Page 15 of Veil of Death and Shadow (Order of Reapers #1)

15

MAREENA

Approximately Nine Years Ago, Three Years Before The Undoing

“ T humb goes on top, like this.” Levi tightened my fist, shifting my fingers until they were properly positioned. Given the violence of the activity, he was surprisingly gentle. The heat of his hand sank into my skin. “Whatever you do, make sure you don’t strike with it at the side. You risk breaking it like that.”

“Or just turning my fingers into giant sausages for a few weeks,” I said, fighting a grin. My fingers were back to their normal size now, all signs of damage erased entirely, save for a small white scar on one of my knuckles.

“Or that.” With a featherlight touch, his thumb traced the small mark. His eyes darted up to mine, the hues of gray darker than I remembered them, or maybe they were just more striking today against the vibrant oranges and reds of the changing leaves sprinkled over the ground.

The sun was still out, though it was setting earlier and earlier each day, and the parks weren’t as busy now that the temperature was dropping. Still, there was a crispness to fall in Seattle that I loved almost as much as the summer. Everything looked sharper, more vibrant, the air less hazy now that the final intense weeks of the wildfire season were ebbing.

It’d been nearly a month since we’d last seen each other, his mystery work keeping him away longer than he thought it would. Part of me was convinced the long stretch of his silence was his way of backing out of his side of the deal, that I’d never see him again.

When my phone vibrated with a text yesterday, I found myself unexpectedly happy to find that he hadn’t.

“Is it . . .” He cleared his throat, his usual snarky confidence absent, as his hands hovered over me. “Is it okay if I position you?”

I nodded.

He brought my arm level with my shoulder, bending my elbow as he stood behind me.

“When you start,” his voice was soft against my ear, and I fought to focus on the words, rather than the soft tickle of his breath against my skin, “your pinky should be closest to the ground, index up.” He brushed my first two knuckles, lingering again on the small scar. “This is where the point of impact will be, not your entire hand.”

I nodded, my mouth too dry to find words.

“You want to stay grounded, keep your wrist straight,” he continued. “You’ll do more harm to yourself than to your opponent if you’re too loose or wild with it.”

I swallowed, then nodded. Though I hadn’t run into Ace since the day the asshole tried to drug me, I sure hoped he’d walked away that night the worse of the two of us.

Levi nudged his foot against mine, widening my stance a bit, until my feet were lined up against each of his insteps. With my back pressed against his chest, his arms brushing alongside both of mine, this demonstration was suddenly far more intimate than I’d imagined it being in my head. “Feet should be under your shoulders, pointing towards your target.”

Currently, my target was a small red balloon floating a few feet in front of me. Too soft for me to injure myself again, but visible and solid enough to give me a small target to aim for.

“You’re right-handed?” he asked

I licked my lips, the cool autumn breeze chilling where my tongue just touched. “Yes.”

“Dominant foot is back, and you’ll swing forward, like this.” He took a few steps back to demonstrate the motion, his perfect form so casual and effortless, I wondered how often, exactly, he found himself needing to use it. “Your power stays in your lower body and travels up, through your arm.”

I watched him move through the motions a few more times, then emulated them myself. With a soft pop, the balloon sprang away, only to immediately boomerang back, popping me in the nose.

Swallowing my pride, I flicked it away. Suppose it was only fair the balloon got a shot in too.

“Good,” he said, his lips twisting into a small grin, “that’s a good start. Don’t be afraid of your opponent, and don’t pull back before your fist reaches them. Instead of imagining hitting them, try and picture yourself hitting through them.”

It was strange, trying to muster power against a small piece of air-filled rubber, but I tried to focus on something I wanted to hurt. Though it had been nearly two months since that night, my brain had very little difficulty conjuring Ace’s smarmy face. Complete with that arrogant-as-fuck grin of his.

I struck again, the balloon jutting harder and farther this time, as the string fought against the small sandbag keeping it from flying away.

“Great.” Levi smiled, nodding his approval. He came closer, lifting my elbow slightly. “Bend your knees a little, it will help stabilize you when you jab. Give you more power.” He gripped my hips, the pressure so light I almost didn’t feel it—like he was trying hard not to invade my personal space or box me in. Still, my body seemed to come alive at his closeness, my skin tingling at the points of contact. “Move your hips and chest as one, twist them towards your target. Your fist will follow the path, but make sure you don’t lean forward too far in the follow through. Otherwise, you’ll go sailing over your opponent and lose any of the headway you had.”

