Chapter 2 #2
Not cataloging every detail about Sammy like I was building a dossier.
She took her coffee black. Not because she preferred it, but because cream was “an extra expense.”
She photographed Corey constantly. Corey showed me on his mother’s phone, which apparently he was allowed to use for games sometimes. But she avoided cameras herself. “She says she’s not good for pictures but that’s silly because she’s pretty, right? You think she’s pretty?”
“Very.”
We sat at the table and started eating.
Sammy hummed old songs when she cooked, but had been quiet lately. Stressed.
And Corey wanted a dad. He didn’t say it directly, but it was there in every story he told.
“I know not to ask Mom about it,” he said, dragging his fork through a puddle of juice.
“She gets really quiet when I bring my dad up, and her mouth does this thing.” He demonstrated a thin line with a tight jaw.
“I stopped asking. But I think about it sometimes. Like, what he looks like. If he’s tall.
If he likes dinosaurs or space or building stuff. If he ever thinks about me.”
My claws extended before I could stop them, pricking into my palms. The urge to find whoever had abandoned them both and introduce him to several creative uses for my tail was visceral and violent.
“I’m sure he thinks about you,” I said, though the words tasted like lies. “You’re very easy to think about.”
Corey beamed. “Really?”
“You’re intelligent, curious, and kind. Any father would be lucky to know you.”
“Thanks.” He took a huge bite of omelet, speaking around it.
“This is really good. Way better than cereal. You should make breakfast every day. Mom would like that. She’s always worried about me eating good food but sometimes she’s so tired she just makes sandwiches, and I know she feels bad about it even though I tell her sandwiches are great—”
A sound from the doorway cut him off.
I turned, and my brain stopped working.
Sammy stood in the entrance, hair escaping a messy bun in every direction, wearing thin cotton pajamas covered in tiny printed coffee cups, her eyes wide with something between panic and confusion.
Her gaze darted to Corey, scanning for injury or danger. When she found him sitting at the counter eating an omelet and chattering away, her shoulders dropped.
Then she seemed to register what she was seeing. Her son. Me. Breakfast. Her with bedhead and wearing pajamas.
She lifted a hand to her hair, and I noticed everything. The freckles scattered across her nose. The way early morning light from the window turned her blonde hair to gold. The set to her shoulders even as she tried to smooth her expression into something polite.
The thin pajamas that didn’t quite hide the lush curves I absolutely should not be noticing.
“I—” She cleared her throat. “I heard voices. I didn’t… Corey, you should’ve woken me.”
“Gavrel said he’d make breakfast,” Corey said. “We made an omelet for you too, Mom.”
She looked at me, gratitude and discomfort crossing her face. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“It was no trouble.” I gestured to the counter, where her plate rested. “Coffee?”
“I can make my own.”
“Black, yes? I have it ready.”
“How did you know how I take my coffee?” She looked at Corey, who was happily demolishing his meal. “Did you tell him I drink coffee black?”
“Maybe.” Corey shrugged. “We talked about lots of stuff. Did you know Gavrel’s from France? He can cook really well. And gargoyles eat regular food, not rocks. And—”
“Breathe, baby.” Sammy’s voice softened with instinctive mother-gentleness. When she looked at me again, wariness slid back into place. “You really didn’t have to do all this.”
“I wanted to.”
She blinked a moment. “Alright. Thank you.”
I poured her coffee and slid the mug across the counter, watching her hands wrap around it like she needed the warmth even though the kitchen wasn’t cold.
“Sit,” I said. “Eat before it cools.”
“I really should—”
“Mom, just try it. It’s so good.” Corey’s voice held that particular kid-whine that probably worked on her more often than she’d like to admit.
She sat. Took a bite. Her eyes closed briefly, and small sounds escaped—pleasure, appreciation. When she opened them again, something in her expression had shifted. It was still guarded, but softer.
“This is really good,” she said. “Where did you learn to cook?”
“My mother. She said artists who couldn’t feed themselves would starve in their studios.” I busied myself cleaning the pan, giving my hands something to do. “I’m not as skilled as you, I’m sure.”
She took another bite, and I felt absurdly pleased. “The vegetables are perfectly diced, the eggs are just right, and is this tarragon? Where did you find tarragon?”
“The herb garden. I looked around and found it there.”
“You were out in the herb garden at this time of day?”
I met her eyes. “I don’t sleep well in new places.”
A flicker of understanding passed between us. Like she knew what it was to lie awake worrying.
Corey launched into another story about his friend Jake and their Lego competition to see who could build something faster. Sammy listened.
I watched the way she softened with her son, letting her walls down enough to show the warmth underneath.
She kept glancing at me, a touch of confusion in her expression.
Then she straightened, her eyes on the clock above the stove. “Oh no. Corey, baby, we have to get you to school in twenty minutes. Teeth brushed, clothes on, shoes by the door. Go go go.”
He leaped off the stool and rushed from the room.
She turned back to me. “Thank you again for breakfast. I’ll clean up later.”
“I could fly him to school.”
“Excuse me?”
“So he’s not late. I could fly Corey there in minutes.”
“That’s very kind, but we’ll manage. We always do.”
Her soft words lodged under my ribs.
“Corey, let’s go,” she called, already moving toward the hallway.
I watched her disappear, heard her voice upstairs. The sounds of their morning routine. A team of two.
I looked down at the plates. At the kitchen that suddenly felt too quiet.
My tail twitched against my leg. The restless energy was back, the need to do something, fix something, make their lives easier in ways that had nothing to do with being Feydin’s brother or a helpful houseguest.
I told myself it was only attraction. Simple chemistry. The natural desire to help people in need.
I told myself a lot of things as I washed the dishes and listened to them rushing from the house, her car starting and taking Corey down the driveway and out onto the road.
I couldn’t understand why I was already planning what to make for dinner, what projects in the workshop might be useful to her and her son, and how I could possibly justify being a part of their morning routine beyond one meal.
Why the thought of them driving away made my wings rustle with the urge to follow.
Why I was mentally reviewing the school’s schedule Corey had mentioned, calculating when he’d be home for the day.
I dried the last dish and set it in the cupboard.
Just attraction, I told myself.
Just wanting to help.
But even I was starting to doubt my own rationalizations.