In the end, we settled on exploring the apartment for the rest of the day. Everything fascinated Syrin, from lightbulbs to the stove. We started with a quick trip upstairs to the shared complex laundry room. Then we moved on to the kitchen, the living room, and finally, the bathroom.

  I twisted the handle for the shower, then leaned on the doorframe, trying not to laugh at Syrin’s expression as he stared up at the showerhead.

  “It’s… raining inside,” he said finally, his eyes a mellow gold mixed with green. “I know you said this isn’t magic,” he added quickly, “but it feels like it should be.”

  I grinned. “Yeah, and you turn that handle to make it warmer or colder. Don’t pull it down too far unless you want to freeze.”

  He squinted at the handle as if were covered in ancient runes. “And the water comes from where?”

  “The pipes. Underground. They bring it up from the city system.”

  “So your city holds rivers captive beneath it.”

  “That makes it sound way more ominous than it is, but yeah.”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped forward, extending a cautious hand into the stream. The spray hit his palm, and he froze. Then, slowly, he turned his hand, watching the water bead and run down his fingers.

  “It’s warm,” he whispered, like he couldn’t quite believe it. His glow brightened faintly, reflecting off the tile. “We have aqueducts. You can get heating charms, but this…”

  He flexed his fingers in the stream. “This answers instantly. It obeys you without will. Not alive. Not magic. Just… technology.”

  “Yep,” I said. “No magic whatsoever, but you still get your own adjustable rain cloud.”

  He frowned, considering. “So, is there a warm river and a cold one?”

  I laughed. “Not exactly. We have a machine that heats the water. Lots of apartments have their own, but ours is technically a central one.”

  Syrin just blinked at me. Maybe that had been a little too much info. He glanced around the shower and picked up one of the bottles. “What’s this?”

  “It cleans your hair.”

  He opened the lid and sniffed it. “It smells like flowers.”

  “Yeah, artificial flowers. Don’t eat it.”

  “I wasn’t going to!” he protested, eyes flashing that copper edged with silver that usually meant indignant. I had to bite back a laugh.

  The steam blurred the mirror behind him, turning the whole space hazy and gold. For a moment, I just watched him stare at the water like it was some miracle. Maybe it was. Maybe I just forgot sometimes.

  “Why do people want their hair to smell like flowers?” he said finally.

  I blinked. “Uh… It’s nice, I guess. Don’t you like the smell of flowers?”

  He didn’t answer, just shifted uncomfortably, his glow fading slightly.

  “You don’t like the smell of flowers,” I murmured.

  “No!” he protested. “I do. Mostly.”

  “But they make you sad.”

  He shrugged, and I thought he wouldn’t say anything, but after a few moments he whispered, “They remind me of my mother.”

  I froze. Oh.

  The water kept running, soft and steady, filling the silence. After a moment, I slipped past him to turn it off. The stream of water faded, leaving us in the hush of steam. “I don’t like the smell of kallya fruit,” I admitted. “I mean, I do, but… Dad always gives it to me when he leaves, which is sweet of him, but also…”

  I bit my lip, not looking at Syrin. “It means he’s leaving, so I get that. Not liking the flowers. The scent is nice; you just wish it could mean something else.”

  Syrin was quiet for a long time, eyes dimming to a very pale gold. “It’s a cruel kind of kindness, isn’t it? You love the thing, but it hurts anyway.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered softly.

  He gave a faint smile. “Then perhaps I’ll find something else to make my hair smell like. Bread, maybe. Or tea.”

  I snorted. “Bread?”

  His brow furrowed. “I like the smell of bread. Isn’t the point to make it smell nice?”

  I brushed a hand through my hair, trying not to laugh. “Yeah, but usually people go for scents that don’t make you hungry. The goal isn’t to make people want to eat your hair.”

  If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it's taken without permission from the author. Report it.

  “But some flowers can be eaten, can they not?”

  That was true, and people did like fruity scents, but still… “When was the last time you smelled a flower and wanted to eat it?”

  He blushed. “Fair point. No bread-scented hair-cleaning products, then.”

  The sound of a door shutting echoed down the hall, and Mom called from the front room, “Trina? You home?”

  “Yeah, Mom. Coming!”

  I made my way back to the front room, Syrin following a few steps behind. Mom was still in her work scrubs, hair pulled back in a loose bun. She looked tired, the kind of tired that wasn’t just from a long shift but from too many of them in a row.

  “Hey,” she said with a faint smile. “Good news. I managed to get the next couple of days off. I figured I’d pull out my old books tomorrow, see if there’s anything that might help with our magic problem.” She glanced at Syrin. “Hopefully, we can get that portal sealed for now.”

  Syrin hesitated, a white glow flickering around him. “It wouldn’t… would I be cut off entirely? Not feel the Light anymore?”

  I froze, sneaking a glance at him. Imagining him without the glow just felt wrong.

  Mom sighed. “Maybe a little. I’m not sure yet. We’ll handle that if it comes to it, alright?”

  Syrin’s eyes flashed bright silver, then faded back to hazel-green.

  “That’s great, Mom,” I said quickly. “But you should relax first. You look exhausted. We’ll handle dinner tonight.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “We?”

  I glanced at Syrin. “He spent an hour marveling at the kitchen. I figure it’s time to put some of that learning into practice.”

  I thought Syrin might bristle at that, but instead he lit up—literally. His glow flared bright gold.

