The house is the polar opposite of the Keanes. A rainbow threw up all over the walls. It’s initially overwhelming, but my retinas progressively acclimate to the colors. I wonder how Tally’s making out with the infusion. Her black and white preference couldn’t be more thwarted.

I follow Derry up a stairway to an open living room, continuing the rainbow theme. The white wall paint is mixed with pastel oils. The contrast gives it an opal iridescence. “It’s very colorful.” My tone is overly critical, so I rapidly backpedal. “Not in a bad way. Color is good. It’s just a lot. Not overly so...”

Shut up, Sheyla, Superego scolds.

“Artist mother,” he declares, not at all offended. If anything, he seems amused by my awkwardness.

There’s one narrow hallway leading to five smaller rooms, equal in total size to the massive living area. “Kiley’s music room, bathroom, Barry’s home gym, Mom’s art studio, and my lab.”

“No bedrooms?” I ask casually. I mean, it sounded casual in my head but came out my mouth a pathetic squeak.

He smirks while my cheeks burn an embarrassing shade of fire engine red, the kind promising sparks. Only, my sparks are lazing around like they just ate a giant dinner and need a nap.

“Your lab?”

“Probably not the type of lab you’re envisioning, but yes.” He leads me into a room at the end of the hall, flipping a light switch that produces little to no additional luminescence. “Some people do their research with microscopes and test tubes. I do mine with machines. Also, the bedrooms are downstairs.”

Kind of dungeon-ish, Superego remarks, and I shoo her again. You’re right, she presses on. The dungeon would undoubtedly be in the basement.

He motions to a large computer system that has several connected monitors and a massive speaker arrangement feeding into the same power source. “I don’t need bright lights. The monitors take care of that.”

“You specialize in acoustics?”

“Sort of,” he hedges, sliding a hand through his unruly bronze waves. My eyes track the movement. Oh, to be that hand. “Kiley doctors most the sound. I just give her the system to do her work.”

“You’re a technology geek?”

“An elective,” he clarifies. “I’m splitting a specialty in Dioptrics and Heliology.”

“What’s that?”

“The study of light. I’m handy with technology. I do the stage effects for Kiley. Well, I used to.”

I nearly trip, trying not to trip, over a wire taped to the floor to prevent any such thing from happening. He reaches out to steady me. My feet are suddenly very interesting. Curious, I note that my fire, which previously rushed to the surface to greet him, is content to meander its way there. Robot on standby.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

A finger lifts my chin so our eyes meet. His shimmer in the darkly lit room, the gold producing its own light source. “That was before Declan convinced Kiley to try something more natural.”

“He’s talented with instruments, but don’t let him talk her into a duet,” I warn.

“That bad, huh?” Derry smiles, causing my traitorous knees to knock.

“Depends on your sense of adventure. Do you like scareaoke?”

“I like adventure.” He steps even closer. “Scareaoke, not so much.”

I’m now looking forward to spring so I can smell him during my runs, the Morning Glories and Sunshine cleansing me like a prescribed burn.

He smirks, tucking a stray auburn lock behind my ear. Slowly, a finger caresses its way down, resting in my chin dimple.

“Why didn’t you call me this week?” Crack. The question completely grounds me.

I’m left opening and closing my mouth like a fish, conflicted over whether to lie or tell him the truth. If I admit I’m a monster who just found out that eventually I’ll slurp every ounce of life from him post-transition, he’ll label me unstable. Technically, that’s a fair assessment. I’m on the heavy side of being an active volcano. Okay, maybe I can’t tell him that, but I have to tell him something. I don’t want him to think my avoidance was because of something he did wrong. Ignoring him was rude.

He blinks like he’s trying to interpret the expression on my face. Content with whatever he finds there, his warm lips brush over mine. This isn’t Rec Room desperation. It’s exploratory. My fire reacts similarly, a heating pad for comfort instead of the blistering inferno I’ve become accustomed to.

When I reach up on my toes to increase the pressure, he straightens his back, unwilling to give me the full access I crave. His hesitation is deliberate. He’s subconsciously containing me, ensuring I don’t cave to my darker desire to consume him. His instincts are absolutely right. I’m hazardous...and inconsiderate. What did our last interaction physically do to him? Did I hurt him? For me, it created a definite sense of depletion, but I didn’t account for his reaction to the literal heat I produced. Did I burn him? Did it affect him? If not, what happened to that fire? Did it drift away like steam? Is it more of a metaphorical fire, after all?

“Are you cool?” he asks quietly, hovering over my mouth. “You seem different.”

I want to tell him exactly what I am, how dangerous the situation is for both of us, and that he should bail, never looking back. I want to tell him everything. I’m silently thankful to Phelan for relieving me of the fiery excess.

He studies me, and I read his concern mixed with something else that feels an awful lot like possessiveness. Gross.

He disappoints me by flinching back. His hypnotic pull has me leaning toward him. Bright side: my rubber legs prevent me from moving. If I bend in the slightest, they’ll stop supporting me.

“Bad different?”

He smiles sadly. “Never.”

My cheeks spark again. “Messing up is my default state.”

“That’s what humans do. We have to get it wrong several times before we get it right,” he reasons. “Come on. There’s work to be done in the kitchen.”

I grimace. While I’ll choke something down for appearance’s sake, my taste buds might not forgive me. Aside from my persistent displeasure of anything food-based, I don’t excel at kitchen duty. I can get by. My father saw to that by not seeing to it himself. Regardless, I find no joy in the domestic arts. Seriously. Zero joy.

“You can supervise if you want, but you’ll have much more fun helping me.”

I breathe in a sigh of relief at his offer. Supervising sounds fabulous, though I’m generally the one needing supervision.

He pecks my nose. “We have to hurry. Mom will be awake soon.”

I freeze. Any lingering fire quickly concedes to an immediate frost that paralyzes me. Robot malfunction.

“Your mom’s here?” I regret the childish tone my voice takes.

Abort! Abort! Superego issues the red alert.

“Don’t worry,” he soothes me. “She’ll love you.”