Page 13 of Moth to Her Flame

“Save your strength.” Cliff adjusts his grip as my legs threaten to give out entirely. “Volt’s worried. Says you’re pushing the separation limits too far.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re about as ‘fine’ as a porcupine in a balloon shop.” Dante packs up his tools with practiced efficiency. “But since you’re determined to do this the hard way…”

A sound from the house silences us all. Footsteps on the stairs.

“Time to go.” Cliff helps me into the shadows before joining the others in their swift retreat.

Dawn breaks over the mountain as I sink against a tree, watching Chelsea emerge onto her porch. She approaches the generator cautiously, then stops. Her hand rests on the now-quietly-humming machine.

“New fun fact. Boundaries mean nothing to mothmen,” she mutters, but there’s something almost fond in her tone.

If she notices the faint glow of my wings in the shadows, she doesn’t let on. Some thresholds, it seems, take more than one night to cross.

But as she turns to retreat, her quiet “thank you” carries clearly in the morning air.

Worth it. Even as exhaustion claims me, that thought remains. Worth every moment of pain, just to earn that trace of trust in her voice.

The sun rises. Another day of keeping my distance begins.

At least now her generator won’t keep her awake.

Chapter Twelve

Chelsea

The scent of spices and herbs ambushes me at the door. Italian. My stomach growls and my suspicions spike at the same time.

Inside, my kitchen's been commandeered. Steam spirals from a pot of pasta, a pristine salad waits on the counter, and—damn him—the rich scent of garlic bread wafts from the oven. The domesticity of it all makes my chest tight.

No sign of the chef, but there’s a note in surprisingly elegant handwriting:Even late-night DJs need to eat. -R

Movement catches my eye—he’s slipping out the back door, wings drooping, steps unsteady.

“Wait.” The word escapes before I can catch it. “You did all this and you’re not even going to eat?”

Riven freezes, his hunched back toward me, antenna twitching slightly. “I didn’t want to presume,” he calls over his shoulder.

“So you'll break into my kitchen to cook, but you won't stay to taste your own creation? That's some twisted cryptid logic right there.” A laugh bubbles up unexpectedly. “Your logic makes no sense.”

He turns, attempting a smile that comes out more like a grimace of pain. “Cooking is… soothing. Helps distract from…” He sways slightly, catching himself on the doorframe.

“From feeling awful?” The groceries land on the counter with a thud. “When’s the last time you actually rested?”

“I rest.”

“Standing up in trees doesn’t count. Nor does working on generators at zero dark thirty in the morning.” Tonight’s a broadcast replay—even Nocturnal Transmissions gets a night off. No reason to rush. “Stay. Eat.”

His hesitation is painful to watch. “Are you sure?” His eyes look so haunted.

Am I sure? Not really. This is a step I fear he might take the wrong way. Still, the guy’s got to eat, and I’m done pretending he doesn’t need my touch.

“Do you play chess?”

The non sequitur catches him off guard. “It’s… a favorite pastime, back in the mountain.”

“Then stay. Eat. Play chess.” Each sentence feels like a small victory over my lingering fear. “Unless you’re too tired to give me a real challenge?”

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