s probably nothing. Just… shadows playing tricks?”
She set her mug down with care, leaning forward, eyes sharp now. “Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not—” I started.
“You are.” She cut me off smoothly. “The problem is, I can’t prove it. Normally? I’d read your sweat. Your pulse. Pheromones don’t lie. But you?” Her nose wrinkled faintly, half-teasing, half-frustrated. “You just smell like… food. Always. Garlic bread. Fried rice. Once you even smelled like Funyuns for a week.”
I winced. “That wasn’t a phase, that was a sale at the corner shop.”
Her expression softened, but she didn’t look away. “I can’t read you. Not the way I can with anyone else. It’s infuriating. So when you dodge, I have to take your word for it. And your word has terrible street cred.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, stirring milk around the Corn Pops like I could dissolve my guilt with sugar.
“I’ll ask around,” she said suddenly.
My head snapped up. “No. Don’t—”
“Danny.” Her tone brooked no argument. “I’m not your glass figurine. Stop worrying about me. I’m grown. I can take care of myself. And if things with boxes for chests are creeping around your building, then they’re creeping around my territory too. Which makes it my problem.”
I wanted to argue. I really did. But the way she held my gaze—steady, unflinching—made the words stick in my throat.
Instead, I shoved another spoonful of cereal into my mouth and muttered, “Fine. Just… don’t get yourself hurt.”
She smiled again, small but real, and picked her tea back up. “That’s my line.”
The Pop-Tart spider clicked from the pantry. “FEEDER,” it rasped. Then, as if to mock me: “WORRIER.”
Lily’s lips twitched. “Accurate.”
I threw my spoon at it and missed horribly. It chittered at me, mocking me further. Even the pantry monster had jokes.
What name should the Pop-Tart Spider have?
