4. Calliope #3
The lighthouse beam sweeps over the water, catching the edges of the waves before disappearing again. I tilt my head back. There aren’t many stars visible through the fog, but the ones I can see seem brighter tonight.
“Is this yours, too?”
“The stars?”
“The way everything feels at night.”
He doesn’t answer immediately. “Some of it.”
I smile. “Very humble.”
“I have never found humility particularly useful.”
I laugh and bump my shoulder against his. “Of course you haven’t.”
This time, when our shoulders touch, neither of us moves away.
I think about the five-minute-late sunrise, the weather apps freaking out, and the jokes at the coffee shop. Then I think about the man beside me, who has apparently spent eternity carrying darkness across the world and still gets confused when I give him a scone.
“You know what the weirdest part is?”
“What?”
“I believe you.”
His face turns toward mine.
“Petra walks into the coffee shop and tells me the strange man I’ve been hanging out with is literally Night, and somehow that’s not even the strangest thing that’s happened to me this year.”
“You should be more cautious.”
“Probably.”
“I am serious.”
“So am I.”
His expression tightens.
I study him for a moment. “Does it bother you that I’m not afraid?”
“Yes.”
That isn’t the answer I expect.
“Why?”
“Because fear creates distance.”
“And you want distance?”
“I did.”
The words settle between us.
“And now?”
Erebus looks at me with those impossible eyes.
“No.”
There are moments when the world gives you a perfectly reasonable opportunity to make a good decision.
This is probably one of them.
I ignore it.
I lean toward him, but Erebus doesn’t move—not away, not closer. He simply watches me with such unnatural stillness that I stop a few inches from his face.
“You know,” I whisper, “this is usually the part where you meet me halfway.”
“I did not want to presume.”
“I’m giving you permission.”
Something in his expression breaks.
His hand comes to my cheek, cool against my skin, and then his mouth meets mine.
For someone who has apparently never done this before, he learns quickly.
The first kiss is careful, almost tentative, but when I slide my hand into his hair and kiss him again, something changes. His other hand finds my waist and draws me closer, and the restraint I’ve come to associate with him slips just enough to make my pulse jump.
He tastes faintly of chocolate.
Of course he does.
When we finally pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.
Neither of us speaks.
I smile first. “Well.”
His eyes remain closed. “Is that a favorable response?”
“Very.”
He opens his eyes.
I’ve never seen Erebus look uncertain before. Even when he doesn’t understand something, there’s a steadiness about him, the confidence of someone who has existed long enough to know that eventually everything reveals itself.
Now he looks almost stunned.
“You’ve really never done that?”
“No.”
“Wow.”
“Was it inadequate?”
I laugh softly. “Definitely not.”
He seems relieved.
We sit there until the cold begins working its way through my coat, talking about nothing particularly important. I tell him about the worst haircut I ever gave myself. He tells me he once spent thirty years avoiding France because someone there irritated him, but refuses to elaborate.
The night stretches around us, quiet and private, and for once, I don’t feel tired.
Eventually, I check my phone.
“Crap.”
“What?”
“It’s almost morning.”
The words change something in him. Not visibly, exactly, but I feel him go still beside me.
“I should get you home.”
“I know.”
Neither of us stands.
I laugh under my breath. “I could stay out here all night.”
Erebus looks at me. “So could I.”
“Yeah, well, some of us need sleep.”
“I have heard.”
“And jobs.”
“I am familiar with the concept.”
“Barely.”
I stand and offer him my hand.
He takes it.
We walk back slowly, fingers linked between us, and by the time we reach my building I know I should be exhausted. Instead, I feel light, almost giddy, like I’ve somehow stepped sideways out of my own life.
At the bottom of the stairs, Erebus stops.
I don’t want him to.
I turn toward him, still holding his hand. “I had fun.”
“So did I.”
The simplicity of the answer makes me smile.
I kiss him again, shorter this time, softer, and somehow more intimate than the first.
When I pull away, I look toward the dark street and sigh. “I wish nights like this didn’t have to end.”
Erebus’s fingers tighten around mine.
I notice, but only enough to wonder what he’s thinking.
“Good night,” I whisper.
“Good night, Calliope.”
I go upstairs without looking back because if I do, there’s a very real possibility I’ll invite him inside, and apparently I’m trying to demonstrate at least one functioning survival instinct.
By the time I crawl into bed, I’m smiling like an idiot, and sleep takes me almost immediately.
I don’t know that Erebus remains outside.
I don’t know that somewhere beyond Blackthorn Bay, Dawn arrives at the edge of the world and finds the door closed.
And I certainly don’t know that this time, Night makes her wait.
Not for five minutes.
For forty-three.