Coffee still lingers in the air as I kick my shoes off by the door. My body feels like it’s been stuffed with sand; too heavy and too tired. It’s barely past noon but it feels like I’ve been awake for days.

  Hermes doesn’t say anything as he pushes the door closed behind him. It’s kind of funny. For the amount of time he’s spent here, I’ve never seen him use the front door. He steps around me into the living room and rolls his shoulder back, stretching his wings out wide. Still doesn’t say anything.

  My teeth find my bottom lip and gnaw on the dry skin. I’m not sure when I developed the nervous tick, but my lips are suffering from it. I don’t have the energy to care right now.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I say slowly, my mind fighting every word. There’s a follow up joke somewhere in the back of my head, something to soften my words, but it’s lost under the dread that’s been slowly creeping up me since we left for my mother’s.

  His eyes flick to mine, his brows drawing inward just enough to crease. “Do you want me to go?”

  “No.” I’m too bloated by feelings to care about how desperate I sound. I don’t want to be alone right now.

  The gentlest ghost of a smile spreads across his lips. “Then I’ll stay.” His arms stretch upward and his lips curl in something like irritation. “However, this shirt is unbearable. I’m changing back into my robes.”

  I just offer a curt nod before he walks away, back toward the hallway. I should probably change into something more comfortable, too, but I don’t really care. Instead, I just collapse onto the couch, pulling the blanket from the backrest to drape over my lap like armor.

  While he’s gone, I find something to put on the tv. Something familiar and cozy. Monty Python—a tried-and-true emotional support movie.

  Hermes returns a few minutes later, looking like a god in all his bare-legged glory. He sinks down onto the couch next to me, close enough that the couch dips in his direction and I just let my body follow. My shoulder knocks against him and stays there. I don’t know if I don’t have the energy to move or I just don’t want to.

  “Thanks for offering to share,” he says in a sarcastic drawl as he drags a corner of the blanket over his lap.

  Usually, I’d come back with a biting quip of my own, but I can’t find anything to say. So, I just lift the blanket and drape half of it over him.

  Suddenly, I’m very aware of how close we are. Closer than we should be. Too close to toeing a line that shouldn’t be crossed. He smells like the air when it’s about to rain, mixed with something metallic and coppery. It shouldn’t be comfortable. It is.

  My knee is just barely on top of his thigh, my arm threaded under his, our fingers brushing with every breath.

  I should scoot away. Reestablish the line that we’ve both refused to cross over the weeks. Why isn’t he moving away? He’s the one with the god-like restraint.

  He doesn’t. His hand opens, his fingers brushing over mine in a way that feels like an invitation. And I accept far too quickly. Our fingers tangle and our palms press together. He squeezes my hand just enough for me to know this wasn’t an accident.

  This is ridiculous. My heart is pounding like I’m a third grader holding hands with my boyfriend under the bleachers at recess.

  His body is so warm, bordering on too warm, like my own personal space heater. I wonder if he has a heart buried in there somewhere that’s beating as hard as mine.

  The rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes lulls me into a trance. Someone on the screen is screaming about wounds, but my eyes are already closed. My head falls sideways, my temple connecting with the sharp edge of his bare shoulder.

  I can feel myself drifting when the soft feathers of his wing brush my opposite shoulder. His wing is like a heated blanket wrapping around me.

  I’m barely holding onto consciousness with my mouth opens, words spilling out like water down an open drain. “Thank you for staying.”

  He doesn’t respond. Instead, his thumb runs over the back of my hand in a way that feels like Thank you for asking.

  This doesn’t mean anything. It can’t. But I can’t let go, either.

  For the first time in a long, long time, I don’t feel alone. At some point, Hermes’s golden curls fall in my face as his cheek rests against my temple. And sleep greets me like an old friend rather than an exhausted obligation.

  My eyelids scrape open as the warmth of Hermes’s wing wraps tighter around me. There’s a deep pain in my stomach that’s only relieved when it lets out a deep grumble. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. Yesterday.

  Begrudgingly, I lift my head and stretch my arms and legs taut, feeling a sharp pain echo through my neck from the awkward sleep position.

