Page 81 of Mated to the Monster God
He looks up, dirt smudged on his cheek, eyes bright. “I was engineered to adapt.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, nudging him with my hip. “You’re not so bad at zucchini.”
He grins. Full teeth. Slightly terrifying. Completely adorable.
The whole colony watches us like we’re something holy.
Maybe we are.
Blondie still gives me crap, of course. “The hell did you do to that man?” she mutters one morning as Sagax brushes past with a basket of ripe melons, humming like it’s nothing.
“Turned him domestic,” I say, grinning.
She rolls her eyes. “Sweetwater’s real secret weapon? Love.”
Rick overhears and lets out a wheezing cackle, clutching his side like he’s about to keel over. “Ain’t that the damn truth!” he hollers. “Boy’s got itbad!”
Sagax pauses, glances back at us with that amused quirk to his mouth. “Affirmative.”
I cover my face, groaning into my palms.
He’s not embarrassed. Not even a little.
Sometimes, I wake up at night and just stare at him—this impossible, beautiful, deadly being curled around me like I’m his home. And I wonder if this is real. If it will last. If the world will let us keep this.
So far, it has.
He’s learning to cook, too. Like actually following recipes and experimenting with spices like a damn gourmet. He brings me samples with this straight-faced seriousness, holding out a carved wooden spoon like it’s a sacred offering.
“Consume and evaluate,” he commands.
I do. Every time. And every time, it gets better.
One night, he serves roasted root stew with charred greens and foraged berries and I swear I almost cry. It tastes like something out of a dream. Like home.
“You’re dangerous,” I murmur, licking a drop off my thumb.
He tilts his head. “I am yours.”
And damn it, my heart doesthings.
Tara caught us once kissing behind the hydroponic shed and just sighed like she’s seen it all. “You two gonna be disgustingly happy forever or what?” she muttered, tossing me a wrench.
“Working on it,” I said.
We all are.
Sweetwater rebuilds itself brick by brick, hand by hand. The wounds are still there—scars in the dirt, the empty chairs, the names we whisper during evening prayers—but they don’t define us anymore. Theyshapeus, sure. But they don’townus.
Not anymore.
And every time I see Sagax gently nudge a child out of harm’s way or crouch to inspect a cracked water valve or hum while chopping wild onions with fingers designed to kill, I know we’re doing it.
We’re living.
Together.
We return to the waterfall cave like it’s our church.
