Why You Should Never Rescue Stray Demons Chapter 138

**OZ**

Kacia’s in the shower, and I’m pacing the kitchen like an idiot. I feel like I’m balanced on a ledge with her right now, one wrong move and she’ll fall. Too much sympathy and she’s going to break down. Not enough, and she’ll still break down. Okay, so I know that she’s probably going to break down, and soon. But what am I mean to DO about it? I can fight wraiths, stand against fae lords, take punches from monsters twice my size, but figuring out how to hold Kacia together? Is there a manual for that? How to comfort a crying woman? How to reassure someone that things aren’t their fault? How to show someone they are loved and cared for without letting them get TOO attached or rely on you TOO much because you’re planning to leave eventually? Okay, maybe I need to look less big picture… Does she want to talk about her father? About the library? About any of it? Or does she want to pretend none of it happened, bury herself under blankets and forget the world for a few hours? She did say she wanted to curl up in bed, and I don’t think that part was a joke. So… That’s the plan I guess. I can make that happen. I scrub my hands and arms in the kitchen sink, washing away the worst of the soot and ash. A shower will have to wait until she’s done, but I can at least get things ready. Her bed’s still messy from earlier, sheets tangled, pillows tossed. I strip it back, remake it carefully, making sure nothing grimy touches the clean linen. I pull the covers down, an invitation. On her nightstand, I set down a mug of hot chocolate and a glass of water. Then I double-check her curtains, yanking them closed until not even a hint of light can slip through. Last thing she needs right now is to stare out at the world. Or to fall asleep and get woken by the sunlight in her eyes. The final touch is a pair of soft pyjamas. I fold them neatly, carrying them down the hall. I don’t want to intrude on her, but I want her to know they’re here. I knock lightly on the bathroom door.

“Kaci, sweetheart? I have pyjamas for you when you’re ready.” I call, keeping my tone as gentle as I can. The shower cuts off immediately, the sudden silence sharp in my ears. Wet footsteps patter, then the door cracks open just enough for a hand to slip through. I press the bundle into it, and the door shuts again. A minute later she shuffles out, hair dripping down her shoulders in damp clumps that she hasn’t bothered to really towel off. Her skin is pale, her eyes shadowed, her whole frame slouched in exhaustion. She looks small. Small, and sad, and so much younger than usual.

“I’d hug you, but then you’d have to shower again.” I murmur, forcing a smile into my voice. 

“Go lie down, Princess. I’ll be there in a minute.” I suggest. She nods faintly, doesn’t argue, and pads down the hall. Yeah. She isn’t doing well. The bravado, the sass, the jokes she’d been using to keep herself upright are gone now. All that’s left is the raw misery underneath. I don’t know if I can fix it. Realistically, I probably can’t. but I’ll damn well be here anyway.

The thought of a shower makes me want to groan. My whole body aches in that deep, bone-heavy way that no potion or bandage fixes. The idea of peeling off my clothes and stepping under water feels like an impossible task. I don’t want the sting of soap in my cuts, don’t want to feel the heat on bruises, don’t want to be wet and vulnerable and alone in the small space where there’s nothing to distract me from my own thoughts. Still, I push myself forward. I turn the water on hot, and step in before I can talk myself out of it. At first it’s miserable, steam rising, water needling down on scorched skin, soot swirling down the drain in greyish trails. My tail flicks irritably behind me, tapping the shower wall, restless and tense. Every time the water hits a scrape or burn I hiss through my teeth. But the heat seeps in slowly, working its way into my shoulders, my back, the places where I’d been bracing against pain all night. I let my head drop forward against the tile, eyes closing. For a few minutes, the world quiets. My tail starts to move differently now, not in irritation but in slow, rhythmic flicks, like a creature finally letting go of a fight. As much as I didn’t want to get in the shower, now I don’t want to leave. Not yet. Not when the heat is peeling away the last of the ash and tension. But even as that thought flickers, another one cuts deeper. Kacia. She’s waiting for me. Alone, tired, probably curled up and hurting. She asked for me to be with her tonight. And no matter how badly I want to linger here, I can’t. My tail gives a sharper twitch, an impatient flick at my own hesitation. I actively scrub myself faster, working soap through my hair, rinsing off as quickly as I can. I towel off in a rush, tugging on soft pyjama pants and a loose shirt. The fabric smells faintly of her detergent, clean and warm. Down the hall, her room is dark aside from a small lamp. The dim light makes everything feel muted. I find Kacia curled small on the bed, knees tucked up, blanket pulled high, like she’s trying to disappear. For a moment she doesn’t move. Then she shifts over, wordlessly making space for me. I slip into the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. Without hesitation, I pull her against me, my arms wrapping firmly around her, my tail curling protectively around her legs. It flicks once, twice, before settling, holding her as securely as my arms do. I rest my chin on the top of her head, breathing in damp hair and soap. That’s all it takes. The first sob breaks out of her, raw and unguarded, and then she’s crying against my chest, shaking, tears soaking into my shirt. My heart twists painfully. I press my cheek to her hair, my tail tightening just a little, and hold on as she cries. If all I can do is be a place for her to come apart, then I’ll do it. Even if I’m tired, even if I’m cracked open myself. I’ll keep her right here, safe, until she’s ready to breathe again.

I don’t know what to say. I don’t even know what part is cutting her the deepest right now, the library burning, her grandfather’s threats, or the weight of what she learned about her father. It all feels like too much for one night, too much for one person. So I don’t try to find the perfect words. I just hold her. My arms stay locked around her, my tail curling and uncurling in slow, restless movements, and I rub circles into her back with my palm. Little motions, steady, rhythmic. She cries against me, and I murmur soft nonsense, quiet reassurances that mean nothing but fill the silence so she knows I’m here. Eventually, her voice cracks out of the tears, a whisper so small I almost miss it. 

“I never really wanted him to be dead. I know I said it would be easier, but I didn’t really want that.” She says brokenly. I press my lips to her hair, my voice low. 

“I know.” I reassure her. And I do. I don’t need to understand every detail to know what it feels like to lose something you kept hoping for, even if you told yourself otherwise. Her tears come harder, her whole body shaking. 

“I’m going to have to tell my mother.” She chokes. ,

“And… I should probably tell Tarish too. It’s going to be hard.” She sniffs. 

“You won’t have to do it alone.” I tell her. It’s the only thing I can give her. The only thing I know for sure. I don’t know what else to say. I’m no good at this, the aftermath, the grief, the things I can’t fight with claws or frighten away. All I can do is keep holding her, keep my voice steady even when my chest aches. She cries until the sobs soften, until her breaths even out, her face still pressed into my chest. Sleep takes her slowly, pulling her under even as her fingers curl tight into my shirt like she doesn’t want to let go. I stay awake a little longer, just listening to her breathe, making sure she’s really resting. Only when I’m sure she’s really, really asleep do I let myself close my eyes. My arms tighten around her again, and then exhaustion pulls me down with her.