Page 19 of Moth to Her Flame

Noon catches me making pancakes for the second time this morning. The first batch sits abandoned on the counter, gone cold while waiting for a sleeping DJ who keeps night owl hours. My eagerness to feed her, to care for her, made me forget her normal rhythms. Just as my eagerness to be near her makes me forget how my appearance affects her.

I hope there’s enough syrup for Chelsea when she finally wakes up to eat. My sweet tooth has been desperate lately and I devoured her stash of chocolate chips days ago. I’ve been eating syrup by the spoonful all morning.

The sound of the shower sends my antennae quivering. Setting the cold pancakes on the end of the counter, I start fresh, nownewly familiar with her modern kitchen appliances. The first try was educational—now I know that the whisk is the perfect tool for the job, her electric griddle runs hot, and the coffeemaker requires a specific ritual to produce the perfect brew.

Last night’s closeness still hums through my wings, their glow dimmer now but still present. I hadn’t realized how keeping my distance affected my thoughts, but now that my brain fog has lifted, I see how sluggish my thinking had become.

I bask in last night’s memory of her tucked against my side, accepting my touch, my protection…Focus. The batter needs stirring.

Fresh coffee brews as footsteps pad down the hall. Chelsea appears in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, damp hair hanging in waves down her back. The sight steals my breath. She’s so beautiful it hurts—and makes my cock twitch.

“You made breakfast?” Her gaze lands on the plate of rejected pancakes. “Twice?”

“The first batch was practice.” Heat creeps up my neck. “Still learning your kitchen.”

A smile tugs at her lips. “You got up early just to make me breakfast?”

“Thought you might be hungry after…” After letting me stay. After trusting me enough to sleep with me in the house. After… everything.

“That’s…” Something soft crosses her expression. “That’s really sweet.”

The warmth in her voice makes my wings flicker brighter. Her raised eyebrow tells me she noticed, but doesn’t comment.

“These are perfect,” she says around a mouthful of fresh pancake. “Where’d you learn to cook?”

“Cliff is actually an amazing chef. Says it helps him focus his energy.” Just as I did when we shared pasta, I sit across from her, though I can’t help but wonder if it will ruin her appetite—she’s never hidden her disgust for my face. “Dante’s hopeless, though. Once burned rice so badly we had to throw away the pot.”

Her laugh is worth every minute spent mastering her kitchen. “Even with Cliff’s elbow grease?”

“Yep. Dante kept saying the devil made him do it as he laughed his ass off.”

Though she’s never met any of my friends other than Volt, I’ve mentioned them so often that she talks about them fondly, as though she knows them. The conversation flows easily as she devours the pancakes, and I try not to stare at how her wet hair darkens her shirt where it drips. Try not to remember how it felt to have her close last night, accepting my touch, my presence.

She shivers slightly, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, “I could braid your hair.”

Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. “What?”

“It’s wet, and you’re cold, and I…” My wings dim further, betraying my need for contact. “I’m good with my hands.”

Understanding dawns as she nods. “You need to touch me.”

“Yes.” The admission burns. “But this way you wouldn’t have to look at me.”

The words hang between us, heavy with truth. She knows I’m aware of how my appearance affects her. How could I not be?

“Riven…”

“Please.” My voice comes out as rough as if I’d swallowed a mouthful of gravel. “Let me do this for you.”

A long moment passes before she nods. “Okay.”

After retrieving her brush and hair ties from her room, she hands them to me. Am I imagining things, or did she purposefully allow her hand to graze mine? No matter why it happened, it gives me a surge of energy as my wings glow a bit brighter. She sits sideways on the kitchen chair so I have access to her back.

The first touch of her hair against my fingers sends sparks of energy darting through my body. The red strands are like silk,heavy and cool against my skin. Starting at the ends, I work the brush through gently, careful not to pull.

A small sound escapes her as tension melts from her shoulders. Encouraged, I continue, each stroke methodical and tender. Her hair begins to dry under my steady attention, revealing subtle shades of copper and auburn that glimmer in the sunlight.

My energy ratchets higher with each pass of the brush, but I barely notice. All my focus narrows to the sensual slide of hair through my fingers and the way she gradually relaxes back toward me. The trust in that small movement nearly undoes me.

---