By the time I reach the fireplace, staring into the flames as though they might somehow swallow the humiliation crawling beneath my skin, I think of something else. Anything but the fact that I saw what the angel of darkness looks like naked. Very naked.
The fire crackles, but it’s muted against the sound of my terrified heartbeat pumping frantically in my ears, refusing to slow. Footsteps thunder across the floor above, then down the staircase. I don’t turn around. I can’t. A moment later, I feel him stop several feet behind me.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
His voice is calmer than mine could ever hope to be, and I glance over my shoulder to peak at him. His hair is still damp, dark strands falling across his forehead. He’d dragged on a pair of loose charcoal sweatpants in obvious haste, leaving his chest bare, droplets of water still tracing lazy paths over his marked skin before vanishing beneath his waistband. He looks as though he’d raced to make sure I wasn’t running away. The realization catches me off guard. No onehas ever chased me, not unless they intended to drag me back.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt out before I can stop myself, wishing that the floorboards would open up and swallow me whole. His sharp brows draw together.
“For…?” he asks carefully.
“I wasn’t trying to…” My face burns hotter and it has nothing to do with the fact that I’m still standing in front of the fireplace. “I didn’t mean to look.”
His expression softens with something I can’t read, as usual, and I can’t stop the heat that flames my cheeks. For a long moment, he simply watches me. Then, unexpectedly, he rubs the back of his neck. Every painful passing second convinces me that I’ve ruined whatever fragile understanding had existed between us. It’s as though he’s carefully searching for words that don’t seem to come naturally to him. Either that, or he wants me to leave. I’d understand if he did. If he told me that I needed to collect my things and leave back to the place I crawled out of for snooping around his house.
“I’ve…” He hesitates, the words seemingly unfamiliar on his tongue. “I’ve never had someone watch me shower before.”
The quiet confession fills the space between us, stripping away another layer of the angel I’ve spent years convincing myself was little more than a monster. But instead, he feels almost…human. There’s no accusation in his voice. No anger. Just an awkward honestly that somehow makes the heat crawling beneath my skin burn even hotter. Because I’m not the only one standing here wishing the last few moments had never happened.
The corner of my mouth twitches before I can stop it, the ghost of a smile threatening to surface at the absurdity of the situation. It vanishes almost as quickly as it appears, swallowed by the guilt that follows. I shouldn’t find comfort in the knowledge that the dark angel is capable of feeling embarrassed. And yet, standing here with damp hair curling against his forehead and water still glistening over the patterns covering his skin, he looks less like the man whispered about in fearful stories and more like someone who simply doesn't know what to say next.
Neither do I.
“Would you…” He pauses, reconsidering the words before they leave his mouth. “Do you still like hot chocolate?”
***
By the time I find myself sitting on the couch, the humiliation that had threatened to eat me alive has settled into a quiet calm, though every now and thenmy gaze still catches on the damp ends of Death’s dark hair before I hurriedly look somewhere else. Anywhere else. The oversized shirt pools around my knees as I tuck my feet beneath me, the blanket still draped across my shoulders where he’d left it, cocooning me in a perfect warmth that I keep waiting for someone to snatch away. Death disappears into the kitchen, returning several minutes later balancing two steaming mugs and a small plate that he sets carefully on the coffee table before me, then lowering himself onto the couch beside me, leaving enough space that I never once have to question whether he’ll invade it.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like, so I just made toast. Sorry it’s not…great.”
My eyes fall to the plate. Thick slices of buttered toast sit beside a bowl of sliced strawberries and apple, the butter already beginning to melt into the warm bread. A simple gesture that means everything to me because I don’t remember the last time anyone has prepared food for me. My father had kitchen staff when I was growing up, but that seems like an entire lifetime ago that I question its truth. My fingers tighten around the mug resting in my lap as I try to find the right words to thank him.
“I can make something else,” he says after a moment, mistaking my hesitation for dislike. I shake my head in reply.
“No. It’s perfect. Thank you. It’s just that… I don’t remember the last time I was waited on.”
Meals had always been measured in usefulness. If I worked hard enough, I ate. If I was too slow, too clumsy, too tired, then hunger became another lesson to endure until morning. I reach for the toast with careful fingers, afraid to spill anything on the beautiful vintage couch. I take a cautious bite, unable to stop myself from looking around the room once more, my gaze catching on the walls that frame the living room. Heaven. It tastes like heaven. Which is a far cry from the hell I thought he’d send me.
“Who’s the little girl?”
He looks up from his mug, following my gaze toward the hallway before understanding settles across his features.
“My sister.”
The answer comes quickly, and I’m almost shocked he answered.
“I thought…” I trail off, lowering my gaze to the hot chocolate as though it might offer me the words I can’t seem to find. “I didn’t think you’d answer.”
Something is telling me that if I push too hard, he’ll shut down again and say nothing. And I find myself wanting to know everything about him. If not for anything than to give me something to hold onto for when I return to the farm.
“How about we make a deal?”
I lift my eyes to meet him, curious to where this is going. He doesn’t seem like much of a talker, but the way he’s perked up has sparked my interest.
“For every question you ask me, you answer one of mine and I’ll return the favor with the same honesty you give me.” His voice is calm and even as it has been since the moment I arrived.
“A fair exchange.”
