3.1 | six ways to sunday ✓

03

"I FEEL LIKE DYING."

Clarke turns his head to look at June, whose head is resting on his lap as she twists her fingers into his shirt—perhaps his favorite habit of hers. "You're too young to die, sweetheart," he says, turning his attention back to the soccer game on television. "What happened?"

She groans loudly. "Weston ghosted me—"

"Weston?"

"The boy I gave my business card to? He said he'd call, remember?"

"Ah," Clarke says, snapping his fingers. "The unicorn."

June frowns. "He's not a unicorn, bubs," she complains. "I just—just thought he wouldn't forget, that's all."

Inside of his chest, Clarke feels a flicker of irritation burn up the column of his throat as he looks down at the pout lining June's lips, legs bouncing gently to make her smile. She brings a finger to her forehead and leaves it there, impossibly endearing and the picture of troubled concentration.

I'd do anything for you, Clarke thinks fondly, playing with a few strands of her hair as she makes a sound at the back of her throat. He still remembers holding her while she was so, so small, when June's entire fist had been the length of his thumb. And while things have changed, some part of him will always see her in flashes of vintage memories: crying in the middle of the night, a toothless smile in first grade, her first heartbreak. He'll always see the soul who saved him, and perhaps—perhaps they saved each other, too.

Clarke grins roguishly. "Need me to hex him?"

"Why is that your answer to everything?" June turns around, sits up, and hits his shoulder with no real force behind it. "God, please don't hex him. He's too cute for that."

"My ears are fuckin' bleeding," he tells her, flicking her cheek and raising an eyebrow. "Don't ever find a boyfriend. I don't want to imagine it."

She grumbles. "He's not my boyfriend," June mutters under her breath. "Yet."

"What was that?"

An innocent grin. "Nothing," she responds, puffing up her cheeks and letting out a low whistle. "And you know, I have to get married someday. Don't you want grandchildren?"

Clarke rolls his eyes. "Marriage is a weightless expectation in society," he justifies. "Meet who you want. Do what you want. Wear what you want. I really don't give a shit."

Fiddling with the end of her baby-blue shirt, June looks up with masked amusement. "Sometimes," she tells him, "I forget you're a demon. Maybe you were a feminist in your past life."

When the front door opens, Clarke's vision sweeps across the apartment the three of them share: settled just above the east side of Manhattan with a modern, open concept, he often finds himself staring at how the subway-patterned kitchen overlooks the cozy living. It's a blend of small moments and defining ones, like June's high school graduation photos above the fireplace and her young drawings of happy apples still posted on the fridge. In the back, a hallway connects to three bedrooms and their respective bathrooms, a more private, guarded area of the house.

Clarke Del Rosario is a demon—that much is true. But when he sees Julian rushing inside the doorway with bags of overflowing groceries, sometimes Clarke feels like there's a halo glowing above his head, the light of pearls and moonlight reflecting off of him. It gets a little hard to breathe: maybe he'll blame it on the change in seasons, but it's the middle of fucking winter in New York, and Julian Moon looks like a blend of delicate snowflakes and melted rainbows. He wonders if his eyes are filled with pure want, with desire and something soft like cotton.