Chapter 6

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Breakdowns and indirect kisses, I guess.

While I'm both sleep-deprived and busy fighting every maternal instinct in me that screams I should not listen to Alexios and let my baby eat his crib dirt…I can almost believe the yamachichi is harmless.

Almost.

Dragging a gloved fingertip across the basic dark furniture I have decorating one of my guest rooms, Alexios peruses the living quarters I'm offering him as though he gets a choice in the matter.

My room is next door.

If we're both going to be taking care of Ash throughout the night—especially when I head back to work and need to be half-lucid—the proximity is important.

Until the pros outweigh the cons, though, this whole situation is just going to give me anxiety.

Manly men, outside of fiction, never cease to make me feel…some kind of way.

I should clarify.

The some kind of way isn't a cute, vague suggestion that I get butterflies in my stomach or am at risk of contracting feelings .

Men confident in their masculinity make me feel unsafe.

Confident men, period, make me feel unsafe.

Because, too often, confident men become angry in ways that result in pain followed by a justification of both the anger and the pain.

Despite Alexios's raw elegance and the foot-long braid trailing down his back, he's absolutely male. Absolutely, one hundred percent, entirely, dating-sim-beautiful male . The broad shoulders paired with his height could make even someone with my ample figure feel small and feminine.

My nose scrunches.

Ew.

Alexios sits on the queen-size bed dead across from the doorway I'm leaning against and smooths his gloved hands against the black comforter on either side of his thighs. "This room is a gothic nightmare," he says.

"Is it now?" I mumble.

"It reminds me of home."

I tilt my head against the doorjamb and cross my arms beneath this morning's pajama top, a graphic tee of a turtle making pancakes. "You don't say."

Alexios falls back, arms spread, and stares at the ceiling. "I am becoming overwhelmed with the reality of this situation."

It's the honesty for me, not gonna lie.

Tilting his face toward me, he smiles—angelic. "Might I trouble you for some privacy? I intend to partake in a breakdown momentarily."

Blinking, I clear my throat and step outside the room. "No problem, bud. Should I, uh, close the door for you?"

"I would appreciate it." His smile becomes fluorescent. "You're so sweet, snowflake."

Eyes fixed on him, I reach for the knob and back away. "All righty… I'll be in the kitchen, making breakfast. Come on down whenever you're ready."

Chipper, he says, "'Kay," and I close the door.

Unable to stop myself, I check on my little Ash to make sure he's still sleeping comfortably with his dirt-stained mouth, then I head downstairs to locate some calories. Heaven knows I need something that produces energy to get me through the rest of today.

I still have messages to respond to after canceling yesterday's stream.

Gracious.

Dani's probably worried sick.

And no doubt I have an email from Wade, confirming this Friday's LARP sesh.

Not only that. Rogue's been connecting with me about asking Ollie, one of Kassandra's new faerie friends whose music channel has blown up over the past year or so, about composing the soundtrack for a game he's developing.

Speaking of Kassandra, who doesn't really message, recently she convinced Pollux that Andromeda needed a phone, so I have been inundated with gifs from the little dream eater. I probably need to catch up on those, too.

Upon retrieving my communication device, I discover a solid eighty-seven notifications. Some are comments on videos, emails from my editor, friend requests. There are a couple missed spam calls, proving that I really am just like other girls—despite my follower count.

It's nice to feel normal when I have a soul-sucking faerie creature upstairs in the middle of a breakdown. Right next to a baby who not only sleeps in a dirt pile, but also is encouraged to eat it.

Good, nutritious, organic dirt from Faerie.

Yum.

I hope I'll understand how to relate to my son as he grows up. Hopefully, once things are sorted with Castor and Ash is no longer classified information, Pila and I can talk about parenting. Assuming Ash won't become dangerous, he and Pila's little girl, Terra, will grow up together. I really hope no one treats him like an outcast just because he'll grow into the ability to produce deadly toxins.

I mean, seriously, I could also kill someone without too much physical effort.

It's not a big deal.

Everyone is dangerous, so when we act like it for some and not others, it's insight into our prejudices more than anything else.

People these days are too sensitive.

Something occurs to me halfway through answering Wade's email. Now that I've claimed Alexios, I'll be able to see Pila and Terra, not just hear them. Beyond that, I've already been to Faerie. Monsters just last night paraded supplies through my living room and up my stairs.

A swallow sticks in my throat.

