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"So you're saying you worry about me."

"I'm saying if you crash through the roof, Nyx will kill you, resurrect you, and make you fix it yourself."

I look at Yue, salt caked on her arms. Her hair still gleams, and a glow still vibrates along the outline of her body. Beautiful. She seems like she's fully charged with magic, but she knows herself best. Despite the outcome of this spell, I'm still grinning. I can't help it.

"We should probably clean this up," I whisper, eyes blinking rapidly.

"You think?" She looks around at the disaster zone that used to be her living room. When her eyes land on her romance novels, her jaw unlatches. "Fuck. Fuck."

"Hey." I catch her hand, squeezing it before she can start spiraling. "I'll help. We'll get it cleaned up."

She narrows her eyes. "You're going to help me clean?"

"I'm not a complete asshole."

"Debatable." Her neck turns side to side, but she doesn't pull her hand away.

We spend the next hour cleaning. I grab towels from her bathroom and start wiping down surfaces while Yue tries to salvage her books.

"This is a nightmare," Yue mutters, shaking out a grimoire and cascading more salt onto the floor.

"At least your apartment is well-seasoned now," I say.

A snarl hits the air, and she throws a salt-covered pillow at my head.

Eventually, we get most of the apartment cleaned up. But we're both still wearing salt.

"You need to shower," I say.

"Brilliant observation," she replies. "Do you want a cookie?"

"I actually do."

She flicks me off.

Stifling a grin, I gesture at her hair. "That's going to be a bitch to get out of your coils."

She winces. "Fuck. You're right."

"I could help," I offer before I can stop myself.

Yue stares at me. "You want to help me wash my hair."

"It's going to take forever if you do it yourself. I'm already here and covered in salt. We might as well—"

"Fine," she interrupts. "But if you fuck up my hair, I'm cursing your dick off."

I hold up my hands in surrender. She leads me to her bathroom, which is just a regular shower with a detachable head and about fifteen different hair products lining the edge of the tub.

"Sit," she commands, pointing at the edge of the tub.

I do as she says. Yue turns on the water and adjusts the temperature. Out of nowhere, she lowers herself to her knees. My dick pulsates in my jeans, and I shut my eyes, quietly counting to ten. When I open them, Yue has already started working on her hair. Her fingers move through her coils, and her mouth tugs further into a grimace every time she hits a salt-crusted section.

"Let me," I say.

She hesitates, then lifts her hand toward the spray nozzle. "Be gentle. These aren't locs."

I turn on the water, adjust the spray to warm and then move toward her. "I know the difference between coils and locs, Yue."