I groan. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, dust bunny? Somewhere far away from my home and my guest?”
“Absolutely not,” Celeste declares, settling more firmly into her seat. “I’ve waited twenty years to meet someone who can tolerate you for more than ten minutes without running away screaming. I’m not going anywhere.”
“It’s fine,” June assures me, patting my arm with a casual affection that nearly short-circuits my brain. “I’m enjoying learning about you.”
“There’s nothing to learn,” I insist. “I’m exactly as I appear.”
Both women burst into laughter at this, creating a stereo effect of feminine amusement that makes my mandibles click in embarrassment.
“Oh, honey,” Celeste says to June once she’s recovered. “Let me tell you about his reality TV addiction. After I helped him connect to a few streaming services, this absurd creature immediately watched four straight seasons of The Bachelor. And he started a spreadsheet analyzing successful courtship techniques and everything!”
“What?” June gasps, turning to me with wide eyes. “I knew you studied these shows, but I didn’t know you took it to that level.”
“Research requires proper documentation,” I defend myself.
“He categorized every kiss by duration, participants’ pupil dilation, and subsequent relationship longevity,” Celeste continues mercilessly. “Then he tried to develop a mathematicalformula to predict romantic compatibility based on multiple variables.”
“That’s impressive,” June says, though she’s clearly fighting another laugh.
“It was wildly inaccurate,” I admit. “Human pair bonding defies logical analysis. I gave up on analyzing every little variable after that, instead opting for a more vibes-based approach.”
June’s laughter fills the kitchen again, but it doesn’t feel mocking. There’s a warmth to it, an inclusive quality that suggests she’s laughing with me rather than at me. “I really didn’t think a spider could be so cute,” she says, and I find myself glad that I’m incapable of blushing through my exoskeleton.
Celeste then launches into another embarrassing anecdote about my first encounter with a phone, and I resign myself to enduring this character assassination with as much grace as possible. June listens with rapt attention, asking questions that reveal deep interest rather than mere amusement at my expense.
Watching them together—Celeste’s animated gestures and June’s practical posture gradually relaxing as she laughs—I’m struck by how natural it feels to have them both in my space. This kitchen has never held so much life, so much noise, so much… happiness.
It’s terrifying.
It’s perfect.
When Celeste finally remembers her original purpose for visiting—delivering specialty inks for a commissioned tapestry—she reluctantly prepares to leave. But she still extracts promises from June to tell her all about our first encounter next time.
Finally and mercifully, Celeste is gone in a flutter of wings, the back door closing behind her with a decisive click.
The house feels suddenly quiet, the energy of Celeste’s visit dissipating like her wing scales settling on my countertops. June turns to me, a playful light in her eyes.
“So,” she says casually, “you have a memory foam topper?”
I expect irritation to surge through me at this reminder of Celeste’s betrayal. Instead, a wave of deep affection washes over me as I look at this remarkable woman sitting in my kitchen, teasing me about my eccentricities with that perfect mix of amusement and acceptance.
In one fluid motion, I lift her from her chair and settle her onto my lap. “You’re welcome to test its comfort rating later,” I tell her, nuzzling against her neck and inhaling her scent.
Her laughter vibrates against my chest, and I rumble in contentment. “She’s cute. I don’t know why you two never dated.”
“Because she is a dusty pest,” I murmur against her skin. “Unlike my beautiful mate.”
June melts against me, her body relaxing into mine with complete trust as she repeats, “Your mate.”
This is what I’ve been missing all these years. Not just physical intimacy, but this: the quiet morning after, the shared laughter, the casual touch of someone who sees all of me and stays anyway.
We finish breakfast like that, with June perched on my lap, the both of us perfectly content.
Somewhere below us, road crews are likely already assessing the damage in the storm’s aftermath, planning how quickly they can clear the mudslide and restore access to this remote section of mountain.
Three to five days, they’d estimated. Three to five days of June in my home, in my bed, in my life. Then the roads will clear, and she’ll have no reason to stay with a reclusive spider monster on a remote mountain when she has a business to run, a father who needs her, a whole human life waiting below.
I tighten my arms around her reflexively, and she glances up with a questioning look.
