Theea
The fire pops, a little too hot for Torchline standards, but I’m curled up on my heap of pillows like a queen on a lopsided throne. My nose is redder than a longheat strawberry, my head is pounding like a drumline gone rogue, but obviously, I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Just… allergies. Brutal ones.
I sniff hard, then sneeze into the depths of a tissue that joins the crumpled mountain already filling the trash bucket. My fingertips are blackened with charcoal, smudges creeping up my wrist and—considering how I keep nodding off with my head in my hand—probably on my face. My sketch lies half-finished on my lap, the shape of hulking big cat coming to life out of the streaks and smudges of charcoal. One log remains by the fire, the last soldier before I’d have to stagger outside and replenish the stockpile. I try not to think about it.
The knock cuts through the crackle, followed by a whistle that makes my brows lift. I know that whistle. My head swivels, sluggish but sharp enough to catch sight of an enormous paw pressed against the window. Aria’s round face squashes against the glass, fogging it with her muffled mrrow. My grin is a nice change of pace.
The sketch is abandoned as I shove myself upright, wobbling across the warm room, through the kitchen, and to the door. I throw it open with all the ceremony of a gracious hostess—only to promptly almost sneeze in Damien’s face. I twist away at the last second, burying my face in my oversized sweater sleeve.
“Sorry—sorry, sorry, sorry,” I sniff, wiping at my nose and trying to recover my dignity. My voice is hoarse but bright when I look up at him, relief and excitement coloring it. “You’re here! Come in, both of you.”
The house is still sparse, but signs of effort linger—new odds and ends in corners, a few pieces that don’t quite match but speak of someone trying. I sweep an apologetic hand toward the mess of pillows, tissue mountain and all.
“Ignore the disaster zone. Allergies have been kicking my ass.”
I grin despite the redness of my nose, stepping aside so he and Aria can cross into the over-warmed cocoon of the little beach house.
I sniff hard, then sneeze into the depths of a tissue that joins the crumpled mountain already filling the trash bucket. My fingertips are blackened with charcoal, smudges creeping up my wrist and—considering how I keep nodding off with my head in my hand—probably on my face. My sketch lies half-finished on my lap, the shape of hulking big cat coming to life out of the streaks and smudges of charcoal. One log remains by the fire, the last soldier before I’d have to stagger outside and replenish the stockpile. I try not to think about it.
The knock cuts through the crackle, followed by a whistle that makes my brows lift. I know that whistle. My head swivels, sluggish but sharp enough to catch sight of an enormous paw pressed against the window. Aria’s round face squashes against the glass, fogging it with her muffled mrrow. My grin is a nice change of pace.
The sketch is abandoned as I shove myself upright, wobbling across the warm room, through the kitchen, and to the door. I throw it open with all the ceremony of a gracious hostess—only to promptly almost sneeze in Damien’s face. I twist away at the last second, burying my face in my oversized sweater sleeve.
“Sorry—sorry, sorry, sorry,” I sniff, wiping at my nose and trying to recover my dignity. My voice is hoarse but bright when I look up at him, relief and excitement coloring it. “You’re here! Come in, both of you.”
The house is still sparse, but signs of effort linger—new odds and ends in corners, a few pieces that don’t quite match but speak of someone trying. I sweep an apologetic hand toward the mess of pillows, tissue mountain and all.
“Ignore the disaster zone. Allergies have been kicking my ass.”
I grin despite the redness of my nose, stepping aside so he and Aria can cross into the over-warmed cocoon of the little beach house.
delusional optimism is the only way out
