Lucie

The floor was empty when I woke up the next morning; Cian was nowhere to be found. The only evidence he'd ever been there at all was my quilt on the floor. I sighed, guessing I should have expected as much from him. He was nothing if not mysterious at times, which in turn made him a bit annoying.

Yawning, I went into the bathroom to take a brisk shower, stepping back out into my bedroom with wet hair dripping water onto my shoulders. I threw on one of my dad's old t-shirts, which was practically a dress on me, tying my hair up. Thankfully, it was a Saturday, and unlike the weekdays, I did not have to give a crap about how I looked.

I reached to pick up the quilt Cian had left behind, tossing it back to my bed. To my surprise, his hoodie was underneath it, and sheepishly I picked it up. I held it in my fingers for a moment, stretching the black fibers in my hands.

I lifted it to my nose.

It smelled like warm sand baked under the sun, and the salt of ocean water. Faintly, the hoodie was scented with tea tree oil, spicy but sweet. It smelled like Cian did when I was near him; I liked it more than I would ever admit. I took one more inhale, and, simply because I could, draped it over my head. The hoodie, too, was a dress on me, both my hands swallowed by the pockets.

I'd have to return it to him eventually, but for now it was mine to walk around in. It was too comfortable and I was too lazy to take it off now.

I marched out into the hallway and froze at the top of the stairs. I heard clanging pots and hissing steam, and, even more quietly, the Beatles song on the radio with Cian's muffled voice as a complement.

So he was still here, and he was using my pots. Crap.

Like I said, I was too lazy to take the hoodie off.

So I didn't.

I came down the stairs, rounding the corner into the kitchen. Cian's back was to me, his golden hair ruffled and unkempt. I was struck with the same thought that had occurred to me last night: He belonged here, in my ancient wallpapered kitchen with equally ancient appliances and a countertop the color of barf. Looking at him, you couldn't tell the fortune he claimed. It was strange, but I liked it.

The small cassette radio I'd had since I was six was playing Help, and Cian's voice rose through the ceiling, singing along to the melody: Help, I need somebody, help...

He turned, a wooden spoon held in one hand, a crinkled piece of paper in the other. When he noticed me standing at the kitchen's mouth, he coughed and stuffed the paper in his back pocket. My eyebrows furrowed, but only fleetingly.

Cian smiled, then squinted at me. "I do believe that's my hoodie you're wearing."

"It is."

His smile grew wider. He set his spoon down on the counter and approached me, tapping the bun I'd tied at the top of my head. I swatted at him, but he just laughed. "Having fun in there, muffin?"

I stuck my tongue out and flipped the hood up, drawing it down over my head. Dropping my voice the deepest it would go, I stood straight up and said, in my best Cian impression, "Hey there dudes. My name is Cian Horne and I wear my hood all the time because I'm super mysterious and because all angels of death are super mysterious. I might be emotionally unstable but whatever, it's cool, dudes."

I cleared my throat and looked at him, silently asking for approval. He rolled his blue eyes and went back to whatever he was stirring. "I don't say 'dude.'"

"That's your only critique?" I scoffed, folding my arms. "Wow, you really are a sad little angel, aren't you?"

He held up a finger. "I am not sad or little."

The radio stopped playing the Beatles and went into an overzealous ad about a department store sale that was going on now, right now. "You weren't worried my parents would find you here?" I asked him, crossing the tiled floor. Sunlight cut through the window above the sink, casting a hazy glow about the space. With the radio playing in the back and the scent of ham and eggs wafting up towards the ceiling, it felt like one of the first days I could honestly relax in weeks.

Cian shook his head. "I saw them both pull off in a car," he told me, then glanced over his shoulder with a frown. "You know where they were headed?"

I tugged the hood off and said, "They always go shopping Saturday mornings. Sometimes I go with them. Usually I don't."

"Oh. Well, convenient for today's purposes, yeah?"

I nodded in agreement, then snaked myself underneath his arm to see what he was stirring. He jolted a little, but didn't move away; his arm rested on my back, a comfortable weight holding me in place. A few weeks ago being this close to him would have made me want to keel over and die. "What are you making?"

He pointed at each item on the stove in turn: the pot, the griddle, the skillet. "Grits. Ham. Eggs. You let me stay the night just because I was fighting with my brother, so I figured I owed you breakfast."

"You didn't have to do that," I said, backing off of him. "Speaking of which...you're going back after this, right? To see Vinny?"

He exhaled. The advertisements on the radio ended. This time it started playing a classic rock song. I wondered distantly if he and Dempsey would get along; they both liked songs from the past, yet in different genres. Then I cursed myself for making comparisons between the two boys. "I mean, yeah, I kinda have to. I'm just hoping this was the right decision, you know? I'm hoping what he needed was to be left alone for a bit," Cian answered, setting his spoon down. The gas stove clicked off as he turned the dial. "I'd like to think I'm doing at least something right."

