Page 63 of Molt

“Pretend you’re okay.”

The laugh dies. “I’m not.”

“I know.”

“I’m really fucking not.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I do.”

My throat tightens.

I hate that he knows me. I hate that some part of me likes that he knows me.

“I’m scared.”

His face softens. “I’m scared too.”

“You are?”

“Especially me.”

I look around his apartment. There’s glass everywhere. Black fluid slowly soaks into the floor. The thing from the jar is gone.

I stare. “Where did it go?”

“I don’t know.”

I whip my head toward him. “Stop fucking saying that.”

“Would you prefer I make something up?”

“Yes.”

He looks around solemnly. “Evil moth.”

I blink. “What?”

“Evil moth. Responsible for everything.”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it.

He smiles.

And there it is.

The thing I keep feeling with him. That tiny flicker of ease. Like we’ve done this before. Not the curse. Not the horror.

This.

Bickering in the middle of disaster.