The days blur into weeks, and Hermes becomes a constant in my life. Every evening, around five, he pops into my kitchen, or living room, or pile of dirty clothes in the laundry room. He’s like clockwork, appearing, insulting me, then leaving before things can get too weird. The company is nice, I guess. It’s nice to be able to unwind with some redirected anger sometimes.

  The unfortunate aspect of having an otherworldly part-time roommate is the real-life part. I still have to go to work, put on a fake smile, stay over when asked, answer calls… All the things that were bland before him are still bland. Except now, I have something to look forward to. I don’t know if that makes it worse or better.

  I got asked to work over today, which is why I’m still planted at my desk when five rolls around. Usually, I’d be at home already, making something completely unhealthy for dinner, when the winged bastard himself pops in.

  Overtime is bullshit, anyway. I’m salaried.

  Sophia, as she’s ever so lovingly reminded me, doesn’t mind the extra time at work. It builds character. So does cocaine, but you don’t see me sitting at my desk snorting any questionable white powders to feel better about myself.

  All I’m doing is filling out spreadsheets on Excel. Not exciting. Barely even needed. Definitely not worth the not-money I’m making.

  By the time I make it home, it’s nearly seven. The door slams shut behind me with enough force to shake the windows. The first thing I notice is a piece of paper on the floor by my feet. Like it’s been slid under the door.

  Bending down to pick it up, I can already tell it’s not from Hermes. Too chicken-scratchy for a god. I drop my purse onto the floor and unfold the little yellow piece of paper.

  It’s a note. From my neighbor. Detailing how inappropriate it is for half-clothed men to be standing outside my door in broad daylight.

  That fucking asshole.

  “Hermes!” I shout, clutching the note in my hand.

  His head pops around the pantry wall a second later. “You’re late,” he mutters with a smile that tells me he knows exactly what’s going on.

  “Did you go outside today?” Stomping toward him, I wave the offending note through the air.

  “Yes,” he says simply, standing with his arms limp at his sides.

  “Why?” I scrub a hand over my face. “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, secret or something?”

  “I hid my wings.” Just for extra flourish, his wings unfold behind him.

  “I don’t give a shit.” My teeth grind together as my eyes slip shut. Deep breath, Alira. No throwing things this time. “Why wouldn’t you put on reasonable fucking clothes before going outside? Now my neighbors think there’s a nudist living with me.”

  His face tells me he maybe doesn’t know what I’m talking about, so I shove the note into his hand. He unfurls it then breaks out in a satisfied sounding chuckle. “It was the little Asian woman a few doors down. I waved at her and she screamed.”

  “Maybe because your pasty thighs blinded her.” I snatch the note back and slam it down on the counter. “You can’t just—” Can’t go outside? That’s not it. “You can’t go outside looking like you just crawled out of a bad historical reenactment.”

  “I look incredible, thank you.” He smooths a hand over his hair, his frown deepening.

  “You look like a poorly disguised onion. Is there no sun in Olympus?”

  His lip curls as he leans against the wall. “My brother literally is the sun.”

  “Then fix your blindingly white thighs.” I can’t look at them. They’re offensive. Then, an idea pops into my head. “Actually, wait right here.”

  Without giving him a chance to answer, I turn away and head straight to my bedroom. In the closet, buried under the Christmas tree I never put up, is a box from college. Inside, the clothes I stole from an ex-boyfriend. Josh. What a douche. Hermes is probably around the same size as him. Josh was a little broader chested, but they have similar builds. Josh’s thighs were tan.

  I fish through the box until I have an old band t-shirt that still smells like weed, an EIU hoodie, a pair of faded jeans, and some black sweatpants. A wardrobe fit for a god.

  Collecting all the clothing into my arms, I kick the box aside and stumble back into the hall. Hermes is still in the kitchen, picking the dirt out from under his nails. “Put these on.” Dropping the hoodie and sweats, I shove the t-shirt and jeans into his arms.

  He looks at me like I’ve just slapped him. “These are atrocious,” he says with enough disdain to wilt a flower.

  “They’re normal,” I snap back. “Just try them, at least.”

  He flings the jeans over his shoulder and holds the shirt to his chest. “I can’t wear this.”

  “Why? It’s Hozier. Totally your vibe of…” I motion awkwardly at him… “mythical.”

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  “No, stupid.” Flicking me on the forehead, he rolls his shoulder. “How do you expect me to shove my wings in this?”

  “I don’t know. Tuck and pray?” My hand lands on my hip. “Why can’t you just glamour them away or something?”

  He tries to hide the smile by clearing his throat. It doesn’t work. “It doesn’t work like that. I can only hide them for a few minutes at a time without exploding. I’m not a fairy.”

  Glancing at my bookshelf, my lip curls. “Have you been reading my books?”

  “Yes,” he chirps, as if that’s not at least a mild invasion of privacy. “It seems you tend toward the tall, dark, and handsome type of winged men.”

  Goddammit. I can’t even hide the blush blooming in my cheeks. “Give me the shirt,” I grumble, roughly pulling it from his hands and fumbling toward the utensil drawer. Flattening the shirt on the counter, I pull the scissors from the drawer. “Where do I need to cut?” I call over my shoulder.

  He comes to stand behind me, resting one hand on the counter beside me. “Shoulder blade area,” he says, reaching out with the other hand to draw invisible lines down the back of the shirt. “They’re actually quite painful if there’s too much tension at the base, so try to cut a little wider.”

  My eyes roll back with enough force to hurt. “You got it, dude. Now go away so I can focus.”