Something else I’d done incorrectly that night. The memory of Levi’s grip, iron and strong around my waist, as he pulled me back from falling on top of that asshat came rushing back to me.

Following his instructions, I hit the balloon again. This time, I felt more stable, more connected.

Over the next hour, he ran me through various positions, teaching me to jab, uppercut, and defend myself from someone throwing fists at me.

Even with the chill in the air, my skin was laced with a layer of sweat. My hair had also largely fallen from the tight ponytail I wore it in, and I could feel my baby hairs curling around my face in a halo.

Even though Levi ran through every exercise with me, he still looked pristine—not even the suggestion of sweat, or like this required any more effort than a casual stroll through the park.

It was infuriating, but I also caught myself stealing glimpses of him whenever he wasn’t looking.

As usual, he was dressed head-to-toe in black. Though today, instead of jeans, he had on a pair of joggers that showed off the hard curves of his ass to such a degree that I had to actively force myself to keep my gaze up.

Then again, maybe not.

Our deal would be up after today, after all, meaning that for all intents and purposes, Levi and I would never see each other again. That made him an ideal candidate for a casual, fun hookup. No strings, just two bodies seeking a bit of comfort and release.

I’d spent an embarrassing amount of time during his demonstrations silently debating the merits of asking if that might be something he’d be into. After a shower, of course. I was downright disgusting right now.

“Now let’s work on getting out of a hold,” he said, the only warning before his strong arms came around my body, tightening in a vise until I was sealed against him, his body locked around mine. “If someone grabs you, it’s important to know how to get free. Proper form with hitting is important, but this kind of maneuver can be the difference between life and death.”

My heart raced at his closeness, but for an entirely different reason now. I blinked a few times, my vision blurring slightly in my peripherals, as dots of light slowly eclipsed the quiet park around us.

I squirmed against him, but his hold only tightened with each movement I made until, eventually, I could hardly move at all. His chest was like a rock against my back, his arms, though lean, were stacked with corded muscle I couldn’t budge.

Panic clutched at my chest, my lungs were tight as I tried to find my breath, to inhale. When I couldn’t, my heartbeat raced even faster in response.

The vibrant scenery around us disappeared, until all I could see were dark, vibrant flashes of the past.

Eyes squeezed tight, I fought for control; to keep the memories of the last time I’d been held like this at bay for as long as possible.

A soft buzzing noise reverberated through my ears, drowning out any other sound—a soft buzz that I couldn’t shake. I tried desperately to swallow, to get my throat working if I couldn’t force my lungs into action, but my mouth was impossibly dry, my tongue coated with a metallic taste that made me want to gag.

My legs shook, my knees ready to give up altogether and abandon their post. Levi’s grip was the only thing keeping me up.

“No.” I swallowed, the sound deep and haunting as I tried to make my mouth work. “Let me go.”

“Mareena?” The brace of Levi’s arms loosened instantly at the command.

I fell to my knees, dug my fingers into the soft green grass I’d been standing on all afternoon.

Fucking get it together, Mars. You’re not there. You’re not there anymore. You will never be there again, not another day in your life. You made sure of it.

Finally, I managed to suck in a full breath of air, my body almost sore from clenching so hard.

I was at Greenlake.

It was just Levi, it wasn’t him.

“Mareena, please—look at me.” Gentle hands brushed my cheeks, then tilted my chin up until the sun’s fading rays beat against my eyelids. “Are you okay? I’m sorry, did I—did I hurt you?”

I shook my head, then slowly opened my eyes, blinking back the film of tears until Levi’s steady gaze was all that I could see—swirling shades of gray that were darker around the center and lightened the further out from his irises.

His thumb brushed my cheekbone, and I felt the smallest trail of liquid there.

Fuck.

Tears.

I was fucking crying.

One of my biggest rules was to never let anyone see me cry. Except for Sora.

Tears meant pain, and witnessing that kind of pain gave people too much power.

Vulnerability meant closeness, and I did not do closeness. I did not want closeness.

I fell back on my ass and propped my elbows on my knees as I glanced up at him.

The look of concern was so sharply drawn over his features that I actually winced at the sight of it. There went any chance of me getting Levi into my pants later tonight.

“I’m okay,” I said, my voice tight as I offered him a no doubt unconvincing smile. “Sorry. Really, I’m fine.”

“Don’t apologize. Please, just tell me what’s wrong. Did I hurt you?” His eyes darted over every inch of my skin, assessing for injuries, for some kind of physical marker that something had happened to cause that kind of reaction.

Sorry, bud, just my brain.

