Page 4 of Shroom for Improvement

Why did I have to be that way?

“Ah,” Sonny said, sitting back in his seat again. He was still smiling, but now it was tight-lipped, and his eyes were no longer crinkled at the edges. “I see. Because I’m magpie fae, it automatically makes me a criminal?” He raised his eyebrows—a challenge—and I felt the tips ofmyears heat.

I should’ve apologised to him, said sorry for jumping to conclusions. He was just an innocent victim of a terrible stereotype. But the thing was, fae couldn’t lie. So even if I wanted to apologise, I wouldn’t have been able to. I wasn’t sorry I’d offended him.

Instead, I went with, “You made false assumptions about me based off my type.” They’d been positive false assumptions, but still.

And let us not overlook that this may have all been part of some greater swindle he was working. Disarm me, and when my defences were down, swipe my wallet.

Sonny sighed, folded his arms over his chest, unfolded them, picked at the peeling vinyl on the tabletop. “You’re right. Forgive me.” He scratched at a spot on his sternum, directlyabove the otter’s head. It really was an abomination of a T-shirt. Just the worst. But I allowed myself one more second to catalogue how nicely the sleeves hugged his slender biceps, before I returned once again to the black and white photo of the newspaper.

Outside the windows, two stations whizzed by. Sonny had finally cottoned on to my distaste for conversation. Next stop was Downtown. He always got off there. To do what? Who knew? No doubt inner-city Remy was the choicest spot for most petty thieves to operate. Ordinarily, I would continue with the train another twelve stops to the end of the line, but today, I was also alighting here.

I got to my feet early, hoping to put at least one passenger between Sonny and myself, but the millisecond I stood, he did too. Like he’d been waiting for me, watching me like the beady-eyed corvid he was. A smile ticked the corners of his mouth. He nodded and held out a hand, which translated toafter you.

Together, we moved into the gangway. I leant my back against the wall, and tried not to make eye contact, or breathe in the scent of him. Incense and clove. At once smoky and clean, and also kind of mossy. It was a weird scent. And it annoyed me that it suited him so well.

I had the bizarre urge to strike up a conversation. To ask him where he was heading, what his plans for the day were. Who even was I? But I’d learned my lesson. I shook the thought and bit my tongue.

“Hey.” Sonny spoke to his scuffed-up footwear. He scratched the back of his head. “So, I don’t know, I get the impression you’re, uh, not into this... but I was just wondering, if, uh, someday, you’d like to get cof—”

The train reached the station and screeched to a seemingly abrupt stop. The carriages and their contents pitched sideways. Being completely used to it, I braced myself againstthe gangway wall, but Sonny flew forward, straight into me. My arms shot out to meet his shoulders and buffer the impact, but he fell between them, colliding with my chest like we were hugging. I was acutely aware of all the parts of our bodies that were touching.

All. Of. Them.

His hands were on my waist, then my hips, and shit, was I breathing him in again? Was I closing my eyes against the firm press of his torso?

I pushed him off, and he offered me a pink-cheeked smile that was definitely not cute.

Wait a second . . .

I patted down my coat pocket—plunged my hand into it, making sure my wallet was still there—and released a breath.

Sonny raised an eyebrow. “I thought we’d moved past harmful presumptions?”

Shit. I turned my face so he wouldn’t see it flame with embarrassment. “Forgive me.”

He was right. I should know better than to judge. I’d known—sort of known—this guy for three years, and though he was intolerably vociferous, he’d never caused a problem on one of my trains before. To my knowledge, he’d never actually committed a crime under my watch. Gods, what was I thinking? I was an asshole.

The door slid open, and I jumped down onto the platform.

Sonny followed me. “You’re forgiven,” he whispered, still for some gods-forsaken reason all up in my personal space. “And it was your cufflinks I went for, not the wallet.” He grabbed my hand in his and pressed a tiny golden mushroom pin into my palm. “Have a good day, Claude.”

Before I could respond, the swell of bodies carried us both separately from the platform and out of the station, dumpingme into the bright April morning. Buildings rose around me like shining, jagged claws, car horns blasted, music blared from windows and shop doorways, people yelled into their phones and barged past me, traffic lights bleated, sirens wailed, and the fumes and dirty city stink hit me all at once.

Home.

I stared down at the fingernail-sized gold mushroom in my palm and stroked my shirt sleeves.

He’d removed both my cufflinks, I realised.

And only returned one.

Claude Inherits More Than a Title

Claude

Dear Mr Stinkhorn,

---