All the disembodied voices I've been subjected to my entire life…will no longer be disembodied.

My stomach knots, and I drag my attention off the email to recall that I'm in the kitchen, leaning into the corner between my counter and my fridge, answering messages instead of making breakfast.

Now, I'm neither answering messages nor making breakfast.

The crippling understanding that the creatures behind some of the voices I hear will be visible now that I've claimed a soulmate plunges through my chest, congesting it with a past I fight every day to ignore.

Sometimes, I'm successful and can flush the memories out of my brain with external noises, business, people.

Sometimes, it's too quiet.

Sometimes, I am stuck alone with the stuff I've never before been able to face.

Who knows if seeing my monsters will make them more surmountable, or if it'll cement the insanity I've been accused of far too long.

"Peace," I whisper to myself as I abandon my phone on the counter and get some tortillas and cheese out of the fridge. Humming a hymn, I contemplate What Would Jesus Do for breakfast?

Certainly he wouldn't make unhealthy quesadillas .

The question is inane, of course, but it's the kind my mother would impose upon me at every juncture when I was eight.

What Would Jesus Do , Zahra? Always think about what Jesus would do.

No.

That's wrong.

He would actually do this ; He would do it my way. But you're only eight, so you don't understand how I use Jesus to pressure you into doing things my way yet. And trying to understand how I can read so much Scripture, yet miss every point, will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Fighting for a breath, I lift my face toward the ceiling, remember that mercy sent me the answer to a prayer I stopped praying a long time ago, and remind myself that it is cruel to use Jesus as a weapon. It is cruel to shove the expectation of the Perfect Ruler of the Universe onto a child, then fault them for every mistake as they— obviously— fail to live up to those impossible, ever-shifting standards.

Train up a child in the way they should go means teach them to seek God's wisdom and kindness in all things.

Even when they would rather scream and run the other direction, like Jonah.

It doesn't mean make God impossible to reach.

It doesn't mean make shame a constant companion, to such an extent I can't make breakfast when I'm stressed because I can hear voices telling me I'm wrong .

God told us that nothing can separate us from His love.

But, if anything could separate us from feeling it, I think it would probably be the constant reminder we are failures.

I need to be a good mom.

I need to figure out how to lead with love, and example, and kindness.

I need to breathe. I need to eat. I need to calm down.

Despite my best efforts, my breaths shorten, and I step away from the stove before I even turn it on.

"Hush," I whisper, to myself. "It's okay."

Being a mother is what I've wanted and worked for and lost hope in for over a decade . I finally get to be a mom. I finally have a little boy who will be mine no matter what Castor says, no matter what anyone says.

I'm just tired.

And scared.

And becoming horrifyingly aware that my mother's expectations of perfection all throughout my childhood are making a twisted reappearance. Perfection is the standard I've fought for years.

But, now, I need to be the perfect mother. I need to make sure when Ash grows up, he doesn't stare at his food and wage a battle in his mind as that's not healthy and Jesus won't love you if you desecrate his temple scream in his ears.

I need to make sure he doesn't sneer and make bad choices out of spite just so he won't be anything like me. I need to make sure he doesn't cry himself to sleep half-apologizing to and half-cursing at a God who would make it so hard just to exist .

I'm overreacting. Because I'm scared.

Because I'm tired.

Because I spent the night crying and cradling my baby as I withheld his dirt crib from him.

Clearly, God is a little jokester with an epic sense of humor, because it occurs to me my child was eating dirt twenty minutes ago, yet I'm throwing a fit over cheese dough.

Pulling myself together, I make a quesadilla. With a side of turkey bacon and broccoli. Not because my mother's rants concerning my BMI matter. Not because I'll be cast out of heaven if my body mass index doesn't shape up. Because nutrients are a thing, and God does want me to take care of myself. Which, you know, means not having a crisis this early in the morning.

Lips pursed, I flip my quesadilla and mumble, "I am a good child. The best dinosaur. With my little meat-seasoned trees…" God is proud of me.

A sharp intake of breath alerts me I am not mumbling to myself alone.

Turning, I lock eyes with Alexios.

He takes a step back, and I watch red plunge into his cheeks, consuming every pale inch of his skin.

He twists on his heel before I can ask him if he wants what I'm making for breakfast, or if he'd prefer to make something himself, so instead I ask, "Where are you going?"

"Possibly to have another breakdown. I'll decide on the stairs."

"What?"

"My heart was not prepared to witness you being so adorable."