Shaking my head, I wiped my cheeks, and stood up—legs still shaky, but strong enough to keep me up.

He reached forward to stabilize me, but I stepped back.

“I said I’m fine,” I snapped, unable to keep the irritation from my voice.

“Right,” he said, eyes soft, hands raised palms up between us. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” The words were cracked, stiff, and I could hear the anger buried inside of them.

Anger that, judging by the crease between his eyebrows, Levi assumed was directed at him.

As if he’d been anything other than perfect in this situation.

That just rattled me further, adding a hefty dosage of guilt to the embarrassment already sinking like an anchor into the pit of my stomach.

“Sometimes—I just don’t like being held like that is all,” I said, my voice hollow and strange as I fought off the final vestiges of the panic attack. “I don’t like being constrained. I should have said something earlier. I’m sorry. It’s hard to know when my body will react like . . . that.”

“Don’t apologize.” He studied me with a still kind of focus that made my skin prickle. “I should have checked in before grabbing you like that. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

An awkward, heavy silence fell over us, and I couldn’t bring myself to shake it, to meet his stare and brush this off, to get back to his demonstration.

Sometimes this was my least favorite part of the panic attacks. The aftermath. The actual wave itself had been brief, relatively speaking, but now I felt like an intruder on the scene, all traces of the ease between us before now long gone.

My body no longer felt like mine, like I’d stretched someone else’s skin over my bones and tried to pass it off.

I felt the familiar numbness settle over me, until the unease and embarrassment faded into a cool nothing. This was a regular part of the programming—like my body could tell when my emotions were bouncing around like a ping pong ball, impossible to control or predict. Instead, they would just sort of shut off altogether, the plug pooled from the wall until the fancy lights and loud sounds bled into a quiet, merciful nothing.

As if sensing my absolute stuckness, Levi walked over to the base of a large tree, where we’d parked our stuff earlier.

He shuffled through his bag and presented me with a water bottle.

I took a deep breath, closed the distance between us, and grabbed the bottle, draining half of it in one gulp. The water was still cold, and I focused on the startling sensation as it carved an icy path through my body, my brain still hyper alert and working in overdrive. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He offered a small smile, then shuffled through his bag again. “I made us some sandwiches too. Probably as good a time as any for a break. Didn’t realize how long we’d been at it. I tend to get a bit distracted when I’m training—I shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.”

I shook my head, brushing off his apology.

He pulled a thin, checkered, black and white blanket out and, with a flourish, spread it evenly at our feet.

I stood there, unmoving, as he produced a pair of sandwiches wrapped in cling wrap, a container of grapes, and a bar of chocolate.

“Did you bring a picnic?” I asked, stunned momentarily out of my daze at the sight.

His shoulder blades shifted as he crawled over the blanket, smoothing the corners down. He froze, turning back to me. “I uh—hope that’s okay? You don’t have to eat any of it,” he added, as if I might be concerned he was like Ace and attempting to drug me. “I’m just always starving after a workout and if I don’t eat, I turn into an asshole.”

My mouth opened as I tried to find words. No one had ever made me picnic before. It was an oddly thoughtful gesture, and absolutely not part of our deal.

Still, while I wasn’t exactly hungry, I knew that food usually helped me settle back into my body when I got like this. Closing my mouth, I nodded, then took a seat next to him, far enough away that we weren’t touching, so that my ass ended up half on the blanket and half on the prickly grass.

He handed me a sandwich before quickly unwrapping his, looking uncharacteristically shy and uncomfortable as he took the first bite and chewed.

I watched him swallow, staring at the smooth column of his neck.

Catching my stare, he shrugged, misinterpreting my hawkishness. “It’s nothing fancy. I’m not really a cook. You can stick to the grapes and chocolate if it’s not good. Promise,” he made an x over his chest, “no hurt feelings.”

“No, this is good. Thank you.” My fingers, still a little stiff and trembling, fumbled their way through unwrapping the sandwich.

Relaxing a little, he popped the lid off the grapes and nudged a second bottle of water towards me, as if he could sense how parched I was.

My mouth always got excessively dry whenever my anxiety spiked like that.

We ate in silence for a few minutes, neither of us sure what to say.

I made my way through half of the sandwich, not even tasting it, lost in my thoughts. The grapes went down a little easier—the cool, crisp juice of each bite was harder not to notice.

When he was done with his sandwich, Levi leaned back against the trunk of the tree, eyes closed.

The park was particularly peaceful right now. The lake sparkled a few feet to the north of us, and except for the occasional runner or dog-walker on the trail that circled it, we were mostly alone.

