Pulse

Chapter 24

Lucie

The floor was empty when I woke up the next morning; Cian was nowhere to be found. The only evidence he'd ever been there at all was my quilt on the floor. I sighed, guessing I should have expected as much from him. He was nothing if not mysterious at times, which in turn made him a bit annoying.

Yawning, I went into the bathroom to take a brisk shower, stepping back out into my bedroom with wet hair dripping water onto my shoulders. I threw on one of my dad's old t-shirts, which was practically a dress on me, tying my hair up. Thankfully, it was a Saturday, and unlike the weekdays, I did not have to give a crap about how I looked.

I reached to pick up the quilt Cian had left behind, tossing it back to my bed. To my surprise, his hoodie was underneath it, and sheepishly I picked it up. I held it in my fingers for a moment, stretching the black fibers in my hands.

I lifted it to my nose.

It smelled like warm sand baked under the sun, and the salt of ocean water. Faintly, the hoodie was scented with tea tree oil, spicy but sweet. It smelled like Cian did when I was near him; I liked it more than I would ever admit. I took one more inhale, and, simply because I could, draped it over my head. The hoodie, too, was a dress on me, both my hands swallowed by the pockets.

I'd have to return it to him eventually, but for now it was mine to walk around in. It was too comfortable and I was too lazy to take it off now.

I marched out into the hallway and froze at the top of the stairs. I heard clanging pots and hissing steam, and, even more quietly, the Beatles song on the radio with Cian's muffled voice as a complement.

So he was still here, and he was using my pots. Crap.

Like I said, I was too lazy to take the hoodie off.

So I didn't.

I came down the stairs, rounding the corner into the kitchen. Cian's back was to me, his golden hair ruffled and unkempt. I was struck with the same thought that had occurred to me last night: He belonged here, in my ancient wallpapered kitchen with equally ancient appliances and a countertop the color of barf. Looking at him, you couldn't tell the fortune he claimed. It was strange, but I liked it.

The small cassette radio I'd had since I was six was playing Help, and Cian's voice rose through the ceiling, singing along to the melody: Help, I need somebody, help...

He turned, a wooden spoon held in one hand, a crinkled piece of paper in the other. When he noticed me standing at the kitchen's mouth, he coughed and stuffed the paper in his back pocket. My eyebrows furrowed, but only fleetingly.

Cian smiled, then squinted at me. "I do believe that's my hoodie you're wearing."

"It is."

His smile grew wider. He set his spoon down on the counter and approached me, tapping the bun I'd tied at the top of my head. I swatted at him, but he just laughed. "Having fun in there, muffin?"

I stuck my tongue out and flipped the hood up, drawing it down over my head. Dropping my voice the deepest it would go, I stood straight up and said, in my best Cian impression, "Hey there dudes. My name is Cian Horne and I wear my hood all the time because I'm super mysterious and because all angels of death are super mysterious. I might be emotionally unstable but whatever, it's cool, dudes."

I cleared my throat and looked at him, silently asking for approval. He rolled his blue eyes and went back to whatever he was stirring. "I don't say 'dude.'"

"That's your only critique?" I scoffed, folding my arms. "Wow, you really are a sad little angel, aren't you?"

He held up a finger. "I am not sad or little."