Page 36 of Hunger & Harmony

“Food.”

“Huh?” I blink at him.

“You mortals make food look so enticing.” He shrugs. “I’ve started to wonder what it would feel like to consume for pleasure, not survival.”

That takes my breath away. I look at him in awe, etching every detail of this Niko into my mind. How relaxed his broad shoulders are as he leans back on his palms, how his lips flirt with the idea of a smile. The wrong notes just below us seem so, so far now. His blood supplements, protestors, and the Court, too.

“What’s something you do for fun, then?” I ask, settling closer to him.

He doesn’t move away. In fact, our bodies are turned to each other, close enough that my knee nearly brushes his side. I loop my arms into his jacket, fully toasty and blanketed in his cologne now.

“Hmm . . .”

His eyes find the sky again. I follow with mine to the blanket of stars.

“Stargazing,” he says. “My mother loved constellations. Thought humans were . . .adorable, I guess? She admired how even the stars, as far away as they are, weren’t allowed to be lonely.”

I tilt my head at him, fascinated.

“Something so distant and foreign, that won’t ever respond or know . . .” He chuckles so softly I almost miss it. “Yet, the furthest stars to the deepest depths of the sea are all part of mythos and legend. They’re important to humans, despite not being human at all.”

I’m stunned. More than that, I’m so endeared I can’t help but smile. He catches me grinning, and he turns to point upward.

“Right there, do you see that bright star? The reddish one?”

“Yeah!” I say, and he traces his finger.

“That is the heart of it, and just below, you’ll see a ‘hook’ pattern. The tail of the scorpion.”

“Ohh,” I say, running my gaze along the cluster. “The Scorpius constellation?”

“That’s the one.” He relaxes back again. “When I was born, the sun was in that constellation. So, my mother pointed it out whenever it appeared.”

“You’re a Scorpio, then?” I ask, running a quick calculation of my hazy knowledge. “Is your birthday coming up soon?”

“The eighth day of the eleventh month,” he confirms, and I gasp.

“That’s just next month!”

“It is,” he says, like it’s the most unimportant thing.

Perhaps it is to him. Even a lot of humans regard any birthday after adulthood as a chore. When you’ve got countless birthdays to your name, the excitement must dull. Still, I jot down a mental note of the date.

“Well, that’s really cool,” I say as I suppress a yawn. “I’m surprised you didn’t say anything musical.”

“Music . . .”

He trails off.

“I guess doing it for a living complicates things, huh?”

“You could say that,” he says. “Stars don’t make you feel overwhelmed. They make you feel seen.” He shrugs. “That’s what she used to say, at least.”

Cute. He really is cute.

This time, I can’t help but yawn. Having only snatches of sleep for the past forty-eight hours is not cutting it. My sleepiness lowers my embarrassment as I snuggle forward, making a pillow out of his bicep.

“Are you tired?”