Isla

  I woke to the telltale pressure along my scalp and shoulders that always came with new growth.

  “Great,” I muttered, dragging a careful hand through my hair.

  The snakes stirred at the touch—new ones sluggish and confused, older ones bristling protectively. The small ones were barely the length of my hand, their scales cool and delicate, their movements unsteady like they hadn’t yet realized they were alive. Four new additions since last night. That made ten this week. My stomach sank.

  Dehydration pulled at the edges of my focus, and a dull headache bloomed behind my eyes. Growing snakes always took something from me—a small piece of strength I never quite got back. I sat up slowly, the room tilting before it steadied, and exhaled as the older snakes pressed close, grounding me with their familiar weight. The newborns would settle soon; they always did. But for now, they buzzed faintly at the edges of my mind, picking up every flicker of unease like a second heartbeat.

  “Good morning to me,” I muttered, pushing out of bed and shrugging into an oversized sweater that swallowed my hands. The floor was cold beneath my feet as I padded to the door.

  Last night came back in flashes., his voice, his calm, the ridiculous keychain, the half-truce we’d somehow forged. I’d left blankets and a pillow on the couch for him. Not because I cared, obviously. It was just easier than arguing.

  I cracked the door open.

  Finn was awake. Of course he was. Sitting on the couch like he owned it, one leg propped over the other, flipping through one of my books.

  My book.

  “I told you not to touch anything,” I grumbled, stepping into the living room.

  He looked up, and that faint, maddening smile tugged at his mouth. “Good morning to you, too,” he said. “You’ve got an interesting collection.”

  I scowled, too tired for a proper retort, and shuffled toward the kitchen. The snakes shifted restlessly under my hair as I filled a glass and drank until the cool water hit my empty stomach.

  “Thanks for the blankets,” he said after a moment, his tone light. “The fuzzy one was… sentimental.”

  I froze mid-sip. “Glad you liked it,” I said evenly.

  One eyebrow lifted, impressed I hadn’t taken the bait. I rinsed the glass, setting it down carefully, every movement deliberate. “Anything else you’d like to comment on this morning?”

  “Not yet.”

  The snakes rippled, uneasy. Even Freya—normally half-asleep—tilted her head toward him.

  “If you’re expecting me to make you breakfast,” I said, “you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied smoothly.

  I hated that I couldn’t muster the energy to be as irritated as I wanted to be. He looked too comfortable. Too at home. It should’ve felt invasive. It didn’t.

  The buzz of his phone broke the quiet. He glanced at the screen, and something sharp flickered across his face—a subtle shift, but enough to make the snakes stir. He stood without explanation, grabbed his shoes, and headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “Be right back.” The door clicked shut behind him.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I stared after him, irritation prickling beneath my skin. “What the hell is he doing now?”

  I didn’t like being left in the dark. I didn’t like how easily he moved through my space, or how he looked like he belonged here. But most of all, I didn’t like that a small part of me wanted him to.

  The door opened again. Finn walked in carrying two paper bags.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said as he set them on the counter.

  “What?” His voice was perfectly innocent.

  “You ordered breakfast?”

  “For us,” he said, unpacking the containers. “You’d still be dehydrated after last night’s… growth spurt.”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it again. Ugh. Oracles.

  “Seriously? You couldn’t just ask if I wanted anything?”

  “I could’ve,” he said, smiling. “But you’d say no. Then I’d have to find another excuse to make you eat.”

  The audacity. “Unbelievable.”

  He opened the containers. The scent of eggs, butter, and coffee rolled through the air. My stomach growled. His smile widened.

  “And thoughtful,” he added.

  “You’re insufferable,” I snapped, snatching a container.

  “And you’re welcome.”

  We ate in silence, the snakes gradually settling. Freya flicked her tongue lazily, her interest fading.

  “You can’t just do this,” I said finally.

  “Do what?”

  “This.” I gestured toward him. “Showing up. Taking over. Acting like you belong here.”

  He didn’t argue. “I’m not trying to take over,” he said softly. “I’m trying to make sure you’re okay.”

  The words landed heavier than I wanted. “Why?” I asked before I could stop myself.

  “Because I want to.”

  It was so simple it disarmed me.

  After a long silence, he said, “We should probably figure out what the day looks like.”

  “The day looks like me working,” I said. “No itinerary required.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Programming. Remote. Quiet. Keeps me invisible.”

  He hummed. “Fitting.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “And you?”

  He shrugged. “Business.”

  “That’s vague.”

  He smiled faintly. “It’s also accurate.”

  I stabbed another piece of bacon. “So, you’ll just leave me here alone after your whole ‘you’re not safe’ speech? Doesn’t seem safe,” I sniff.

  His jaw tightened. “That’s not what I said.”

  “Sure sounds like it,” I challenge. If he’s got secrets, I want answers.

  “If I let you come,” he said carefully, “you follow my lead. No improvising. Your safety comes first.”

  “Fine.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Promise what?”

  “That you’ll listen.”

  I held his gaze. “Fine. I promise.”

  “Then you’re coming.” He looked entirely too pleased with himself.

  After breakfast, the plan was simple: I’d work for a few hours, then we’d go.

  “Don’t rush,” he said, cleaning up like he owned the place. “We’ve got time.”

  I shut myself in my office, grateful for the heavy door.

  The room hummed to life with the glow of my monitors. I settled into the familiar rhythm of code, letting the world narrow to syntax and precision. Work was safe. Work didn’t need me to be anything.

  Dragging my hair up into a messy bun, I gave the new snakes room to stretch. The older ones shifted to accommodate them, a strange, protective choreography that had taken centuries to learn. Poppy’s warmth pressed against my neck; her silent comfort did little to ease the unease crawling under my skin.

  The new snakes stirred as I typed, exploring cautiously. Once, long ago, I’d been terrified of them—terrified of me. They were proof of what I’d become. Monsters don’t get normal mornings. But now, centuries later, they were my constant. My company. My strange, quiet friends. The snakes weaving themselves into the shape of it. Noodle, predictably, stretched forward, watching the lines of code scroll like she understood every word.

  The curse wasn’t just the snakes. The real power Athena left me ran deeper. Most people think I can only turn men to stone. But that’s the myth’s lazy half-truth. There’s the water sense—the pulse of life I can feel through the air like a current. The healing. The strength. The eyes that see beyond skin and understand intention.

  No one knows. Only Athena and me.

  And even I avoid thinking about it. The gifts have become relics—silent and patient, like statues waiting for command.

  One of the newer girls, lifted her small head, tongue flicking at the air as though she felt my thoughts. I smiled faintly and leaned back, stretching my arms above my head.

  “I’m fine,” I said softly—to her, to me, to the room.

  The steady rhythm of work dulled my mind, until I caught myself staring at the screen without seeing it. The words fated connection wouldn’t leave me. That mythical, inescapable pull between souls. In my world, we don’t dress it up with poetry. It’s simply fate. Rare, permanent, unyielding. Two people bound so tightly that even the gods take notice.

  I didn’t want that. I didn’t believe in that. Not for me.

  And yet, when I thought of him, the air around me thrummed faintly—too steady to be coincidence.

  I pushed back from my desk, letting the chair roll a few inches. The snakes stirred, alert. A faint ripple brushed my awareness, like the air pressure before a storm.

  He was close.

  I didn’t hear footsteps. I didn’t need to. The snakes felt him first—tiny heads lifting, tongues flicking in the same direction.

  “Of course,” I whispered.

  I looked toward the door, heart thrumming in time with the faint hiss of scales. “Let’s see what you’re really up to, Finn.”