  Hermes parrots my movements, stretching his arms in front of him as his wings spread wide around him. His eyes flick sideway to me as his brow twitches upward. “You snore like a hog,” he says in a voice that hasn’t slept.

  My back arches as a yawn pushes out of me. “Yeah, well you’re about as comfortable as a bag of bricks.”

  A fond smile stretches across his lips. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

  “Yes.” Standing, the blanket pulls off of him and collapses uselessly onto the floor. “Are you hungry? I’m starving.”

  His arms cross over his chest as he leans back further into the couch. “I’m not sure I trust your cooking.”

  I huff out a scoff and nudge his leg with my bare foot. “I’m pretty sure you’re the one who said my food smelled delicious.”

  “My integrity was obviously compromised,” he says in a low voice as he pushes off of the couch to stand next to me.

  I don’t step away, instead narrowing my eyes as the heat from his body presses into me again. “It sounds like you’re volunteering to help, then.”

  He presses his tongue to his cheek, his eyes darting between mine. “I’ll help. Just don’t expect anything meaningful. I’ve never been known for my skills in the kitchen.”

  “Then it’s your lucky day,” I start, my eyebrows shooting upward. “You’re in the presence of a master.” Flicking my hair over my shoulder, I turn away from him toward the kitchen.

  My fridge is pathetically empty, but I scrounge up enough raw ingredients for spaghetti and steamed broccoli.

  “I didn’t thaw out the beef.” Turning around to the sink, I start the tap and place the plastic tube down in the bowl.

  Hermes leans against the counter and watches the sink fill. “You’re putting cow in your spaghetti?”

  “Ew.” My lip curls as I pull open the pantry door and grab the noodles. “Why would you say it like that?”

  He reaches over and turns the tap off. “Did I ever tell you the story about Helios’s cattle?”

  Grabbing a pot from the cabinet, I turn my head to glare at him. “I don’t even know who Helios is.”

  His eyes roll as he pulls the tube of beef from the sink and walks it back to the freezer. “He was the sun, back before Zeus chained him to it and he turned into a cosmic solar flare.”

  “What the fuck? That’s actually terrifying.”

  “Welcome to Olympus,” he says through an exhausted sigh. “Anyway, Helios had entire island of cattle that he made immortal because he loved them so much. Zeus killed an entire fleet of ships because they killed one cow.”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Holy shit.” I flick the stove on and start heating the water. “What’s up with Zeus and murder?”

  He shrugs dismissively. “Everyone needs a hobby, I suppose. The point is…” His foot taps against the floor as his eyes search the walls, as if they have the right words for whatever the hell he’s getting at. His lips smack once before he continues. “The gods are vegetarians.”

  “Are you kidding me?” A sigh falls out of me as I add the noodles to the boiling water. “You went through all of that just to tell me you don’t eat meat?”

  He holds his hands up in defense. “Some people get very offended at that.”

  “It’s spaghetti, dummy.” My hand plants on my hip as I turn to face him. “You don’t need an entire myth to tell me you don’t want beef sauce.”

  His face contorts like he’s offended. “It’s not a myth. Helios was a very real, very big crybaby.”

  “Sorry.” It’s my turn to hold my hands up in resignation. “You don’t need an entire historically accurate story to explain why you don’t eat meat.”

  “You don’t believe me?” His voice dips sardonically as he steps closer.

  “I don’t not believe you,” I mutter with a shrug, tossing the bag of frozen broccoli into the microwave. “It just seems kind of silly that Zeus would kill a bunch of men for the guy and then chain him to the sun and let him die.”

  “I think you’re severely overestimating the morals of Olympus.” He leans on the counter next to me. “This is the same place where mothers throw their children off cliffs, gods get birthed from thighs, and wars start over beauty contests.”

  I pause my stirring of the noodles to look at him. “You can’t just drop lore like that and not explain.”

  “Oh, it’s juicy.” His lips curl deviously as he leans closer. “The perk of being the messenger is I get all the sides of all the stories. You really want to know?”

  His eyes flash with something I can’t place as I set the ladle down and cross my arms. “Yeah. I really want to know.”