"Sad little angel," I said, perching myself on top of my counter.

Cian faced me, leaning back against the stove, his chin slightly up. "I told you. I am neither sad nor little."

"And I told you I was not a muffin, but you see how that turned out."

"This is a different situation," countered Cian. The rock song ended. More advertisements sounded as the washing machine thundered in the laundry room upstairs. Cian dropped his head, pushing out a breath. "Lucie, can we talk?"

I heard the sudden graveness in his voice, my eyebrows drawing together. "Sure. What's on your mind?"

"You," he said.

My heart skipped a beat. "W-What?"

"You, Lucie," Cian told me. His hand reached out and swiftly silenced the radio, and his eyes met mine, azure flowers in the morning sunlight. "Honestly, I think about you all the time. At first I thought something was wrong with me, but it's not that. It's not that at all."

I pressed a hand over my mouth. "Cian..."

He stepped forward, and I felt his delicate fingers on mine as he took my hand away from my face, grasping it in his. With his other hand, he caressed my cheek; I couldn't feel my pulse beating anymore. My chest was a vacant cavity. I didn't know what to say, how to act, what to do. "I don't deserve you. I know I don't deserve you. But I want you. I thought about it for a long time, and I've decided I just can't run from it anymore. I want you, Lucie, more than I have ever yearned for something in my entire life."

He managed a smile; it was coy and shy, and there was a crimson color along his cheeks. His hair hung in his eyes as he looked up at me, and he came closer. I still sat on the island, my legs dangling over the side; he stood in front of me, so close that I could practically taste him. Ocean water. Sand. Tea tree oil.

I blushed furiously. "What makes you think you don't deserve me?" I questioned, brushing hair from his face. "Why...why are you doing this to yourself?"

"Ever since the accident, I've hated myself, Lucie. What I've become. That's why I don't deserve to pull you into this, Lucie, you don't deserve that. I...I've never really cared for myself, but you...goodness," he said, letting out a breathy laugh. "I saw you and everything changed. I knew you and I didn't want anything to go back to the way it was. But I don't deserve you."

I stared at him. My heart had swelled to size of a balloon, on the brink of explosion. What was I supposed to say? It was sudden, but genuine; I saw it in the sorrow in his eyes, the frown at his lips. His pulse was pounding where his skin touched mine. Something in the skillet kept sizzling.

I said, "Cian."

He cursed, pressing his hand to his mouth as if he could press out the pain that came afterwards. He started to walk away, but I reached out, gripping his arm and pulling him back.

Everything moved too quickly.

My lips met his, our fingers still entwined as it happened. He moved upwards, breathing softly into my mouth. My heartbeat sped as if winning a race. The softness of his hair brushed my forehead; he pulled his hand from my own and framed my face with gentle hands, as if I was all that was important in the world. My heart swelled—I hadn't realized it before, but this is what I wanted, what I needed. Here, with him so close to me, with his body heat seeping into my skin, the scent of him exploding in my nostrils and the taste of him like an edible serenade on my tongue, it was like a seeing the world through a new lens.

His thumbs brushed the tender skin underneath my jawbone, hot and unyielding. He pulled away, resting his forehead on mine. "This," he whispered. The breath had gone out of his lungs. He sounded as if he'd just ran miles. "This is what I wish I deserved."

My heart was a drum locked in my rib cage. I couldn't think straight. All I could think about was how he tasted and how he smelled and how his body felt curved underneath my fingers. I exhaled, shaking my head. "I feel like we shouldn't have done that," I murmured.

He pushed an awry curl on my forehead aside. "I know."

"But I don't care."

Cian's eyes fluttered up. I couldn't push air out of my mouth. Slowly but pleasurably I drowned in his blue-eyed gaze, his eyelashes like delicate wisps of spun gold. He said, "You can't mean that."

"I wouldn't lie to you, remember?" I replied as he stepped away from me, mopping his hair from his forehead and staring at me. "I'm tired of we shouldn't. I want we did."

"We..." Cian trailed off. "Lucie—"

He coughed, clawing at his chest, his other hand gripping the counter beside the stove, white-knuckled. I hopped off the counter, adrenaline surging within me. "Cian?" I said, placing a hand on his spasming back. When he looked up again, red veins climbed around his irises like snakes. "Cian?"

He shook his head, gasping for breath. "Something's wrong. My heart stopped, that's normal, but..."

My eyebrows went up, the fibers of his shirt in my fingers. "But?"

He blinked at me. "I'm getting visions of Vinny."

"Vinny!" I exclaimed, helping him straighten up. "But Vinny's already dead. It's not like he can die again..." I didn't finish, noticing the horror slowly soiling Cian's expression. Cursing under his breath, he gestured vaguely toward my bare legs.

"Yes, yes, he can," Cian breathed. There was panic written all over his face; it was the face of someone whose nightmare was becoming reality. "Go put on some pants, muffin. We have to get to my house ASAP."