“Is something wrong?”
“Nothing,” I lie, pressing my face against her hair to hide my expression. “Nothing at all.”
But as she settles back against me and finishes her breakfast, I wonder if these few days will be enough to convince her that being with me—truly being with me—is worth the complications it would bring to her life.
I hope for a particularly slow road crew.
Chapter 12
Heart of the Mountain
June
After breakfast, I find myselfstaring at the small mountain of dishes with a familiar practical assessment. Even monsters, it seems, aren’t exempt from the mundane aftermath of cooking.
“Do you have a dishwasher?” I ask, already gathering plates.
Riven clicks his mandibles and averts his gaze. “I do. I’ve never used it.”
“Never?” I turn to look at him, plate in hand. “And you’ve had this beautiful kitchen for how long?”
“Four years, two months, and sixteen days,” he answers without hesitation.
“And you’ve never once used the dishwasher?”
He shrugs, the movement rippling through his massive frame. “I rarely cook.”
“Well, today’s your lucky day,” I announce, setting the plate down. “I'll be giving you a crash course.”
His eyes focus on me with that intense, predatory attention that makes my stomach flutter. “You want to teach me how to load a dishwasher?”
“Someone has to.” I grin at him. “Unless you prefer washing everything by hand?”
“My hands are perfectly capable,” he says, flexing his long, chitinous fingers. “But I’m always eager to learn human customs.”
For the next fifteen minutes, I guide him through the mundane art of properly arranging dishes. He approaches the task with the same meticulous focus I imagine he uses for his silk weaving, asking clarifying questions about optimal placement and the scientific reasoning behind detergent pod composition.
“My mother would have liked you,” I say without thinking as I watch him carefully position a coffee mug.
“Oh?” All eyes swivel toward me.
I busy myself with pre-rinsing a plate. “She was thorough like you. Always wanted to understand how things worked.”
“Tell me about her,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it.
The request catches me off guard. No one asks about my mom anymore. Dad and I have an unspoken agreement to mention her only in passing, preserving our memories without reopening wounds.
“She was a math teacher,” I begin, surprised by how easily the words come. “Brilliant with numbers. She got sick when I was fourteen. By fifteen, she was gone.” I hand him a plate to load. “Dad and I, we just… kept going. The delivery business was smaller then, just local packages around town. After she died, we expanded to the mountain routes. I think Dad needed the solitude of those long drives.”
“And you?” Riven asks.
“I needed to be useful,” I admit. “I handled the logistics for a while, then when Dad hurt his back, we switched roles. But I’ve always liked the work. It was something I could control when everything else felt chaotic.”
Riven nods, his large frame somehow conveying understanding without words.
“What about you?” I ask, eager to shift attention away from myself. “I mean, you weren’t always alone up here, were you?”
His mandibles click more rapidly, a sign of discomfort I’m beginning to recognize. “I’ve been solitary for most of my existence. It’s safer that way.”
