Page 51 of Claimed By the Mothman
Wine flowed. Plates clinked gently as they were passed hand to hand, filled with roast lamb, fig-and-olive couscous, and roasted roots dusted with herbs. The food smelled uncannily amazing,the kind of meal that made you wonder if the building had helped cook it.
They joked about elevator ghosts and cursed washing machines. Jem claimed that 4B’s dryer portal had briefly led to a battlefield in an alternate dimension. Dev swore he once lost a sock and gained a ferret. Carol recounted a potluck from 2018 that ended with the fire department, a divination circle gone sideways, and a truly horrendous seven-layer dip.
Hollis chimed in with one-liners that made Nell laugh—actual, real, breath-stealing laughter. Goldie and Ezra were locked in a flirtation that glittered like a fencing match: precise, glancing, and full of intentional gaps that left room for tension to breathe.
“Have you always been this charming,” Goldie asked, voice syrup-smooth, “or do you just practice on guests?”
Ezra tilted his wine glass, eyes gleaming. “I never practice,” he said. “Only perform.”
Across from Nell, the place setting remained untouched. No place card. No wine poured. Just a single, too-neat napkin folded like it was waiting for someone who wasn’t coming.
We won’t have even numbers,my ass, she thought, stabbing at her couscous with her fork.I totally could’ve worn the comfy two-piece.
A small part of her unclenched at the relief of not having to make eye contact or feel the air change when he walked into the room. Not have to deal with the hum that buzzed behind her chest like a constant song. But beneath the relief was…disappointment.
Which was ridiculous. She didn’t want him here. She didn’t even know what she’d say if hehadcome.
Still, she found herself glancing at the door again. Then down at her dress. Then back at her plate.
Should’ve gone with the damn wrap dress,she thought, grumbling under her breath.Or a sweatshirt. Definitely a sweatshirt.
In truth, she was glad she hadn’t skipped out. The food was amazing, the company was divine, and the Goldie-Ezra flirtation was giving her enough future ribbing material to last a decade—
A knock echoed at the front door.
Hollis dropped his fork, which clanged discordantly against his plate.
Jem leapt to her feet instantly, eyes bright. “Oh! That must be—”
“Jem,” Hollis said sharply. “My love. A word.”
He rose, caught her wrist gently, and firmly guided her toward the kitchen. Their hushed argument began before the door even closed, voices rising just enough for the table to fall completely silent.
“Youactually invitedhim?”
“Yes! I didn’t think he’dcome!”
“You never think they’ll come until theydo!Jem, honestly—”
“It’s perfect! This is exactly what Nell needs. A little surprise. A little romance.”
“Youalsosaid we’d be seven! This makes eight!”
“Exactly! Nice and balanced!”
“Balanced?Darling, he’s not a dessert course! He’s a six-foot-somethingdeath omen!”
The front door creaked open. Footsteps slithered across the hardwood.
Every head turned.
Sig Samora emerged in the doorway. He wore a charcoal suit that fit him too perfectly, like it had been summoned, not tailored. His wings were cloaked, his antennae smoothed back against his forehead. He held a glazed bowl in his hands like a holy artifact.
Goldie let out a delighted wheeze, eyes going wide.
Carol didn’t say anything, but her eyebrow arched high enough to qualify as commentary. Dev glanced at Nell and then back at Sig, mouth twitching like he was suppressing a smile.
Nell couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He looked…good. Infuriatingly good, like someone had taught him how to wear a suit just well enough to ruin her life.