My lip curls, disgust rioting. Homeboy just called me what ? " Huh? "

Even the slices of his neck on either side of his long, thin braid are blistering red. He clamps a gloved hand to his mouth and looks at me over his shoulder. Eyes pleading, pupils large enough to block out all the gray, he murmurs, "You are not the only one experiencing life-altering changes. And you have had longer to program how exactly one regulates their nervous system." He manages a fragile breath. "I keep having to do it manually."

Does anyone else get the distinct feeling that bullying this man equates to kicking a baby rabbit across the medieval town in my backyard?

No?

Just me then?

Great.

The Good Lord's humor persists. I just wish right now it didn't feel quite so at my expense .

Man oh man, I cannot wait to play video games tomorrow night…and stress…about being unable to hear my baby beyond my headphones…

If I cancel the stream again, my viewers will have a conniption, and nothing I say will convince them I'm not dying.

So, yeah, I probably shouldn't do that.

Gathering myself, I free a calm breath. "Xios, for future reference, I am not cute or adorable or endearing in any way."

Gingerly, he angles himself toward me, still covering his burning face with a hand. "Is the way others perceive you a decision you get to audit?"

"Yes."

His brows dip, doubtful, but he gains a hair's breadth of my respect when he asks, "What adjectives do you find make adequate compliments? Assuming I agree with them, I'm more than willing to adjust my vocabulary."

I raise a brow and evict my first quesadilla from the pan before prepping the ingredients for another one. "I'm sorry. Are you suggesting I only deserve adequacy ?"

"That was not at all my implication. Forgive me. My lung capacity is shutting down."

"And now you're making excuses?" I tut, adjust my posture, and yeet the baby bunny.

He fumbles a second, confused out of his tiny, flinging-bunny brain. "It was…more a reason for my lack of decorum."

"Why can't you take accountability for your actions?"

What I'm doing clicks in his flung-bunny brain. Something shifts in his eyes, and he drops his hand to his side. "Are you gaslighting me?"

"Are you seriously going to stand there and accuse me of gaslighting you? To distract me from the fact you don't know how to compliment a woman? That's embarrassing—" I add cheese and hot sauce to my tortilla before tucking the contents in with another on top. "—for you."

"What is this remarkable sensation?" His fingers flex, and he looks at his hands. "I can't tell if it's better or worse than being overwhelmed by your beauty."

I snort. "The fae have a lot of traits that are generally considered neurodivergent in humans."

"Yes, I'm aware of the terming humans use to classify when fae tendencies appear in human bodies."

"People with ADHD often create drama and start fights as a means to boost adrenaline or stimulate their frontal lobes. They're dopamine deficient, constantly thrown between underwhelmed and overwhelmed. Despite seeming overstimulated, you've proposed a game that implies you're understimulated—or stupid. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt on that front because I have further points."

Approaching the center island, Xios watches me, intent. "How unusual. I have never considered that I might be stimuli deficient before… Everything always seems to be too much, not too little."

"Meda's told me that you're always off doing different jobs in Faerie."

"How else am I supposed to learn about the world?"

"By reading a book." I flip my second quesadilla and turn on him, pointing my spatula. "You're simultaneously thrill-seeking and thrill-avoiding. Aren't you?"

His lips part. Silence stretches. At last, he says, "I…do tend to act impulsively then suffer with many regrets."

"Samesies."

A breathy laugh leaves him. "May I express how wonderful it is to know you, Zahra? However we fit together, I am grateful to be in the presence of someone whose soul understands mine."

My heart trips on that lovely little line, so I return my attention to my cooking. I seem to have crisped one side of my quesadilla too much. Nuts.

Oh well.

I guess this one is Alexios's.

Taking the best for myself isn't very Christian of me. But it is funnier. Right?

Right?

No cosmic whispers inform me that I am wrong.

But they also don't exactly inform me that I am right .

So I cut both quesadillas in half and make them all nice and fair, then I toss the meat and veggies on the side of two plates, nudge one Alexios's way, and take my first cheesy bite.

Alexios stares down at the food, smile faltering.

"Made warm with hate," I provide. "Forks are in that drawer if you don't want to eat with your hands…given the gloves."

His gaze jets to the silverware drawer I designate, then he seems to take a fortifying breath as he retrieves a utensil.

The process from that point, at least from where I'm standing, appears akin to surgery.

