127- The fire might be out but you are still smoking hot.
ELI
Alright, so it turns out the shutdown words were a TERRIBLE idea. I’ve only gotten through maybe fifteen, and each one has somehow made things worse. First the machine hissed louder. Then it started bubbling like a haunted cauldron. Then the wand sprayed again, this time with glitter and confetti. Actual paper confetti. Like it’s throwing a celebration for its own descent into magical madness. The purple goo is spreading. The glitter’s so thick it’s basically a localised weather event. And I’m pretty sure the coffee machine just muttered something in Latin. I don't even KNOW Latin, but it definitely sounded ominous and smug which means it was probably Latin.
“Damn it, Eli! This is not working! Stop reading!” Dami barks, his voice tight. I groan.
“But… One of these should work!” I insist.
“Yeah? When? Because at this rate we’re going to be literally drowning in stupid purple goop!” He argues. I open my mouth to protest, to argue that we’re close, I can feel it, but he hits me with a glare so sharp it slices my words in half.
“Nope. No more.” He says firmly. And then the machine makes a new sound. A high pitched whistling noise, shrill and climbing higher every second. Like a tea kettle possessed by a banshee. Dami’s eyes go wide.
“Come on!” He shouts, grabbing my wrist and yanking me toward a small door I hadn’t even noticed. We flee and slam ourselves into the pantry just as another blast of sparkling steam explodes across the kitchen like a magical foghorn. Inside the pantry, it’s dark. And small. Really small. We’re crammed shoulder to shoulder between shelves of old chips and a frankly concerning number of dented cans. I can hear Damien breathing. Actually, scratch that, I can FEEL him breathing. Every exhale brushes the air between us. Despite the shadows, I can see him perfectly. Because he’s right there. Close enough that our arms are touching. Close enough that I can see every fleck of glitter clinging to the stubble along his jaw. The tight line of his shoulders. The furrow in his brow. And I’m PAINFULLY aware of the fact that he’s still shirtless and so very close to me. But Dami doesn’t seem to notice. Not the closeness. Not me. Nothing. He’s peering through the gap at the side of the door, trying to assess whether the chaos has settled. His focus is razor sharp. His frustration is etched into every inch of him. But it’s gone past irritation. This is that slow burning, quiet kind of anger that builds behind the eyes and in the bones. The kind that means he’s close to the edge. And me? I’m just standing here uselessly, right next to him, trying not to feel everything. I’m not touching him. Not comforting him. Not even teasing, because I know better. I know that now isn’t the time. But it still stings. Because I notice everything about him. And it’s starting to hit me, maybe he’ll never notice me that way. So much for swooping in like the hero. I didn’t fix anything. I mostly just made it worse. I glance down at our hands, nearly brushing. My heart does something horrible and dramatic in my chest. Damn it, pull it together, Eli. This is really not the time to be having these feelings. I didn’t come here to seduce him. I came to help. And even if he doesn’t feel the same way, even if he never will, that doesn’t mean I can’t be the kind of friend he deserves. The kind of friend he’s been to me.
I take a breath. Try to calm the chaos spinning in my chest.
“Maybe we should try calling someone else for help.” I say, reluctantly.
“Laura or Clare, maybe? One of the witches. They might be able to figure out how to stop this monstrosity.” I suggest. It feels like a defeat to even say it. I wanted to save the day. I wanted to be the one who fixed his problem and earned his gratitude. But not suggesting the most obvious and practical solution would be, well, irresponsible. I might be a little dramatic, but I’m not reckless. Even when I’m working, no one actually expects me to SOLVE the magical problems all by myself. I’m allowed to delegate. It’s literally part of my job to find the right person to fix the magical mess and then use my talents to convince them to help clean it up. I should be playing to my strengths. Instead, I tried to be the hero. I wanted to impress Dami so I didn’t call anyone, I didn’t even consult a single witch. I just grabbed my little list of deactivation phrases and charged in like a moron. Sure, they usually do work. It was a fairly solid plan. But I also usually check with someone first. You know. Like a professional. I glance at Damien, hoping he’ll agree with my suggestion, but he doesn’t even look like he’s listening. His focus is laser sharp, eyes locked on the door, jaw clenched. I reach out and grab his hand to get his attention.
“Dami? Do you think we should-” I start, but I don’t even finish the sentence before he tenses. Then he straightens his back and exhales deeply. And just like that, he’s done.
“Okay. Screw this, back to plan A.” He mutters. Huh? Plan A? Wait… Wasn’t plan A… My eyes widen.
“Wait, Dami-” I say alarmed, but he’s already moving. He shoves the pantry door open like a man on a mission, stepping back into the chaos with grim, glitter coated determination. He strides across the kitchen like a force of nature, no hesitation, just pure, righteous exhaustion and fury. The coffee machine makes a low, gurgling sound, like it knows something has changed. Damien doesn’t even blink. He marches through the goo coated floor, leaving a trail of sticky, sparkling footprints behind him. I step out of the pantry just in time to see him wrench the kitchen door open, stomp into the hallway, and grab the fire axe from the wall. My eyes go even wider. Surely he’s not going to actually use that? He turns. And marches right back into the kitchen. I don’t think he’s even TRYING to avoid the goo any more. He’s just wading straight through it. Consequences be damned. The machine starts making a high pitched whining sound. Panicked, if that’s even possible. Damien squares up with the machine, then, with a single, full body swing he strikes. CRASH! The coffee machine erupts in a spray of metal and steam. Damien doesn’t stop. He keeps swinging. Over and over, hacking the thing into a twisted mess of ruined chrome and shattered circuitry until there’s nothing left but a pile of sparking, smoking scrap metal. Then, finally, FINALLY, the room falls silent. He drops the axe with a heavy clatter, breath ragged, chest heaving. He’s absolutely covered in glitter and purple goo. He’s dripping, shirtless and shimmering like some kind of unhinged, stupidly attractive art project. He looks like vengeance, rage and raw caffeine withdrawal… And I cannot believe how absurdly hot that is.
“Problem solved.” He says flatly as I just stand there and stare. If I didn’t already know that I was in love with him, I would now.
“I can’t believe you just destroyed a magical object with an axe,” I say, still staring at the glitter-drenched wreckage in stunned disbelief. Damien shrugs, deadpan.
“I generally find an axe destroys most objects.” He responds. I blink at him.
“…Fair.” I admit. It’s not a solution I usually use, but maybe he does? Damien wipes a smear of glitter off his face with the back of his arm and immediately regrets it as the glitter and goo smears worse.
“Agh, it itches so bad!” He complains. I want to laugh. But mostly? I really want to kiss him.