  The noodles continue to boil as he explains everything. Hera throwing Hephaestus out of Olympus for being born too ugly, Dionysus’s mother burning alive and Hermes sewing the half-baked fetus into Zeus’s thigh, Eris and the golden apple that started the Trojan war.

  “So, Olympus is pretty much a bunch of petty siblings?”

  He scoffs, running a hand over his cheek. “You don’t even know half of it.” The microwave beeps, and he grabs the bag. “Remind me to tell you about the time Hephaestus caught his wife in bed with Ares.”

  I hum in response, killing the heat on the stove. “Can’t wait.”

  As I drain the noodles, Hermes busies himself with chopping the broccoli. He wasn’t joking about being an idiot in the kitchen. He’s holding the knife like he’s trying to murder the cutting board and slicing the florets like he has a personal vendetta.

  “You’re gonna cut your finger open if you aren’t careful.”

  Right on time, like I’ve spoken it into existence, he flinches. “Shit!” he exhales sharply, holding up the affected finger.

  “Dumbass.” Grabbing the roll of paper towels, I rush to his side and—

  That’s not blood.

  Gold drips from the cut. It catches the sunlight the same way his wings do, but brighter. I nearly have to squint against the reflective brightness, like the sun itself has been plucked from the sky and infused into whatever he has in the place of blood.

  Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I tear a paper towel from the roll and grab his hand.

  “Don’t!” He pulls away from me with enough force that the refrigerator rattles when his back slams into it. His eyes are wide and wild, searching me like I’m about to burst into flames. “Did any get on you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say quietly. What a drama king. Dropping the towel onto the counter, I flip my hands over. A single smear of gold decorates my index finger. I hold it out for him to see. “Sorry,” I mutter, “I stole a drop of your god blood.”

  He doesn’t smile. He looks like he’s about to explode from the tension pulled tight through his shoulders.

  “What?” My aggravated tone snaps him out of whatever trance he’s fallen into and he straightens himself.

  He swallows and licks his lips nervously. “You should wash that off.”

  “Okay?” I drag out but turn to the sink anyway. The not-blood is more like oil than anything. Water alone doesn’t do anything, and I have to actually scrub at it with soap to get it to move at all. Even then, a streak of shimmering gold stays behind. Like a shadow of a divine sharpie on my skin.

  Hermes comes to stand behind me, not quite touching, as he watches me dry my hands. I still as I feel his labored breathing on the back of my neck. “You kept the feather,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Of course I did.” I turn around to face him and my stomach knots. This close, his skin is like porcelain. Not even a freckle out of place. My chest tightens as I grasp for something to ease the tension between us. “A winged man showed up in my kitchen, I needed something to prove I wasn’t crazy.”

  His eyes stay locked on mine as he wipes his hand on his robe. “That ichor should’ve burnt you.”

  Ichor. It sounds like something ancient and forbidden. Something that shouldn’t exist. I hold my hand up to show him the gold streak. “It didn’t. I’m fine.”

  His hand clasps around mine, squeezing tight enough to almost hurt. “I know.”

  “If it makes you feel any better,” I start, forcing a smile that feels like a lie, “this is way cooler than any tattoo I’ve ever gotten.”

  He lets out a breathy laugh and the tension in his shoulders loosens just enough for me to notice. His hand is still around mine and his face is still too close and everything in me is screaming at me to do something about it.

  So, I do.

  I summon all the confidence in myself and push slowly onto my toes. His eyes stay on mine as I move. As our breath mingles, I pause long enough to give him time to run away. To disappear. To tell me he doesn’t want this.

  He doesn’t. He stay completely still as my eyes slip shut. His breath hitches as my lips press against his. His lips are as plush and inviting as they look as he returns the kiss, his free hand ghosting over my hip. Everything in me pulls taut for the smallest, shortest moment, and then he steps back.

  He drops my hand as he steps away from me, all the heat leaving me along with him. His face is unreadable, the muscles of his jaw working as he continues to watch me.

