I sigh as I listen to the shower run and lean over the counter still. I let the glamour fall from my eyes just to watch the colors swirl. I don’t really understand what I’m feeling, and I was hoping they’d help me. They don’t though. They just flow fluidly in a cloudy black, serving of no purpose other than to describe to me what I already know, which is nothing. How is that even my subconscious—my biologically driven reaction that cannot be scientifically explained—doesn't even know what I'm feeling?

It’s all so unclear.

Here I am, willing to be used and abused by him, but I still can’t handle how much I hate him. It’s impossible how good he makes me feel. I shouldn’t give in to him. I shouldn’t, but I can’t not.

He’s just too good—too perfect. He’s a terrible person; he’s an asshole. He’s constantly drunk, and he ignores me constantly. Brennan is not good for me, but he’s too good for me. He’s beautiful. His nicely tanned skin and his luscious dark brown hair enthrall me. His eyes are cold and shadowed from the outside world, and when they fall on me, I feel like I’m more of a lab subject than a demon—like I’m meant to be picked apart and examined. He can strip my dominance and confidence away with a single glance, and it’s addicting. He’s so addicting.

You know how they say you can be addicted to a person just like how you can be addicted to a drug? Now, demons can’t develop substance addictions, but I get it now. I understand. It’s bad, but it feels so good.

I glance back at my reflection in the mirror and immediately gasp and back away. Staring back at me is a color I’ve never seen: a bright, vibrant pink. It’s so vivid that I almost don’t believe it. They’ve never been pink before. I’ve had lime green, yellow, purple, and orange, but they’ve never been pink. I don’t even know what that means. I haven’t even heard of incubi or succubi having pink eyes before. I can interpret most colors through rumors I’ve caught over the years, but the color of pink hasn’t been even a whisper on the lips of passersby.

My confusion and panic have my eyes fading away from pink into other colors before I can properly examine them, and I don’t even know what to think about to get them back into their previous shade. I don’t have any time to run through trial-and-error experiments either because I hear Brennan’s shower cut off, and I am forced to bring my glamour back up to hide my color-shifting eyes.

(I know what I said. I usually don’t hide it, but it’s a lot harder to explain to someone I’m around constantly. It’s easy to dodge questions on the street or with a one-night stand because I only see them once and never again. However, someone who spends a lot of time with me might raise some questions that I can’t answer, and knowing Brennan, I’d be some medical anomaly to him. He’d put me under a microscope, and I’d become his little “human” experiment. He’s so formulaic and scientific; he’d stop at nothing to find an explanation that doesn't exist. He’s the type to obsess over things he doesn’t need to be a part of, and he can’t be told off once he’s set his mind on something. He’d never leave me alone. Then again, I’ve been looking for his attention, so maybe it wouldn’t be all that bad to be under his constant examination and observation.)

I turn around just as Brennan steps out of the shower, drying his hair with a towel. He doesn’t seem to notice me at first, but then I catch the corner of his eye. He looks up in confusion.

“Oh, you’re still here,” he comments while throwing his hair back from his face and dropping the towel to the floor.

I look away from him and shrug. “Yeah, I guess I’m still here.”

“Go lay down.”

He says it like I’m some kind of dog—like it’s a command he expects me to follow. I do though. I walk with shaky legs to the bedside and get in. I make myself comfortable in the sheets and watch him all the while, admiring the way his muscles stretch and contract as he dresses.

“Brennan,” I blurt out, surprising even myself.

He raises his gaze to my eyes, and chills run through my spine.

“What does the color pink mean?”

“What? It’s a color; it doesn’t mean anything.”

“No, what does it symbolize? What do people commonly associate with it?” I clarify.

His eyes drop to the floor and dart back and forth in thought. “As far as celebrations go,” he starts hesitantly, “Valentine’s Day is closely associated. People tend to view females, especially young girls, as pink. Then you’ve got bows, nail polish, Barbie, lipst—”

“That’s great, but what about non-concrete things? Like concepts. Or emotions,” I emphasize the last part to push him in that direction.

He stares at me for a moment, analyzing me like he’s deciding whether or not to say something. He obviously decides against it because he looks away suddenly and says, “Well, if we’re being technical, Valentine’s Day is a non-concrete noun, but emotions? Uh, I guess empathy, romance, intimacy, tender passion, hope, love...”

He casts me a glance out of the corner of his eye as he runs out of answers, but I’m not looking at him; I’m staring fearfully into space, frozen and wondering if all he said is true.

The problem is incubi don’t fall in love. I don’t think we’re even capable of that emotion. It has to mean something else. There’s no romance between an incubus and a mortal; there is no “tender passion” or intimacy. There is nothing there except raw sex. Nothing else.

I jump when the bed dips behind me even though I know it’s just Brennan, but for some reason, it scared me. I turn my head to look over my shoulder at him before rolling onto my back completely.

Do I love him?

He leans over and places a kiss down on my chest. “Did you find an answer to your question?”

My heart flutters in my chest, and my stomach twists as I nod slowly. “Yeah,” I choke, “I think I did.”

He smiles and tucks his nose down into the crevice of my neck, biting down softly. “Good.”

He snakes his arms around my waist and pulls me so that my chest is flush against his. His fingers travel up my back slowly until they reach the zipper of my tube top. He unzips it slowly before throwing the fabric off the side of the bed and pressing our bodies together.

“Why do I never get to wear clothes to bed?” I scowl, wrapping my legs around his waist. “I get cold you know.”

“Because I like you like this. And if you’re really so cold, I’ll warm you up,” he whispers as his eyes drift close.

“You will?” I mumble.

He just hums a response and tugs me closer into him.

I bite down on my lip and push my fingers through his hair. “Alright.”

It’s unreasonable and both unscientifically and scientifically impossible. By all means, it shouldn’t be able to happen, but despite everything I know, I think it did.

I think I’m in love.