Page 129 of Mate
“Give me a second,” he orders. Trancelike. Foggy.
“I— Why?”
“Your scent isreallyintense here.” It takes him a little more than a second, but he does get himself under control. Ushering him inside feels like an epoch-making moment, which might be dumb of me. We’re not co- signing a mortgage. I’m not even asking him to be my emergency contact for spinning class. The way I hold my breath doesn’t make sense.
And yet here I am. Wringing my hands as some guy looks at the weird, fort-like structure of pillows, blankets, comforters. Everything is plush, knit, soft. Last night I moved the bed into the alcove by the window, and above it I strung the fairy lights Ana must have left months ago. They tinge the place a warm, blurry yellow, much better than the unforgiving ceiling lamp. Also: they make the numerous items of Koen’s clothing I’ve pilfered harder to spot.
“Remember when Layla mentioned nests?” My voice trembles. “I’ve been working on this for a while. Honestly, I’m just relieved that this new penchant of mine for acquiring shitis just a phase. And . . .” I notice that the placement of the lavender velvet pillow is off. “Sorry, this is a bit . . .” I move closer. Rearrange it over and over until it’s just right. Deal with a domino-like cascade of imperfections that need to be fixed rightnow. A minute— or seventeen— later, a moment of clarity smashes into me. I look back at Koen. “Am I being absolutely insane?”
“I . . . believe this might be common,” he says. Uncharacteristically diplomatic.
“God. Do you— do you like it?”
He stares at the bed with a blank expression that my single brain cell interprets as disapproval.
“I can redo it. Right now, if you— ”
“Don’t . . . I’m sure it’s pretty. My instincts don’t really lean toward the aesthetics and architectural integrity of nesting.”
I frown. “What instinctsdoyou have?”
“They are much less wholesome.” His laugh is a half groan. “Less about making nests, and more about . . . wrecking them.”
Because that’s the point of a nest. I made it in a fugue-like state, an automaton on a flow experience. But while I was obsessing over every square inch of it, I never stopped to wonder what I’d do once it was ready.
It’s obvious now thatImade this one forKoento—
Yeah.
I shouldnotbe this blindsided.
“What was in the right?” Koen asks, voice rough-edged. He’s behind me. Closer than a moment ago.
“What?”
“If I had chosen the right hand, what would I have gotten?”
“Nothing as exciting as a mound of blankets.”
“That’s for me to judge.”
I turn around. “I would have told you something.”
“What?”
“Can’t say, or you’ll have both prizes.”
“Would it be that bad?”
“It wouldn’t be realistic. I told you, real life requires choices.”
He grunts, annoyed, and leans back against the desk. A thousand warm little pangs gnaw at my body. Comfort and hunger and heartache and love and inevitability, all swirling in my belly.
Maybe tonight is different. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, to bend the rules of reality. “I would have told you that . . . that you don’t have to do what you’re about to do.” My heart thumps slowly, loudly. Feverish. “If you help me through my Heat, it’ll be at great cost to you. If the Assembly ever found out, it would be a disaster. So I would have told you: thank you, I appreciate the offer, but I cannot ask this of you.”
“You don’t— ”
“Need to ask. Yup, that’s what you would have said. And I would have pushed back a little— told you that I’m willing to deal with this on my own, because I wouldn’t want you to regret it afterward.”
