“Oh gods,” Justin said, on the sofa back at home in their New York apartment. He’d had editorial meetings, and they couldn’t stay in California forever; they’d come home two days before. At the moment the sofa-cushions perked up, concerned; Kris came over from the refrigerator with leftover pizza and asked, “What is it this time?”
“The emails,” Justin explained, and collapsed dramatically backward into pillows. One hand came out to grab a pepperoni slice, which disappeared in seconds. Demon metabolism was unfairly quick and efficient, Kris had concluded.
He looked at Justin’s laptop. The voice from behind pizza said, muffled, “Go on…” so he read the open one.
“…gods.”
“Exactly.”
“We’re not doing this to be a symbol of—what even—”
“—support of magical creature-human relationship equal