  “Sorry,” he sighs out dramatically. “I know I’m awfully distracting.”

  I absolutely will stab him with these scissors. “We could just make this easier on both of us and just remove your wings instead,” I say in a honey-sweet tone.

  “But then I would just look mortal. That would be devastating.”

  I scowl as he grins cockily, striding away with as much flourish as possible. Turning my attention back to the shirt, I shove all the maiming-thoughts out of my head. Hermes without wings. The thought’s a little awful. They’re pretty, in the same way a horse’s main is pretty. Something uniquely Hermes.

  Shaking my head, I ignore the pressing thoughts of what he would look like as just a normal guy. My chest aches a bit as I follow the lines he traced with the scissors.

  The cuts are awkward and jagged, but they’ll do. Hopefully. I really hate that toga.

  Hermes deflates when I toss the shirt onto his lap. “You’re really making me do this?” he asks, his voice like a wounded puppy.

  “If you want to go literally anywhere than my apartment, yes.”

  Letting out a long groan, he tips his head onto the back of the couch. “Fine.”

  He grumbles something about this being my fault as he shoves past me toward the bathroom. At least he didn’t try to get dressed in front of an open window or something. I’ve seen Greek architecture. I know their views on nudity.

  A shiver runs down me and I immediately regret the thought. Not thinking about it. My eyes land on the shelf of books and I pull out something about vampires and distract myself with words I’ve read a hundred times before.

  I make it through two chapters before he finally emerges from the bathroom. I don’t mean to stare. But, holy shit, he looks so…normal.

  The jeans are a little loose, hanging a little low on his hips, and the shirt pulls awkwardly tight across his chest. His face is purely dismay as he gestures defeatedly. “I look like a frat boy,” he whines, tugging the shirt down.

  “You look normal,” I respond, standing up from the couch. I set the book down and take a few steps closer. “The shirt’s a little—” I motion to my own chest, as if the grimace on my face is going to help him understand what I’m trying to say.

  “Oh.” He raises an eyebrow, reaching behind him and tugging at the back of the shirt. His head cranes back as a pained expression blooms across his features. “Ow. It’s caught on a feather.”

  “Here.” Without thinking, I step closer, grabbing his arm to turn him around. He doesn’t argue as I reach out. The shirt is snagged on one of the little feathers at the base of his wing, tugging it in an awkward direction. Being as gentle as possible, I hook my finger under the makeshift wing hole and pull it away from the feather. I use my other hand to rip the hole just a bit wider, then tug it down over the rest of the feathers.

  The snagged feather doesn’t fall back into place, staying turned downward against the rest of the perfectly groomed wing. “Oh, your poor feather,” I croon, my hand smoothing it back into place. The feathers down here are so much smaller and softer than the one he left that day. It feels criminal to see them hurt. “Is it going to fall out?”

  Hermes turns to face me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him. Too close. I don’t move away. “If it does, it’s not the worst thing that’s happened to them.” His mouth stretches into a small smile. “Thanks.”

  My chest heaves with a breath of the air shared between us. This close, his eyes look tired. Little red veins in the corners and sleepless bruising under them. I wonder if gods sleep.

  I swallow, and pull my gaze from him, taking a step back. “No problem.” I should tell him he looks good. Or that he looks awful. Something to ease whatever tension just sprouted between us. This is fucked. He’s a god. “Your wings are soft.”

  Nope. That is definitely not what I wanted to say.

  There’s a pause. Not long. But long enough to register. His smile cracks just enough to seem genuine as he turns away to look in the mirror. “You’re the first mortal to touch them without trying to hurt them.”

  That shouldn’t be the kind of sentence you just throw out like it’s a fun fact. But, he says it so casually that it almost seems like that’s not supposed to be a gut punch. Like I’m supposed to just accept that and not feel sympathy. Why would anyone try to hurt them? They’re wings, not weapons.

  He moves on like it was nothing, just stares at himself in the mirror attached to the outside of my bathroom door. I’m not sure what the look on his face means, but it doesn’t look like he likes whatever he sees.

  I open my mouth to say something, maybe comment on the fact that he does, in fact, look like a decently attractive normal male, but nothing comes out. It’s not my place. Not when he looks like he’s having an existential crisis over jeans.

  I kind of miss the toga. It didn’t make him look human. But maybe that’s the point.

  Eventually, I have to help him get the shirt back off, which is a whole separate battle of wills. And then he’s gone, and I’m left with a holey shirt and twisted stomach. I wonder what it’s like for him in Olympus.

  Tomorrow, I have to make a casserole for Mom. I promised her I’d visit, and I’ve put it off long enough. I’ve gotten so used to things being not normal that the idea of getting back into the routine of caring for her makes my anxiety spike. It’s not that I don’t love her, it’s just that she’s…

  She’s barely a mom. She makes everything a thousand times harder, and it’s just easier to pretend she doesn’t exist sometimes. I know that’s bad, but it’s the truth. The though settles heavily on my chest as I roll over in bed to face the wall. I should get a cat. The company would be nice.

  When did I get so lonely? I was fine before. I’ve never minded being alone. But ever since him, I feel so alone when he’s not around. Maybe I’m just pathetic. He’s the herald of the gods; he probably spends time like this with everyone. The odds of me being someone special in his life are so abysmally low that it hollows me out a little.

  I’m an afterthought to everyone else in my life, so why would he be any different? Or maybe he has to be here. Maybe it’s some god thing with answering my prayer or some dumb shit like that. Maybe I’m an obligation to him just like my mom is to me.

  Fuck.