Page 68 of Burn Bright (Cobalt Empire #1)

HARRIET FISHER

S unday at the End of the World begins slow, and I’m happy about the lull tonight.

Because I can spend more time swiping through Ben’s phone while he’s pressed up against my side.

Dish towel slung over his shoulder, and his old worn baseball cap flipped backward—at times it’s harder to pay attention to anything but him.

I swipe into the next video in his album titled mes amours.

A little gray feathered bird with a yellow head and bright orange blush-like circles bounces to the beat of “Another One Bites the Dust” and whistles the tune.

“Theodore,” Ben names him since both his cockatiels look so similar to me. Same coloring, nearly same size. He has hundreds of these videos saved.

It’s so cute, I rewatch it again, but that’s exactly how I felt about the last twenty I’ve seen.

I never had a pet, and I never imagined a bird could look so…

cuddly. It’s not a fluffy poodle, but they’re affectionate in the way they beep-bop their head and perk up at the camera.

I imagine they’re looking at the guy beside me, and I understand the little twinkle in their eye.

He makes me just as happy.

I slide into another video, the small bird bounces on a National Geographic magazine, nearing an outstretched hand.

Ben. I dizzy even seeing his fingers appear on-screen. I’ve really fucking lost it, but there’s seriously no turning back now.

“Theodore again,” Ben tells me.

It ends too fast. Next video plays, and I inhale an audible breath.

Someone must’ve recorded Ben because he’s fully in the frame.

In focus. He’s young, maybe twelve. Sitting on his bed.

His luminous smile is on the little cockatiel perched on his shoulder.

He lets out a melodic whistle, and the bird whistles right back, then nuzzles his head into Ben’s cheek.

Young Ben laughs. The bird chirps, then whistles so merrily, his little orange feet shifting just to be closer to the blue-eyed boy.

“Pip-Squeak,” Ben says beside me.

I swallow my emotion. “I didn’t know birds snuggled.”

“Yeah, they do.” He has a soft faraway smile, and I don’t want to fill him with grief since both birds are no longer alive.

So I hand back his phone. “Thanks,” I say sincerely.

“That’s been the best birthday present so far.

” I don’t tell him it’s the first one I’ve received since I was sixteen.

Aunt Helena always calls to wish me a happy birthday—like she did this morning—but I wouldn’t consider a fifteen-minute chat a gift, even if I really appreciate how she always remembers to ring me on October 13 th .

A couple years ago, I really needed her call.

It’d been a bright spot on a lousy seventeen.

“You think this was your birthday present?” He scrunches his face at me, slipping his phone in his butt pocket.

I’d asked Ben if he had any videos stashed of his cockatiels.

Little did I know, he had enough to make my whole night.

“I asked and I received,” I shrug, straightening up and shifting away from the liquor bottles behind us.

My cheeks burn at the way he’s watching me move to the beer taps.

He’s checking me out, and I’m seriously giddy over it. “Why? Did you get me something?”

“Maybe.” His teasing smile is going to be the death of me. Good riddance, Harriet. The girl who died over a fucking smile. Ugh.

“Maybe.” I crinkle my nose at him. “Whatcha got in your pocket for me, Cobalt boy? Jolly Ranchers?”

“Generally, gifts are supposed to be special. Not something you carry on the regular.”

“Okay.” I hoist myself up on the bar, sitting beside the taps.

Only two old dudes are here drinking Guinness and chitchatting quietly at a booth.

Ghostbusters plays on the projector screen.

Volume low. I have my back to the movie.

“You only came here with a water bottle. So it has to be in your pocket.”

“Great assessment, Fisher,” Ben smiles while nearing. “It is in my pocket.”

He got me something. I grip the bar on either side of me. I swear, I’m two seconds from swinging my legs and falling backward like a fool. “You going to show me?”

Ben digs in his jeans, unearthing a square box wrapped with pink cupcake-patterned paper. It’s not a ring box, but maybe the size for a bracelet or an iron-on patch to add to my backpack.

“Tell me you didn’t buy wrapping paper.” I take the gift.

“I didn’t break the bank,” he assures.

“You better not have.” We’re obviously not racking in any big tips here. “Your financial situation is already dire. How are you going to buy toilet paper for this primitive excursion?”

“I was probably going to use leaves anyway.” His smile is too cute for the End of the World.

“Funny. You know what’s funnier—if you get poison ivy, I won’t be there to lotion your wounds.”

“Straight to the heart.” He sounds less jokey and sadder.

