Page 56 of Night Shift

Calliope crosses the remaining space between us.

“I’m not going to disappear when the sun comes up.”

“You will someday.”

“Yes.”

The word hurts.

She does not soften it for me.

“I’m mortal. You knew that when you met me.”

“I did not love you when I met you.”

Her breath catches.

“I did not understand what loving you would make mortality mean.”

For several seconds, she says nothing.

Then she reaches up and takes my face between her hands. Her palms are warm, her fingers trembling slightly against my skin.

“Listen to me. I will stay tonight if you swear to give the world tomorrow.”

I close my eyes.

It would be simpler to refuse. Simpler to freeze us here in the shelter of unending night, where morning can never take her from me and I never have to discover whether she will return.

But that is not love.

I know that now.

At her touch, I see not one endless midnight but thousands of ordinary nights. Calliope leaving in the morning and returning after sunset. Arguments and reconciliations. Coffee and scones. Walks home beneath changing skies. Days I cannot share with her and nights I can.

And somewhere, eventually, an ending.

I cannot prevent it without destroying everything that comes before.

My hands settle around her wrists.

“I swear it.”

Calliope studies me as though testing the promise for weakness.

“You mean it?”

“Yes.”

“And when I fall asleep?”

“I will let you sleep.”

“When morning comes?”

“I will let it come.”

“And when I leave?”