  Mom snorted but didn’t protest, already heading down the hall toward her room. “Just don’t burn the place down, alright?”

  I turned to Syrin. “Okay, rookie lesson number one: heat goes under the pan, not everywhere else.”

  That earned a small huff of amusement. “Understood.”

  I decided on something medium-hard: Alfredo sauce from scratch with boxed fettuccine and pan-seared chicken breast.

  I handled the chicken and noodles while giving Syrin step-by-step instructions for the sauce, half teaching, half watching a disaster unfold.

  Fifteen minutes later, he had sauce on his sleeve, flour in his hair, and a guilty expression that suggested he thought he’d committed a war crime. The sauce, shockingly, tasted great.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn’t—”

  I couldn’t stop laughing. “You’re fine! It tastes good, and that’s what counts. Just maybe clean up before you start to look like the meal.”

  His glow shifted silver.

  “It’s fine, Syrin. I expected a small disaster. That’s why I’m supervising.”

  The glow softened. I shoved his shoulder. “Go take a shower.”

  “Shower?” he repeated, half hopeful, half suspicious, like it might be a trap.

  “Yes,” I said, biting back a grin. “Use the shower. You’ve been instructed. You’ll survive. Just don’t turn the water too hot and burn yourself. Keep it warm, towels are in the cabinet I showed you.”

  “It can burn?”

  “Only if you do it wrong.”

  He sighed, rolling his eyes with exaggerated dignity. “If I do not return, avenge me.”

  That sent me into a full giggle fit. He muttered something in Spanish under his breath, probably to make sure I didn’t understand, which only made me laugh harder.

  He shot me an amused look, then padded down the hall, leaving a faint trail of light and flour behind him.

  I finished up the chicken and pasta in peace as I heard the water turn on down the hall.

  “Smells good,” Mom said as she appeared in the doorway.

  I grinned. “Tastes good too. Syrin did a weirdly good job. Even if he made a mess.”

  Mom’s smile turned fond as she glanced around at the flour that had somehow ended up in patches on the floor.

  “How’d that even happen?”

  I held back another laughing fit. “I’m honestly not sure, but there were no fires.”

  “Thank heavens,” Mom said, shaking her head. She glanced back down the hallway, and her expression turned more serious.

  I set down the tongs I’d started washing, ready for a discussion about magic or shadow creatures. Instead: “Just make sure you know what you’re getting into, honey.”

  I frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “With Syrin. He’s a Keeper. He has to go back eventually. His first duty is to his people. Your father was one thing, but forcing Syrin to choose might tear him apart.”

  I blinked. “What?”

  Mom’s face softened. “You think I don’t see how you two keep shooting glances at each other? I just don’t want either of you getting hurt.” She bit her lip. “Sometimes it’s easier to put up walls earlier rather than later if you know you’re not willing to pay the price.”

  “I’m not—He’s not…” I trailed off. We weren’t, right?

  “I’m not forbidding you,” Mom said gently. “Just remember: love isn’t free. It’s beautiful, but it’s work. I learned that the hard way.”

  I grimaced.

  Mom pulled me into a hug. Her voice softened. “Syrin can’t stay here, honey. Not forever. Not with his light. I just want to make sure you know what you’re choosing. You’re a child of two worlds. If you pick Kirath, I’ll respect that. You can always visit. Just… seriously think about what you want before diving in, okay? Don’t make my mistakes.”

  “But you and Dad loved each other. How would I even know?”

  Mom hummed softly. “We did. We still do, a little. But I learned I need someone who can be there for me, and that wasn’t Torrik. Expecting him to change wasn’t realistic. And in the end, he struggled with commitment. I couldn’t have predicted that, but if we’d been honest from the start—if we’d talked about whether he could ever really stay—maybe things would have been different.”

  I picked up the tongs again, studying them as I rinsed them off. Mom and Dad were really different. Similar in some ways, but also different.

  Syrin wasn’t like Dad. He was so devoted to whatever he chose, it seemed like he’d destroy himself before his commitment. And that… I would be a fool if I couldn’t admit that was appealing after Dad.

  “Not that I’m saying I’m interested,” I said. “But Syrin isn’t Dad. They’re like… opposites.”

  Mom hummed. “You’re right. Syrin is more like me. In the end, he loves the lightness, the adventure, but he needs stability. That’s not optional for him.”

  I froze because if Syrin was Mom that made me… Dad.

  “I wouldn’t do what he did!” I said sharply. “I wouldn’t break a promise like that! I wouldn’t leave us—” My voice broke. I hated how raw it sounded.

  Mom just pulled me into another hug, running a hand reassuringly across my back. “I didn’t say you would, honey. I’m just asking if you’re willing to give up adventures, to stop going wherever the wind takes you, for someone. If you’re willing to live your adventures in their court, not just yours. It’s okay if the answer is no. Maybe you need someone who can drift with you. I just want you to look at yourself and decide what you really need.”

  I didn’t have an answer. The kitchen still smelled like chicken and garlic and warmth, but suddenly it felt a little smaller. I looked down at the tiles as Mom just held me.

  “I just want you to be happy, honey,” Mom whispered. “Lots of times that means knowing ourselves. Think about it, but for now… I know you made Alfredo sauce because you love it, so let’s set the table.”

  I nodded, squeezing Mom once. Then I grabbed the plates. Usually, it didn’t feel so much like picking up pieces of myself.

  Today's featured seral for all those looking for something slice of life with a little different vibe!