Chapter 11: Sunlit Indulgence
The sun on the deck was a physical weight, a thick blanket of gold that pressed Meil into the lounger. He was adrift on it, consciousness reduced to a thin, pleasant line. The world was the scent of dry wood and wisteria, the distant buzz of a bumblebee, and the pinpoint universe of sensation on his skin.
Nate was a sun-warmed stone on his sternum. The fae’s breathing was slow and deep, his face nuzzled into the hollow of Meil’s throat as if drinking the air there. His tiny hands moved in absent, circular patterns over Meil’s chest, mapping the territory of him—the ridge of a collarbone, the soft dip between pectorals, the steady, reassuring drum of his heart.
Meil’s own fingers rested lightly on the delicate architecture of Nate’s back, tracing the finely-strung joints where wings met spine. They fluttered under his touch, a reflexive shiver that sent iridescent blue light dancing across his vision.
“You’re like a cat,” Meil murmured, his voice rough with disuse. “Sun-bathing. Purely hedonistic.”
Nate hummed, the vibration traveling straight into Meil’s bones. “Solar charging. It’s essential.” He shifted, his lips brushing the pulse point beneath Meil’s jaw. His tongue darted out, a quick, wet stripe up the column of his neck.
Meil’s breath caught. A shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature ran through him. “This is supposed to be relaxing,” he said, a smile curling his words.
“It is.” Nate’s voice was thick, muffled against his skin. “I’m relaxing you. With my mouth.”
He punctuated the statement by shifting upward, his small body crawling with deliberate slowness over the slope of Meil’s shoulder. He reached the sensitive shell of Meil’s ear and gently bit down on the lobe.
It wasn’t painful. It was a precise, electric pressure that arrowed straight down Meil’s spine, pooling low in his gut. A low groan escaped him. His hand came up from Nate’s back to cup the side of his own neck, his fingers brushing against Nate’s legs.
“See?” Nate whispered, his breath hot and intimate in the canal of Meil’s ear. “Heart rate’s up, but the tension’s gone. Different kind of chemistry.”
“You’re a menace with a thesis,” Meil breathed, but he tilted his head, granting better access.
Nate laughed, a soft, dark sound. He didn’t pursue it further. Instead, he retreated, settling back onto the warm plain of Meil’s chest, resting his cheek over the steady heartbeat. His wings gave a final, languid stretch and then folded tight. The playful energy seeped away, leaving a deeper, more profound stillness.
They lay like that as the sun climbed, its angle shifting the lattice shadows across their bodies. The ward inside Meil was quiet, a dormant sun of its own behind his ribs. For a glorious, stretched-out span of minutes, there was no static, no probing eyes, no forgotten groceries on the floor. There was only the two of them, fused by light and touch.
A truck rumbled by on the distant county road. The spell bent, but didn’t break.
“We should get up,” Meil said eventually, his voice husky. “Someday.”
“Why?” Nate’s question was simple, profound.
“Because I’m getting a sunburn. And we have go-bags to pack for our unpredictable, non-routine picnic tomorrow.”
Nate sighed, a dramatic exhalation that stirred the fine hairs on Meil’s chest. “Logistics. The romance-killer.” He pushed himself up on his arms, his silhouette a dark cut-out against the brilliant sky. “Fine. But I’m picking the cheese.”
He took off, a shimmering blue comma zipping toward the open kitchen window. Meil sat up slowly, the world tilting back into normal perspective. His skin, where Nate had been, felt strangely cool. He ran a hand over his chest, then stood, grabbing his discarded henley from the deck floor.
Inside, the house was cool and dim. Nate was already on the kitchen counter, standing proudly next to a block of cheddar he’d nudged out of the fridge door shelf. “This one. It’s assertive.”
“It’s sharp cheddar. It’ll overwhelm the olives.” Meil filled the kettle, the domestic ritual a grounding counterpoint to the memory of a tongue on his neck.
“I want to be overwhelmed,” Nate declared, flitting over to the breadbox. He landed on the lid. “And sourdough. No fluffy, insipid white bread. We are not insipid.”
Meil smiled, leaning against the counter. “No. We are not.” He watched Nate, this fierce, luminous creature arguing passionately about picnic provisions, and felt a surge of protective affection so vast it momentarily stole his breath. This was what they were safeguarding. This ridiculous, perfect normality.
