Page 150 of Jinxes and Drumsticks

She reaches forward to unplug the tub. I offer her my hand and she places hers in it, using my strength as support as she lifts herself to her feet and steps carefully out of the tub. We towel off and even though I’m doing my best not to stare at her throat, I wind up doing it anyway.

She must notice, because she pulls her towel-dried hair forward and holds it over her neck.

“Did Aemon come up with anything for the uh... What did he call it?”

“Ichor,” she says with a sigh. “And no. Not yet.”

“What happens if it’s left alone for too long?”

“We’re not really sure.” She nibbles on her lower lip. “Presumably, nothing good. Aemon’s going to visit Wren,” she says with a bit of an irritated edge. “So, hopefully they’re talking about it. Doing some reading.”

“What else would they be doing?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” she says, turning and exiting the bathroom. I snort a laugh as I follow her into the kitchen, where she takes a hunk of red meat out of her fridge, along with a bottle of red wine, a slab of bacon, carrots, onion, garlic, a pound of butter and a package of mushrooms.

“I know you’re not planning on cooking bacon naked,” I say. “What are you making?”

“Boeuf Bourguignon, because it will take five-ever and use all of my mental faculties and keep me from spiraling into a fit of sorrow and anxiety,” she says. “And I guess you’re right. I shouldn’t fry up bacon while naked.”

She grabs a corkscrew and the bottle of wine, I take both away from her before instructing, “I got this, you go get dressed.”

“So, you get to do things while naked? What is this puritanical double standard?” She pouts half-heartedly.

I shake my head. “Go. I promise to get my share of the patriarchy when you come back.”

She leaves and I open the bottle of wine, pouring two generous glasses before setting it aside. I take a sip of it, and its mediocre—I mean, I think all wine is mediocre, but that’s beside the point.

“That’s for the stew, Damien,” Lillith says as she breezes back into the room. She’s wearing a Kuromi sleeping set. The pale violet bottoms hug her hips. She’s wearing a black sleeping tank with Kuromi’s frowny face plastered across the chest. She’s also wearing big, fluffy slippers and a soft cardigan hanging from the bend of her elbow.

“Mmmm—I think we need it more,” I say, handing her the glass. “There’s about half left of the bottle, that should be fine.”

She doesn’t take it. “Damien, I’m a really cheap date. And Boeuf Bourguignon is hard to make.”

“It’ll be fun!” I press the glass into her hand more insistently. “Come on. Get a little tipsy with your cute drummer boyfriend before he’s gone for two weeks.”

She gives me a mildly disapproving stare, but finally takes the glass. She takes a big swig and grimaces. “God, that’s awful.”

I shrug, lifting my glass to have more. She stops me by placing her hand on top of the glass. “Hold on,” she says, pulling me down for a kiss. It’s quick and hot and dirty and right as she finishes, she stirs my wine with her finger, then stirs hers.

“Uhhhhh,” I say, frowning at the glass.

“What? My hands are clean,” she says.

“The wine is sparkly now,” I say. It is. It’s literally iridescent with sparkles and has turned vaguely magenta colored instead of red.

“Just taste it,” she says as she takes a sip of her own sparkly wine. She nods approvingly.

I do taste it, and now, I shit you not, it tastes like fucking cotton candy. “Christ, what did you do?”

“I made it better.”

“It tastes like how early two thousands’ Bath and Body Works smells.”

“Why would you know what that smells like?”

“Leave me alone,” I say, sipping the wine again and grimacing. “God it’s so bad. Why do I keep drinking it?”

“Because it’s not bad. Unless you hate fun. Now go put clothes on. This is a puritanical household.”