Page 77 of Fangs with Benefits

While it brews, I give a long sigh and meet his eyes. He is leaning back against my kitchen counter. He’s so sweet, his patient and kind eyes waiting for me to speak.

‘When I started at Drummond, it was just easier not to. I told myself I would get settled into my new routine and then I would start submitting again. But I didn’t. When I was with Matt, we lived together in an apartment his dad owned, so our rent was insanely cheap for how nice it was. Matt paid for most of it, because he had a high-paying job and I just worked part time doing IT at the library. It was a fun job–I liked the work and the location. The pay wasn’t great, but I didn’t care because I had all this time to write and I made enough, especially with our dual income. Matt told me I could quit whenever, but like, why would I when I liked it so much?’

‘Matt,’ Elijah mutters, like he should have expected my story to come back to him.

‘I was really sad when everything went down with him. It was such a shift: I had to find a place to live, I had to find a new job, and my fiancé who I thought I was going to be with forever was no longer my person. And I was the one who instigated the breakup; I was the one who insisted I keep living in the city, even though my parents were begging me to come home. Part of me really wanted to. I just felt lost and alone and so fucking tired.’

The coffee finishes brewing and Elijah puts a splash of my favourite pumpkin creamer in the mug before bringing it to me. He stands behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders. I rest my head against his forearm. It’s too intimate for what we are–I know, I know. But I feel like I’m picking at a long-time scab that’s never healed and he is an undeniable comfort standing so near.

‘I stopped writing, other than the journals I write in at work, or a random poem on my phone now and then. I wrote this novel when I was so in love and happy and hopeful and blissfully oblivious to what was going on–what I almost bound myself to. Afterwards, I felt so betrayed.’

‘By him?’ Elijah asks.

‘By me, actually. Like, for not noticing? I think I should have noticed. I didn’t.’

His thumbs rub soothing circles into the fleshy part of my shoulders, working out knots that have probably been there for half a decade. I close my eyes and breathe while he does this for a couple of minutes, then take a sip of my coffee.

‘I want to write. I love it. I just don’t know.’

I slide off the chair and pad over to the credenza, steeling myself before opening it and pulling out three journals and a stack of Manilla envelopes. There’s a short story collection, a mishmash of poems and half of another novella I was working on when it all went down. I have all of my old writing on a flash drive, but Matt always asked me to print it for him to read. He said that seeing it printed would make it feel more real, keep me moving towards getting it published. He really, really believed in me, that son of a bitch.

I drop the stack on the table and nod at it. ‘Most of it’s unpublished.’

Elijah’s eyes sparkle like I’ve just unearthed a treasure on the wobbly table in front of him.

‘Can I read them?’ he asks.

I shift, tugging at the hem of the T-shirt I slept in. It wouldn’t hurt anything to have him read them, other than my pride if he loathes them. He’s been alive for a long ass time, long enough to read the best literature the world has to offer and form opinions. He’s not like Matt, who read two and a half books a year (one of them a business self-improvement book) and thought everything I wrote was brilliant by merit of being written by me.

‘Why?’ I ask.

‘I want to. Every story I read makes me feel like I know you better. Like a glimpse of your brain.’

This is too intimate, another line we’re crossing that my better judgement is begging me to steer clear of, but I nod and push the stack in his direction.

‘I need to shower,’ I say and take another long sip of coffee. He’s already flipping through the first folder, a finger tracing down the page and his mouth moving as he reads the words printed there. ‘Are you… going to join me?’

Elijah’s head snaps up from the stack, eyes bright. Instead of waiting for me to lead the way, he picks me up, throwing me over his shoulder, and takes me laughing into the bathroom.

Note left on Elijah’s desk on 30 November 2026

Elijah,

It’s no Arranged Bride to the Orc Billionaire, but these are a few of my favourite short story collections. They are all pretty heavily annotated because I used them in grad school, either for my seminar classes or the one section of short stories I taught my last semester, so either sorry or you’re welcome for the chaos that is my margin notes.

If you hate them, do notttt tell me, it will probably make me never want to hook up with you again.

Enjoy

M

Chapter 27

Elijah

Molly and I have fallen into an unspoken rhythm after the holiday weekend, one where we don’t have to make plans to see each other after work, it’s just a given that some way or another, one of us will end up at the other’s apartment, and I will be sleeping in her bed. Or, well, she sleeps, I watch her, or read, or watch some of the movies and shows she’s tasked me with, wired headphones plugged into her iPad while she softly snores tucked into my side.

The access she allows me into her life is not something I take for granted; I hope it never gets less thrilling to watch movies with her, Molly telling me to focus, and then talking through a quarter of the movie about what’s happening on screen. I love the way her tongue tastes after she’s eaten a bag of buttery popcorn or a sleeve of red liquorice while sharing a blanket with me on her couch.