I was oddly annoyed with my body and brain for throwing a wrench into such a beautiful day. There wouldn’t be many more before Seattle’s winter season left the days dark and gray, the promise of rain on every forecast.

“Do you get them a lot?” Levi opened one eye, glancing at me briefly.

“Get what a lot?” My voice resonated cracked and flat to my ears.

“Panic attacks?”

I clenched my jaw, then nodded. “Sometimes, yeah. They used to be worse though. This is the first I’ve had in a while.”

He nodded, then, as if just remembering, shoved his hand back in the mystery tote bag and pulled out a box of mints. He gave them a shake, the sound of candy against tin ringing through the park, then tossed them into my lap. “Should have thought of it earlier. Mints—or, really, anything with a strong taste always help me when I get them.”

I popped the top off and shook one into my palm. “You get panic attacks?”

“They’re rare now, but I used to get them pretty regularly a few years ago.” His lips twitched. “Not fun.”

“Not fun,” I agreed, rolling the mint over my tongue. He was right, the intensity of the flavor—cold and spicy—helped ground me. “I usually try to do the whole five things thing—you’ve probably heard of it. The one that’s like, think of five things you can see, four you can touch, etcetera, etcetera. But sometimes in the thick of it, it’s hard to remember. Doesn’t always work either, you know?” I clicked the mint against my teeth, focusing on the feel of it. “Thanks though, this helps.”

“Any time,” he said, and when I tried to hand the box back to him, he shook his head. “Keep it. I have more.”

Instinct had me ready to refuse, to press the issue, but I fought it down. Sometimes when a person was trying to do something nice, the kinder thing was to let them, even if it went against your nature. I pocketed the box. “Thanks.”

“Do you—” he ran his hand through his hair, like he was fishing for something to do with it, “do you want to talk about it? What triggered it, I mean?”

I grunted; half laugh half absolutely fuck no.

His mouth hooked into a grin. “Yeah, I figured.”

"Anyway," I stretched the word out, as if it might help me land on a good change of topic, but my brain was spent. I glanced down at my phone. Fifteen minutes until my next bus, but I didn't see the point in extending this further. I held out my hand, awkward and unsure how best to end this. "I feel like I can fully break a guy’s nose without fucking up my hand now. So, thank you. It was—uh,” I shoved my arm closer to him for a handshake, “good doing business with you. I hope you?—"

How was that supposed to end?

I hope you have a good life? I hope you enjoy your time in Seattle? I hope that your fate is more open to free will than you think it is?

They all seemed like such ridiculous, strange things to say to someone who now felt far less like a stranger than I’d intended him to be.

He stared at my hand for a long moment as if stunned, then closed his around mine. His skin was warm and calloused, and he didn't let go right away. "So that's it, then? You're just going to leave? Dine and dash?"

I stared at him. "Well, yeah. That was our deal, wasn't it? One tour of the city, one training session? Mission accomplished, we did it."

“Wow.” A rakish grin stretched across his lips, his eyes widening in shock. "I have to tell you, Mareena, I've been dropped by a lot of people in my life, but no one has ever been quite so business-like about it."

He still had my hand in his, his grip gentle, very easy for me to pull back from if I wanted to.

"I mean, did you want another tour?" I supposed I hadn't really shown him much, when it came down to it. Seattle was composed of different micro neighborhoods that stretched well beyond the few we'd seen. "Different part of the city, maybe?” Every time we met, we’d mostly stuck north of the cut out of convenience. There was still a ton to see south of downtown. “A museum or something?"

He shook his head, and I hated myself for feeling just slightly disappointed. "No, I don't want another tour."

I pulled my hand back, smoothing my features into a blank mask.

Right, that was for the best.

"Okay then." I attempted a soft smile, but I felt it bristle and knew it probably came off stiff, maybe even slightly annoyed. What was the point of him pressing me then? "Have a good life I guess."

"This might come as a shock to you,” he said, “given my devilish good looks and winning personality, but I don't really have many friends."

I shrugged. "You're new in town, I'm sure you'll make some. Just maybe try to be a bit more humble when you go about it."

"I don't just mean in Seattle. I mean that I generally don't have many friends, period. Not really any, except for my mother, now that I think about it.” He shivered, before adding in a softer voice, as if more to himself than to me, “Which is just about the most depressing thing I think I’ve ever said out loud.”

My chest tightened at that revelation, at the clear loneliness suddenly so achingly obvious behind the teasing mask he often wore. “You’re a likeable enough guy, I’m sure you’ll have no problem making friends.”