I’m fucking up this gift receiving, tanking the upbeat mood already, but in my defense, I have very little experience in opening gifts. “You picked this out?” I point to the cupcake paper.

“From Audrey’s stash. My sister let me raid her stationary.” It must’ve been on a Wednesday when he visits her in Philly.

I peel the paper. Unveiling a white box. My pulse speeds so fast, I need to pause to intake some breath. “I love it,” I banter, but I think the truth is already out: I am enamored.

His smile widens. “All it takes is a box to make Harriet Fisher happy. Who knew?”

All it takes is you.

“I’m easy,” I say. “ Not like an easy lay.” My defensive glare fizzles out in seconds with him.

“I know what you meant,” he says softly. “Open it.”

So I lift the lid, and my heart pitter-patters in a brand new drumbeat. I take out a really pretty beaded choker. Multi-colored. Square and round beads threaded together. “You made this?” I ask quietly.

“With a slight assist from Audrey since I wanted it to actually look good, but yeah . I made it.”

I inspect the beads. A smiley face, a glittery purple one, yellow, blue, a pink heart, and then white letters, B-E-L…O-I-S-E-A-U.

It spells out beautiful bird.

Our conversation from two weeks ago in the campus library races back to me. “It’s…” I look up at him, hiding none of the overpowering emotion on my face. I don’t think I can.

His eyes redden like he feels the brunt force of my appreciation, affection, all the gooey sentiments I never thought I’d experience to this degree.

I manage to get out, “It’s the best gift I’ve ever been given.” I snap off my old dingy choker so I can wear the new one right now. “Thanks, Ben.”

“Here.” He offers to put the new choker on me, and this birthday really might end with me as a puddle on the floor.

I lift my blonde hair off my neck, and as he wraps the choker around me, his knuckles brush the sensitive skin along my nape.

My breath hitches a little, and he shifts his weight, his eyes flitting to mine like his need is being stirred.

Tension flexes the tendons of his neck, and he breathes through his nose while he clasps the jewelry.

I touch the beads at my throat. He’s standing so close that I’ve instinctively spread my knees, and he’s fit between them. We’re at much better eye-level than usual, and his chest collapses in a heady, sweltering beat.

We haven’t had sex yet. We won’t at our workplace, and honestly, I’m glad Ben isn’t willing to screw me against a bathroom stall as our first time. It won’t be a rushed quickie. He’s treating it as something valuable that should last. Maybe even have a round two right afterward.

It’s so different from what I know sex to be.

Thinking about where and when we’ll hook up—I like. The fear that I might be rejected from the Honors House—I hate more than anything. Being accepted has become even more mission critical for this semester. If I fail, then what? Ben just leaves?

No, I have to get in. Then fling a pair of panties at Leif. Then secure Ben housing.

The Honors House has my application, and I’ve heard a whole lot of nothing in response, even after follow-up emails. Ben has been trying to score me an invite to their super exclusive Halloween party.

Apparently, it’s where they scope out potential new members. If I can’t get into the party, then my chances are basically in the gutter.

He knows it too.

Maybe that’s why it’s easier focusing on the sex part of this whole bet. Success rate of us finding a good place and time to bone is higher. Surely we can’t fuck that up, right?

Ben has a hand on my knee and slides a hot trail up my thigh. Even with my plaid pants creating a barrier from his skin to my skin, the heat of him thrums through me. My clit is throbbing.

“Is the waiting torture for you too?” I ask in a whisper, our breaths shallowing together.

“You have no idea.” He pulls his hands away, a rough groan against his throat. “It feels like I’m putting my palm above a flame every day.”

“I thought you weren’t the Cobalt who plays with fire.”

“My whole family does,” he whispers, “except Beckett….well.” He cocks his head a little, then sighs.

“I don’t know.” Mention of Beckett kills the mood.

He’s been upfront on why he needs to move out of his brothers’ apartment.

I was surprised when he said it wasn’t because of Charlie, but a combination of things, most recently Beckett.

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said, putting major emphasis on the secrecy.

How what he was divulging wasn’t advertised anywhere.

How it was nothing Beckett would like to share, probably for me to even know, but Ben wanted to be honest with me.

“Beckett has OCD, and I’m making it worse by living there. ”

His sudden urgency to move out made a whole lot more sense.

I slide off the bar, which causes Ben to back up and add space between us. He rotates away and exhales to cool off, and I touch the new choker again. “I’ll make you one,” I say without thinking.

“What?” He spins back around.