Berries and Greed

“Shit, sorry,” he croaked, scrubbing his face as he sat up and yawned. His jaw cracked open wide, showing me all his back teeth.

“It’s okay.” I reached up and pushed back the strands of hair caught on his face spikes. He turned his cheek into my palm, yellow eyes drooping shut again. “Maybe you should go to bed.”

“Yeah.” He swung his legs off the couch and stopped again, swaying a little. I knew that kind of exhaustion, where every tiny movement felt like it expended all your energy. I remembered it from long, backbreaking days working on the vineyards.

Greid yawned again and rubbed his eye with a fist, and god, I just wanted to wrap my arms around him and never let go. I wanted to take care of him.

But I couldn’t invite myself into his bed, even just to sleep. I really, really wanted to spoon myself against Greid’s back all night and feel the warmth of him soaking into my skin, but he probably wasn’t ready for that. I hadn’t even seen his room.

Pushing off all the blankets, I stood and stretched, then held out a hand to help him up.

“I’ll blow out all the candles and lock up,” I told him. “You go to bed.”

“’Kay,” he mumbled, already shuffling for the door. He must have been really tired. He usually rushed to do everything before I could. But then he stopped and fidgeted. “Night, Beryl.”

“Goodnight, Greid.”

He still didn’t move, shyness creeping into his face, so I walked over to him. The moment I was in reach, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into his chest. I sighed with pleasure, melting into him.

“Your hair always smells so good,” he mumbled, sounding half asleep as he sagged and dipped his head to press his lips and nose to the crown of my head.

I chuckled. “Thanks.”

After a few more seconds, I felt him drop a kiss in my hair before he released me and stepped back. “Night, berry.”

My mouth twitched. “Berry?”

“Beryl. Sorry. Slipped out.” His ears gave a weak flutter, but he was too tired to be embarrassed. I watched as he turned and dragged his feet across the hall into his own room, and once the door had shut behind him, I went around blowing out all the candles before turning off the TV.

After taking all the empty containers and silverware from dinner into the kitchen, I returned to the living room to straighten up the couch and fold the endless supply of blankets Greid kept draped over the cushions.

The sweet scent of shade smoke still clung to one as I lifted it and shook it out. I clutched it for a few seconds, then turned and took it up to bed with me.

I woke up early the next morning, blessedly cramp-free and drooling onto the blanket I’d slept with. After showering, I got dressed in my black work clothes and gathered up the blanket with the rest of my dirty clothes to do some laundry before I left.

I made sure to creep quietly downstairs and into the kitchen, not wanting to wake Greid. Once the washing machine was whirring away in the laundry room, I made coffee and ate a yoghurt while waiting for it to brew.

I felt a little restless. The prospect of my potential conversation with Greid later—assuming he felt up for it—was making the rest of the day stretch out endlessly. I glanced at the clock on the oven display. Only eight-thirty. I still had two hours before I had to be at work to get the bar ready for the brunch rush at eleven.

I could go and work out, but I’d already showered and couldn’t be bothered to do it again. Wandering back over to the fridge, I tugged it open and stared at the contents. I’d found a recipe for chicken stew I wanted to try making, because it didn’t seem too daunting, it just required some chopping and throwing everything into a slow cooker.

Maybe I could make it for our dinner later. I’d been wanting to learn how to cook more, and this felt like a good way to learn as well as pass the time before work.

Did Greid have a slow cooker? I went around the kitchen quietly opening cabinets, finding a rice cooker and stand mixer that both looked barely used. Could I just put it in the oven at a low temperature? I didn’t really want to deviate from the recipe when I knew literally nothing about cooking.

Maybe he had one in his “Room of Shame”. We’d gone through about a quarter of the boxes last weekend and made a pile of things to donate. It had taken way longer than it should have, because Greid tended to get distracted while going through the stuff, studying each item carefully, most of the time telling me he couldn’t even remember buying them, and enthusiastically saying he actually wanted to use some of it. He’d snuck several boxes down to his room. I’d pretended not to notice.

Creeping back into the hall, I went upstairs to the third floor and into the room. I’d ended up trying to organise the remaining boxes while Greid had fiddled and played with each item he unpacked, so at least the mountain was slightly more organised this time.