  I’m about to open my mouth to say something—anything—when the air shifts. The air rips out of my lungs and time stops just long enough for me to see him wrap his wings tightly around himself.

  He’s gone before I can finish the thought. The space where he stood still buzzes with heat, like the air hasn’t realized he left yet.

  I stand there for too long, staring at the emptiness where he was just standing. Where he looked at me like I’d just reached inside him and scorched something vital.

  What the hell is wrong with me? My hands come up to scrub over my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? Why did I do that? He was the only thing I had to hold onto, and I just threw all of that away for nothing. I didn’t have to kiss him. I chose to do that, and I ruined everything.

  He stayed when he didn’t have to, put himself in a vulnerable position, and I latched onto that like a hopelessly romantic grade schooler. Nothing about this was romantic. Why did I have to make it into something it wasn’t?

  He was a companion, not my boyfriend. A friend. Something I haven’t had since college. I guess that’s what I do. I ruin good things. I should’ve known better.

  No, I don’t get to wallow over this. I chose this. I’m not the victim here. He is. I crossed the line. Not him.

  Maybe I just can’t handle not being wanted. Maybe some part of me knew he didn’t want this. So I pushed him away before I had to accept what he was actually offering. And now it’s broken.

  My arms wrap around my chest as I lean back against the counter. Of course this is how it was going to end.

  A loud crack! echoes through the air and my eyes snap up to find Hermes standing in the same spot he was moments ago.

  His lips are parted and his chest heaves with heavy breaths. His brows are drawn inward like he can’t decide whether to be furious or confused.

  My mouth starts moving before my mind can catch up. “Hermes, I’m so sorry.” My voice catches in my throat as his expression shifts into something like pity. “I didn’t want to—”

  He covers the space between us in a single step. His hands rise up to cradle my jaw gently. His hands tremble as his eyes scan mine, like he’s afraid I’m the one who’s going to vanish.

  Then his mouth is on mine.

  He presses himself against me, exhaling like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.

  His thumb grazes my cheek as I melt into him. A sigh escapes my lips, caught between his. My hands fist in the front of his tunic, pulling him closer, anchoring myself to something that finally feels real. His curls tickle my cheek as he tilts his head and deepens the kiss.

  His mouth moves slowly over mine. He tastes like peppermint and something fruity, and it takes everything in me not to fall apart right here in his arms. His hands leave my face and wrap around my back, pulling me tight against him. My arms wrap around his shoulders as his hands grip the back of my shirt.

  He takes another step forward, pressing my back against the counter. Something inside me coils tight as his tongue drags against my lower lip. I return the gesture, my tongue pressing against his.

  His chest rumbles against mine and a little squeak of a moan pushes out of me. He swallows the sound as his arms tighten around me.

  He pauses to take a deep breath and presses his forehead against mine. The air between us is heavy and hot with our shared breaths.

  My eyes flutter open to gaze up at him. His eyes are pinched shut and his eyebrows are drawn together with a tension that’s nearly palpable.

  When his eyes finally fall open, his resolve melts. His lips part in a smile that looks like an apology.

  “I have to go,” he whispers against my mouth.

  I close my eyes and fight the groan that wants to pull out of me. Of course, he has to go. That’s what he does.

  His hand comes back up to cup my cheek. This thumb drags across my bottom lip before settling just below my eye. “I don’t want to,” he continues, his voice low and scratchy. “Trust me. I would’ve stayed that first day if I knew it wouldn’t mean certain death.”

  I look back at him and my chest aches for how drawn out he looks. Like something in him is strung so tight it’s about to snap. My hand wraps around his forearm and his smile cracks into exhaustion. I keep forgetting to notice how tired he is.

  I force my own smile even as my body falls into numbness. “I’ll be here.” The lump in my throat is getting harder to swallow around. “When you get back.”

  His body trembles against mine as he sighs against my cheek. “Thank you.” His eyes flick to the sink, where the noodles are probably turning sticky and hard in the strainer. “And don’t forget to do your dishes.”

  I catch a flicker of that devious smirk before his lips press against mine one last time. Then, he steps back from me and sends a wink in my direction before he disappears completely.

  It feels worse this time.