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When I blinked them open, I could tell time had passed. I felt a little disoriented and the shade had worn off, leaving me unspeakably thirsty. I eyed my half-full glass of water on the coffee table with longing, but before I could move, I became aware of a slight pressure on my lap.
Looking down, I stared wide-eyed at Beryl’s head on my thigh. She’d moved in her sleep, shifting down and curling up under the blanket. Her delicate fingertips peeked out from the sleeve of her onesie, just an inch from my leg.
My hearts started pounding, chest squeezing impossibly tight. Before I even knew what I was doing, I reached down and lightly touched her hair, my fingertips tingling as my claws sifted through soft, tangled curls. Just a tiny touch. That was okay, right? I was barely touching her.
She was so pretty.
I could only see the side of her face—the sweep of her long lashes over the top of her freckled cheek, a slightly darker red than the hair on her head, like her fine eyebrows. Her lips were parted around her soft breaths, and I stared at them for way too long.
I realised what I was doing just as she stirred, her brow furrowing a little and lips smacking together. I yanked my hand back, but one of my claws got caught in a curl and gave it a sharp tug. Beryl’s head jerked up.
“Shit, sorry.” I cringed so hard I thought I’d turn inside out and become a black hole. “Sorry, I was—My sleeve—”
“Did I fall asleep?” She propped herself up on an arm and looked around blearily, then blinked a few times as she realised. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. Did I fall asleep on you?”
“S’okay,” I mumbled. “It was only for—I fell asleep too.”
She rubbed her eye and looked at the TV. “What’re you watching?”
“Nothin’,” I said immediately, fumbling with the remote to turn off the TV. If I told her I liked watching terrible late-night infomercials, she might ask if I’d ever bought any of the gimmicky stuff they sold. And then I might blurt out my embarrassing secret and tell her about my Room of Shame.
Shifting upright, Beryl wiped her face and started untangling herself from the blankets. “I better go to bed.”
“Yeah, me too.” I fought my way out of my nest and stood. “Um, I should probably do some work tomorrow…”
“Of course. I’ll be totally fine. I’m good at keeping myself entertained.”
“Are you sure?” I asked doubtfully. “Maybe I could finish early and—”
“Seriously, Greid, I’ll be fine.” She hesitated. “I should probably start looking for a job. Um… do you get a paper delivered here? So I can look at the listings?”
“No, but…” I almost offered her my laptop, but I pretty much exclusively used it to watch porn, so it felt way too risky. “You can use the computer in my workshop if you want.”
“Won’t that disturb you while you’re working?” Beryl was drooping a little, clearly too tired to have this conversation now. I waved my hand.
“Nah.” Yes. Her being in my workshop with me would absolutely distract me. “But we can work it out in the morning.”
“Okay. Thank you for dinner, again. Do you want me to help blow out all the candles?”
“No, it’s fine.” I gave her a tiny smile. “You go to bed.”
“I’ll blow out all the ones on the stairs.” She hesitated, then gave my arm a gentle squeeze. “Night, Greid.”
“Goodnight, Beryl.”
I watched her pad out of the living room in her too-big slippers and giant onesie, every cell in my body screaming for her to come back. Once I could hear her shuffling up the stairs, I went around the living room extinguishing all the candles, then went into the hallway to do the same.
You’re too needy, I thought as I shut my bedroom door and started stripping off. She’s been here a couple of days and you’re already craving her company all the time.
My room felt kind of sad and lonely as I shifted into my true form and stretched out my back. I crawled into my unmade bed and immediately picked up the TV remote. I could still feel the gentle weight of Beryl’s head on my lap. The softness of her curls slipping through my claws.
My insides went all weird, so I turned on the TV to ignore it. Flicking straight over to late-night infomercials, I settled back and tried to keep my mind blank. But my interest was piqued when an ad for a new product came on.
“Do you wish there was an easier way to clean your front porch steps?” an overly animated voice asked as black-and-white footage played of an elderly human lady scrubbing her front steps and huffing with exertion, wiping her brow with the back of a rubber gloved-hand.
I cocked my head. I mean, I didn’t actually clean my front steps. Didn’t the rain just do that?
“Are you embarrassed when your guests arrive and have to walk up discoloured, moss-covered steps to get to your front door?”