“You flatter me,” he smirked, leaning back against the tree with a dramatic sigh, “but you’re also, unfortunately, incredibly wrong. You see, I’ve been trying to befriend this girl. She’s making it very difficult though.”

I arched a brow. “Maybe she’s just smart.”

“Maybe she is.” Some of the playfulness in his eyes evaporated.

"Friends are overrated,” I said.

They weren't. Without Sora, there was no telling where I would be in this life, but I was acutely certain that it wouldn't be anywhere good.

"I agree, probably," he said, considering. "But don’t you think I should get the chance to see for myself if that’s true?” He shot me a smirk. “Look, all I’m saying is that you don't have a monopoly on surly and standoffish approaches to relationships. And maybe we can be surly and standoffish in the same vicinity as each other again.”

“Surely there are better options for you out there.”

“No,” he said, “I don’t think that there are.”

I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“Do you want to see me again?" He asked the question as if it was the most logical thing someone could possibly ask. “It’s really very simple, if the answer is yes.”

"I, uh.” I glanced down at my phone, ten minutes until that bus, then back up at him. "I thought you understood after that first night. I'm not really in the market for a new friendship."

"Right," he said, brows furrowing with faux concern, "the infamous curse."

My lips tightened into a stiff line.

"What about Frank?" he asked. "You consider him a friend, too, don't you? And he's not Sora. And he’s still alive."

No, Frank was nothing like Sora. But he also was nothing like Levi.

My relationship with Frank was a standoffish sort. We saw each other every day because we were in the same neighborhood, and while I enjoyed his general existence, it wasn't like we were close , close. He was Frank, I was Mareena, and that was that. We existed in each other's orbits, but it wasn't like we talked about life's enduring trials or gave each other dating advice.

Although Frank had tried the latter exactly one time, and we were both so deeply uncomfortable with his attempt that neither of us could even look the other in the eye for a week.

"That's different," I said. "Frank's just—Frank. We aren’t really friends, per se."

"And I'm just Levi."

"Fair point. In that case, I fully endorse you becoming friends with Frank. I'll even put in a good word."

Levi smirked. "I had a—pricklier contender in mind. Don’t want an old softy like Frank getting all attached and needy."

"Frank is plenty prickly.”

"Do you always make everything so difficult?" He let out an exasperated groan.

"Everything."

"Fine, not friendship. What would I do with a friend anyway?" He narrowed his eyes, the weight of his gaze unrelenting. "But what if you and I tried something else?”

“Like?”

“Like—” his mouth curved into that grin again, “like diet friendship."

"Diet friendship?” I deadpanned.

“Yeah, you know, like diet soda.” He shrugged, searching for the words. “It’s the shadow of the real thing, or the suggestion of it more than the thing itself—derivative. No one loves it, it’s no one’s first choice, but they tolerate it. Or at least they pretend to. ”

“Speak for yourself. Regular soda’s too syrupy-sweet for my taste.”

“That,” he said, “doesn’t surprise me at all.”

“Well,” I started, not entirely sure why I was even entertaining this ludicrous tangent right now, “what makes a friendship . . . diet?"

"I don’t know. I’ve just invented it. I guess it’s just whatever version of friendship you find tolerable enough to convince you to admit that you actually want to hang out with me again.”

I stared at him, stunned and speechless, trying to materialize some sort of response—but I had nothing.

His eyes were teasing as they met mine in the silence. “Gods, Sora really wasn't kidding, was she? You really do need an iron will to get you to relent even the slightest bit.” He let out a ragged chuckle, but when I stood up and grabbed my things, he stood, too, hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay. Hang on, just don’t go. Not yet. What if we make some ground rules? As many as you’d like. I mean it—the sky’s the limit. Just consider the possibility that on the scale of Frank to Sora, there is somewhere I might possibly fit."

"Ground rules?"

"Yeah, like," he paused, searching, "like okay, how about this—I promise not to call you Mars until you ask me to. And . . .” He held up a finger when I started to protest. “And, we will never hang out more than once every few months or so. Surely everyone who's been taken out by your curse has been around more frequently than that, right? Risk averted."

He wasn't wrong.

"And," he continued, sensing that I was wavering, "just to be sure that we don’t divert into something less—diet—you should make a vow that you won’t fall in love with me."

I snorted. "No problem there at least."

"That's what you think." He smirked. "I can be pretty damn irresistible when I want to be."

"You clearly don't want to be very often," I muttered.

