It happened so fast, he wasn’t even sure he had done the thing properly. She had been caught up in the spider on her windshield, determined to kill it the next chance she got, the car in front of her braked and she didn’t see it.
It was pure instinct, spreading his wings and shooting out in front of her. He couldn’t stop her, not completely, but he could push her car far enough that she wouldn’t be hurt. In the distance he heard Nightshade scream his name, but it was too late—he was already slamming his hands against the champagne-painted van in an attempt to save her the trauma a direct hit would cause.
He woke up three days later with bandages around his ribs and a headache that felt like an anvil atop his head. He couldn’t see for the better part of three hours, and by that time, he had been subjected to a stern lecture at the hands of no less than four other Residents.
She hadn’t even known what he’d done until she saw him with his arm in a sling, and then she cleverly put two and two together.
He couldn’t lie, so he hadn’t even tried.
“You reckless little fool.” She sighed as he sat by her bed, keeping her company in the small hours of the morning.
“You could have died.”
“So could you.”
There was a long span of silence, neither one wishing to acknowledge that the other was right, and then she spoke again.
“Are you alright?”
She reached down and rested her hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “What about your wings? Are they damaged?”
He shifted away from her bed, his wings unfurling, a brilliant golden white even in the darkened room.
“The opposite, in fact,” he smiled at her, watching the light play across her face as she gaped up at him. “They’ve gotten brighter.”