Page 50 of Bonepetal
It stands there like a tiny judge.
It tilts its head and taps the glass once. Not frantic. Just a knock.
My mouth dries out fast.
We look at each other. The eye is oil-on-water pretty. Feathers shine blue-green when it moves.
Tap.
Smaller than my pulse. Louder, too.
“Go away,” I tell it. I try for bored but land on breathy. “He’s gone.”
It doesn’t move, it just stares.
Because it’s a fucking crow.
I sip my coffee again to show the universe I know how to act and I’m not bothered by this stupid bird, but my mug hits my tooth, and I turn away like a child.
If I don’t look, it’s not there. My heart races anyway.
A draft lifts the hairs on my neck. The light blinks once, then flutters back. The playlist hiccups, then keeps going. Bulbs do that. Playlists do that too, right?
Nothing to freak out about.
Birds live in farm towns. I mean, crows love corn, and the fields are right there. This town is easy food, especially with all the dropped Halloween candy from last night.
I’m overreacting. It’s nothing.
The crow taps once more, like yeah, yeah, and then launches like an arrow, or a shadow, then heads to the opposite roofline. It turns into a cutout against the sky. Fine. Normal.
Breathe. In. Out. See? It’s fine.
The knock hits the door and I jump so hard coffee sloshes up the rim. I catch myself, laughing under my breath at how wound up I am. “Hold on! Jamie, I’m coming!” I set the mug in the sink. “Get it together,” I tell myself, quiet but real.
I snag the dish towel off the oven handle, blot my palms, run the rough edge between my fingers, and swipe the coffee splash off my thumb. I hang it back, smooth it flat like that matters, then rub my damp hands down the front of my cardigan.
Breathe.
The knock comes again, same easy rhythm.
Okay. Jamie. Hat drop off. Chill.
I pad down the hall in my bat slippers; the floorboard by the heater gives its usual squeak. I slide the chain—metal on metal, a tiny scrape—thumb the deadbolt until it clunks and wrap my still-warm fingers around the cold round knob.
“It’s just Jamie,” I tell the room, like saying it makes it true.
I open the door with my polite-thanks smile already set.
It falls off hard enough to hurt.
Finn stands on the threshold.
Not the forest version but the one with ash in his mouth and hunger where a man should be.
Clean. Whole.
Shirtless under a black leather jacket left open; abs, ink, and the symbol scar still there—pale and puckered over his heart like a brand. Black jeans low on his hips.