"See," he said, "this is what I need in my life. You keep me humble."

"Why do you want to be my friend so badly? I'm sure you could very easily find someone else, someone you don't need to negotiate with—someone normal, someone way less, I don’t know," I searched for the word, landing on it with an icy smirk, "prickly."

"I happen to like prickly. In fact," he shot a far friendlier smirk back, "prickly is my favorite flavor of diet friendship."

I fought against the genuine grin threatening to take over my mouth. When I finally won that surprisingly difficult battle, I shook my head and sighed. "Look, I'm not being an asshole on purpose, okay? Trust me, the whole no friendship thing is for your own good?—"

"Diet friendship.”

"Whatever." I groaned and glanced down at my phone again. I had three minutes to get to my bus.

If I wanted to make it, I needed to leave now.

Why was I even entertaining this? All I had to do was gently turn him down, turn around, and go home. It was such a simple, easy thing to do.

And yet, here I was. Actually toying with the idea of breaking my well-defined rules.

For him.

Why?

"It might seem like a joke to you, this whole," I waved my hand awkwardly between us, "curse thing. I get that. It probably sounds fucking absurd. But I swear that it's not. And I can't have another person's death on my shoulders. It's too hard, okay?"

Hard didn’t even begin to cover it. I honestly didn’t think I would survive that kind of pain or guilt again.

"I don't think it's ridiculous," he said, his face more sober now. "I just think that you're the type of person who's maybe, I don’t know,” his eyes slid to mine, lingering there for a beat past comfortable, “worth the risk."

"Levi—"

"And," he said, cutting me off, "this isn't like the other situations. I, for one, am profoundly aware of the risk, probably even more than you are, if I’m being honest. But I'm interested in testing the boundaries of this supposed curse—and I’m doing so of my own volition. If I end up kicking the bucket early, I promise not to blame you."

"You'll be dead, I won’t really be concerned about your blame at that point."

"Yeah, but you get what I mean." He shrugged. "In my . . . field," he paused, as if tasting the word on his tongue, "people die all the time. It's a dangerous job."

"Then why do you do it? Why not do something safer?”

"I'm not afraid of death, Mareena." His shoulders fell, like there was some invisible weight there that he'd suddenly been asked to carry. "There are things far more terrifying than that."

There were.

Like being the one death left behind.

The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I pulled them back, swallowing them down as I always did when they got too close to the surface.

That was the worst part about this curse—it made me selfish. It wasn't just that the people I loved always died. It was that they died and left me here—alone and missing them so much that I sometimes couldn't so much as breathe under the weight of it.

They died, and I had to go on living.

There was something so profoundly cruel about that.

"Please," he said, his voice soft, almost defeated. He scrubbed his hand over his forehead, then through his hair, looking like even he was confused by why this silly proposition mattered so much to him. "Mareena—I” he shrugged, “I could just really use a friend."

"Diet friend," I corrected, my throat thick and tight as I tried to swallow back the grief threatening to choke me.

"Right." His lips twitched, sensing victory in his grasp. "We take it at your tempo. I'll text you next time I'm in town. We don't even have to talk in between my visits to the city. In fact, we can make that a rule, too. I'm usually out of service range anyway. And if at any point, one of us wants to cut off the diet friendship, they can just fade into silence, no questions asked. So,” he sniffed, eyes hopeful, “we have a deal? Are these terms agreeable?"

He extended his hand towards me with the same rigid awkwardness that I'd employed just a few minutes ago.

“Our first deal went pretty swimmingly, didn’t it?” he added when I hesitated. “Who knows, maybe this one will be even better.”

For a moment that seemed to stretch into infinity, I stared at his hand, considering the offer. A voice inside my head screamed at me to just turn around and leave while I had the chance, while his absence didn’t sting or smart. To pretend I'd never met him. To lock our few hours spent together in a box in the back of my mind where I stored all my fleeting acquaintances. Future me would be better off for it.

A softer, smaller voice, one that hadn't quite gotten its legs yet, whispered a gentle suggestion that maybe instead, I extend my hand just a few inches forward and take his—a quiet, hopeful ‘what if.’

What if Sora was right?

What if the curse had broken that night a few years ago?

What if I could negotiate with death—could find a way to keep people at arm's length, but allow them to exist in my life? On the peripheries, yes, but closer than I’d let them get before in some sort of liminal way.

Before I could question it a second longer, I wrapped my fingers around his hand, ignoring the warmth of his skin and how my own responded greedily to the sensation. "Deal."