“And who’s this behemoth?”
I turn to find a robust human female approaching, carrying a massive box that emanates a sweet, sugary scent. Her nametag reads “Merry.”
“This is Riven,” June says. “Riven, this is Merry. She owns the diner.”
“Oh, I know exactly who he is,” Merry says, grinning up at me. “The whole town’s talking about our spider hero. Which is why I brought these.”
She thrusts the box toward me. I accept it reflexively, peering inside to find dozens of circular pastries with holes in their centers.
“A lifetime supply of donuts for the hero,” Merry announces proudly. “On the house.”
I stare at the offering, completely bewildered. “I… do not require payment for basic ethical actions.”
“It’s not payment, honey. It’s a thank you.” Merry pats my leg. “Besides, everyone needs donuts.”
The box is awkwardly large in my hands, and I’m not sure what the proper etiquette is for carrying such a quantity of pastries while trying to assist with reconstruction efforts.
“Perhaps I should put these somewhere safe until later,” I suggest. “I’ll just… store them here.” I carefully thread the donuts onto four of my spider legs, sliding them up until they rest securely against my exoskeleton. The sugar coating leaves a pleasant sticky residue, and the weight distribution is actually quite manageable.
“Is this the correct carrying method for wheel-shaped pastries?” I ask June, who is making a strange choking sound.
Several humans around us have stopped working to stare. Then, to my confusion, they begin to laugh, though not the cruel laughter I’ve always feared. It’s something warmer, almost… affectionate?
“Oh my god, that’s the best thing I’ve ever seen,” Merry wheezes, pulling out her phone. “This is going on the diner wall. Our very own hero with his donut bandolier.”
“You look ridiculous,” June informs me, but her eyes are soft, and she’s looking at me the way she does when we’re alone in my nest. “Absolutely, perfectly ridiculous.”
“Is this not standard procedure?” I ask.
She laughs. “It’s going to be now.”
A child’s voice pipes up from somewhere near my lower legs. “Mister Spider, can I have a donut?”
I look down to find a small human female, perhaps six years old, staring up at my donut-laden legs with naked longing.
June watches me expectantly, clearly curious how I’ll handle this interaction.
I carefully bend down, bringing myself to the child’s level, and detach a sugar-coated donut from my leg. “These were tactical reserves,” I inform her seriously, “but I believe your need is greater than mine.”
The child accepts the offering with solemn reverence. “Thank you, Mister Spider.” Then, to my absolute shock, she pats my leg and skips away, already biting into her prize.
When I straighten up, June is looking at me with an expression I can’t quite decode.
“What?” I ask, suddenly self-conscious.
“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “Just thinking that you’re going to make an excellent father someday.”
The implication of her words hits me with the force of Kestra’s root attack. A future. With June. With possible offspring. A life among humans and monsters alike, no longer isolated on my mountain.
“Would you…” I begin, then hesitate, uncertain how to phrase such a momentous question.
“Would I what?” she prompts, eyes twinkling as though she already knows what I’m struggling to ask.
“Would you like another donut?” I finish lamely, gesturing to my leg-mounted pastries.
June laughs, rising on her tiptoes to press a kiss to my mandible. “I would like all the donuts you have to offer, Riven. Every single one.”
And somehow, I know she’s not talking about the donuts at all.
