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“It’s not funny,” she said as my lips twitched. “You could have died.”

“I’m already dead.”

“You know what I mean.” She glanced at the bright yellow light. “We need to get you upstairs. I don’t think there is any kind of film on these windows.”

Perhaps I should have reminded her that apartment buildings legally had to have a windowless room for precisely this situation.

But far be it from me to deny her the ability to host me if that was what she wanted.

So I followed her up to her apartment.

The moment the door creaked open, I swore Maggie all but spilled out.

Something I’d always appreciated about humans throughout the years, no matter their place in time or in the world, or their wealth or status, was that they all tried to make a house their home.

Maggie was no exception.

There were traces of her everywhere. From the muted rainbow color palette: a sage couch covered in pillows and blankets in shades of sage, rose, and buttery yellow.

Along one whole wall, spanning floor-to-ceiling, were bookshelves painted in a deep, moody blue-green, the shelves neatly organized by size and series.

“Hold on. Let me just get the blinds.”

She rushed forward, dropping her phone, keys, and bag on the coffee table as she hurried past, going toward the subtle floral-patterned drapes and flicking them shut. The warmth of light still filtered through, but not enough to cause any damage.

“Okay. I think it’s safe.”

I stepped deeper into her home, the carpet plush under my feet, featuring a collection of quaint woodland creatures and greenery.

“What is it?” Maggie asked.

Glancing over, I saw her standing at a desk, flipping closed a notebook and shutting the lid of a laptop that was covered with bookish stickers.

“I don’t see Tess here,” I admitted. The whole space screamed Maggie. I didn’t see a single sign of the demon around.

“When I moved in, Tess told me that she wasn’t usually home enough to care what the apartment looked like, so I had free rein to decorate however I wanted. I guess I took that and ran with it. Make yourself comfortable,” she invited.

She toed off her shoes and reached up to gather her long hair, securing it with an elastic she snatched off her desk.

The effect was jarring, making her look more open, less guarded.

“Coffee?” she asked.

“Sure.”

She was already making her way to the machine in the small kitchen with its yellow tile backsplash and collection of hand towels hung from the oven door bar.

But once she finished putting the grounds into the machine and filling the room with the rich scent as it brewed, she started slamming around in the cabinets, producing a bowl, flour, and sugar.

“Are you… baking?”

“Hm? What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I bake. It’s my thing. To, um, unwind after work.”

More like to occupy herself so she could avoid giving me her full attention.

“What are you making?”

“Just some chocolate chip cookies.”