Page 155 of May: Bloom & Bane

From inside the bathroom, Eden groans exasperatedly, followed by a giggle.

“Sage! Tell Nook to mind its business.”

“Nook doesn’t listen to me, remember?” I call back as I head for the stairs. “Nook loves you, Eden. It doesn’t want you to be lonely.”

“Good house,” Ashán purrs.

He hums as we jog down the stairs. The floorboards warm under each step, morning light spilling in from the windows.

“She loves us,” he singsongs. “The house loves us. Everything in this realm⁠—”

Thwack.

One of the lower oak cabinets swings open, and the corner of the door catches on our ass with a hard clap.

We stumble forward, nearly face-planting into the flour jar.

“Ow! Vresh!” Ashán yelps. His hand flies to rub the sore spot.

The cabinet door innocently swings shut and clicks into place.

“Did the pantry just assault us?” He scans the kitchen for further threats.

A bark of laughter escapes me. “I told you, Ashán. The house likes her. It thinks you are obnoxious.”

“I was being sincere,” he sighs, making sure to stay far away from the cupboards. “Traitorous woodwork.”

Droot chirps in amusement from his window hammock. Nook doesn’t like Big Bony Bird.

I tap an egg against the counter, but it doesn’t crack, so I tap it harder, and it shatters, sending a gooey, yolky mess all over my knuckles and onto the floor.

Let’s hope it’s my half that handled Eden’s egg, Ashán sighs.

You are a foul, disgusting creature, I mutter.

Disgustingly fertile, he corrects with a smug purr.

To emphasize its point, another cabinet door swings open, hitting him in the shin.

That’s what you get, shalvik. (Smartass)

Nook sighs, and the stovetop hisses to life on its own, the flames dancing at the perfect temperature. A heavy copper pan slides across the counter, guided by a stray vine that has snuck in through the window.

“See?” I murmur, wiping my hands as a bowl of perfectly whisked batter that I definitely didn’t mix slides toward the heat. “Nook has it under control.”

Nook is showing off, Ashán huffs. And it’s mocking me. I can feel it.

Can you blame it? I ask, leaning against the counter while the kitchen prepares a feast of honey-drenched pancakes and runny eggs for Eden. I bet it’s saying: Don’t get cocky, kid. I’ve seen you cry over her three times this morning.

I can practically hear him crossing his phantom arms and pouting in the corner of our psyche.

I was not crying, he mutters. My eyes were leaking excess divinity. It’s a biological side effect of the rut.

Right, I muse. Except this is my rut. A small smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. Yours hasn’t started yet.

The kitchen has clearly reached its limit with my incompetence. A vine snakes from the ceiling and wraps around my wrist, tugging me away from the kitchen.

I will hunt the finest meats for her, Ashán declares randomly.