He pushed off from the counter and opened a high cabinet, pulling down a small, sturdy backpack. He unzipped it on the kitchen table. Inside were already a few items: a first-aid kit the size of a matchbox (Nate’s work), a tightly rolled silver emergency blanket, a multitool.
“Adding water,” Meil muttered, more to himself. “And a real knife.”
“And the cheese,” Nate insisted, zipping over to land on the backpack’s strap.
“And the cheese.” Meil’s smile faded as he looked at the pack. It was a precaution. It felt like an admission. The sight of it, ready by the door, would be a permanent footnote to their days now.
As if reading his thoughts, Nate flew up to his shoulder, pressing close. “It’s just a bag, Meil. It means we’re smart, not scared.”
“Can’t we be a bit of both?”
“Always,” Nate said softly. “But more smart.”
The kettle whistled. Meil made tea, and they spent the afternoon in a quiet parody of preparation. Nate inspected every item that went into the bag with the gravity of a general reviewing munitions. Meil found himself studying the map of the next county, noting wooded areas, stream crossings, places where two people—one of them exceptionally small—could disappear.
It was late afternoon when the doorbell rang.
The sound was a glass shard in the calm. Meil froze, a map half-folded in his hands. Nate vanished from the back of the couch, a silent retreat into the shadows of the bookshelf.
The ward didn’t surge. It tightened, a cold, focused coil in his diaphragm. It didn’t scream danger. It whispered unknown.
Meil walked to the door, his steps deliberate on the creaking floorboards. He did not look through the peephole. He stood to the side and called out, his voice carefully neutral. “Who is it?”
“Package for Calloway!” a young, bored voice returned. “Need a signature.”
Meil closed his eyes for a second, relief and residual adrenaline making him lightheaded. He opened the door.
The kid on the porch couldn’t have been older than nineteen, wearing a generic courier uniform and holding a tablet. He barely glanced at Meil, just thrust the device forward for an electronic scribble. The package was a small, flat cardboard box, utterly mundane.
“Thanks,” Meil said, taking it.
“Yep.” The kid was already turning, hopping off the porch to his idling van.
Meil shut the door, locked it, and leaned against the solid wood. The box was light. The return address was a bookstore in the city he sometimes ordered specialized catalogs from.
Nate zoomed out from his hiding place, circling the box like a wary hawk. “Does it feel wrong?”
Meil held it, tuning into the ward. There was no particular pull, no harmonic dissonance. Just the box. “No. It feels like books.”
“Open it outside.”
They took it to the back deck. Meil used his multitool to slit the tape, pulling back the cardboard flaps. Inside, nestled in brown paper, were two volumes: a new field guide to riparian birds, and a beautifully illustrated compendium of mythical herbs. The note on top was a printed invoice. Your requested items. Enjoy!
Meil picked up the herb book, a faint smile touching his lips. He’d ordered it months ago, before the woods, before Nate. It was for a proposed library display on folklore that never materialized.
Nate landed on the open page, his eyes scanning the elaborate etching of moonwort and dreamshade. “Huh.” He sounded almost disappointed it wasn’t a trap.
“See? Just books.” Meil sat down in the wicker chair, the late sun now a slanted, forgiving warmth. He began to flip through the pages.
Nate stayed on the book, but his gaze kept flicking to the tree line at the edge of the yard, to the quiet road beyond. The simple delivery had scuffed the polish off their hard-won peace. The static was back, a faint, almost imperceptible buzz at the edge of hearing.
Meil reached out a finger and ran it slowly down the length of Nate’s back, a calming stroke. “We’re okay,” he said, quietly.
Nate leaned into the touch, but his wings remained slightly taut, a soldier at ease, but never off-duty. “I know,” he said. He looked from the trees back to the intricate illustration on the page. “The picnic is still on. We’re going. Even if I have to drag you by your hair.”
“Deal.”
Meil kept turning pages, the illustrations blurring before his eyes. His attention was divided now—half on the beautiful, impossible plants, half on the feel of Nate, poised and watchful on the paper. The go-bag waited by the front door. The cheese was selected. Tomorrow, they would be unpredictable. But for now, they held their ground, two quiet shapes in the dying light, waiting for the sun to finish its climb down the sky.