Page 158 of May: Bloom & Bane

She sets her empty plate aside and catches my hand before I can take another bite I don’t want.

“Sage.”

“Yes?”

“You’re a terrible liar.” She squeezes my fingers. “I won’t push. But if you want to talk. I’m here.”

Relief and guilt fight for dominance inside my chest.

“When you’re finished, will you bring my painting supplies outside? I want to finish my painting of the little beastie.”

“Of course, Saevúra.”

I push myself up, and the world tilts before settling back into place. Eden pretends not to notice, but I can feel her watching me while I cross the porch. Droot hops onto my shoulder. His tiny paw pressed against my forehead.

Big Bird feels very hot, he chirps, pulsing a worried shade of blue.

The kitchen is exactly as we left it besides a small colony of bumblebees pollinating some of the flowers.

Her painting sits in the front room, easel folded against the wall, a large wooden box of paints, and her brushes wrapped in a soft cloth she swears keeps them happy. The amount of care she pours into small things is one of the biggest reasons I can’t wait to see her become a mother.

By the time I get back to the porch, Eden has spread a soft quilt at the edge of the clover. She’s sitting cross-legged on it, her hair in loose waves.

Down, flowerboy, Ashán mutters. She just asked for paint, not another round.

I’m not⁠—

You are, he murmurs.

I’m appreciating what her body is doing for us, I correct.

Same thing.

Eden looks up and smiles like she heard our whole exchange.

“Thank you, Vaelí.”

I set everything beside her. She catches my hand, tugging gently until I lower myself to the quilt.

“Lay down.”

“Right here?”

“Please. I want you close while I work. Maybe you can take a nap?”

I stretch out on my side, one arm folded under my head, the sun warming the membranes in my wings. The pain behind my left eye has dulled to a low pulse I can almost ignore.

“Just relax,” she whispers.

“I’ll try, Saevúra.”

She sets up the canvas on her lap. Her brush dips into the small dish of silver, and she starts working in soft strokes. The little furrow of her concentration is so lovely I forget I’m supposed to be relaxing.

“Memorizing me again?” she asks without looking up.

“Always.”

The corner of her mouth pulls upward. The soft whisk-whisk-whisk of the brush against the fabric soothes me so much that I close my eyes. Somewhere in the meadow, Droot is loudly demanding that a beetle apologize for crawling on his strawberry. Eden runs her free hand through my hair and the pain in my skull goes quiet. There is only the sun, my mate, and a promise blooming somewhere inside her.