He separates the meat from the broccoli. He opens and prods at both quesadilla halves. He scrunches his nose at the pooling oil, then segregates it as best he can on the other side of his plate. I'm almost done with my unburnt quesadilla before he takes his first bite.

He chews.

And keeps chewing.

He chews so long I'm almost convinced Pollux taught him to count to one hundred for every bite.

I could literally never.

I would starve.

Lifting the burnt slice next, he takes another bite and begins his chewing stamina test again. When he swallows this time, he says, "May I trade you for the other browner one? I find the texture more bearable."

My attention drops to the burnt piece in my hand. I have just finished taking a bite out of it. "You like the burnt one better?"

" Like is a strong word, but, yes, I suppose let's go with it." He approaches, offering his plate. With utmost propriety, he flicks the lesser cheese tortilla onto my plate.

I give him mine.

He stares at the bite mark.

"You know, if you don't like what I made for breakfast, you're welcome to make something else. I can eat all of this no problem. But, also, I will be judging you. Harshly. This is child menu food. Everyone is supposed to like it. And I'm just not so sure how we're going to work out if you only like vegetables and whole grains or whatever it is Perfect Papa Pollux has provided you with." I cock my head. "I've seen the extravagance of the lunches he sometimes sends to school with your sister. I have bitten accidentally into a gluten free oatmeal raisin cookie, expecting chocolate chip and, I don't know, flour . Your taste buds are probably effed up so bad. I'm sooo sorry this isn't organic ."

"Hush," Alexios whispers into my rant.

Something pricks in my chest, but I ignore it, and his little command . "Don't you dare tell me to be quiet in my own home, Alexios. I will not hesitate to manage another night as a single mother. I can do a great deal on my own, so don't test me."

Scowling, he glares. "You are an utterly insensitive thought-repellent."

I smirk. "You're getting better at compliments, sweetheart. What do you need to think about? Your choices are: eat or make something else. It's not rocket science. You can even flip a coin."

"If you must know what I need to think about, I am considering the fact you have just given me food that your mouth has touched."

"Oh." I bite into the part of his quesadilla that his mouth touched without lifting my gaze off him. "That's a fair concern. I do work with kids, so I am usually a carrier of unspeakable diseases. Even though I've been off for a week, I can accept the duress. I won't be offended if you cut my germs off."

His throat bobs. He stares at my mouth, at the food that was his, at my mouth. Near strangled, he says, "I…wasn't at all thinking about…germs."

"Were you thinking about poison? It's impolite to poison people. Are you calling me impolite ?"

Tension eases out of him as he fixes me with a placating smile. "Were you to poison me, I am quite near positive I would enjoy the experience."

"Yet again—I feel almost compelled to ask—you good, bro?"

"Perhaps never better."

If I know my faerie loopholes around lying , "perhaps" is an eraser word that makes most sentences lose all meaning. It creates truth with its maybe, maybe not energy.

It's a Schrodinger word, along with possibly and potentially and probably . At the moment in time any of these words are used, truth is both alive—and dead.

Picking apart when people say something that means nothing is a skill I'm fairly well-versed in.

Several strained moments pass while Alexios and I stare deeply at one another. Several more strained moments usher in a realization that Alexios's cheeks are yandere girl crimson .

"Oh my word," I exhale. "You're flirting with me."

"There it is," he murmurs. "Also, we just indirectly kissed."

A cold wash runs down my spine. I look at the now half-eaten tortilla in my hand, which bears no evidence he ever took the first bite out of it. "No."

"Yes."

"No, this is not an anime. We don't say things like indirect kiss ." And, also, since this isn't an anime, I shouldn't be comparing his expression to a yandere girl . If he is the yandere chara type—AKA the psychotic-for-love archetype—I am in the most massive trouble. Ever.

"I am actually partial to the idea of indirect kisses. There are fewer sensory planes to navigate." An edge enters his pretty, stormy eyes as he nudges my quesadilla in his plate with his fork. "Do you suppose this might be a gateway drug? I find it uniquely enticing."

If I had to make any suppositions, it would be that he's a few screws short of a functioning Ferris wheel. Sidling my way past him, I grab a fork, stab a broccoli, and point the tree his way. "You have fun with whatever is going on between you and my quesadilla germs. I'm going to go stare at my baby, and maybe fall asleep while doing so."

He flashes me a smile. "Have fun, snowflake."

I stuff my broccoli in my mouth and quip, " Don't tell me what to do."