And that, somehow, makes me want him more.
“Cel…” His voice is low, steady—but heavy. “We need to talk.” He exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about it all afternoon—after I walked you back to the commons. Notjustwhat happened in the Cavern.” His tone softens, threaded with self-reproach. He looks up again, finally meeting my eyes. “You, here? At this school? It felt impossible. And then it wasn’t. And I guess I just—” He pulls in a breath. “I didn’t know how to act. I didn’t even give you a second to breathe before pulling you into that room.”
He reaches for my hand and gently tugs me down beside him.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I should’ve let you settle in. Let you find your footing on your own terms.” He’s staring at the floor now, fingers curled tight around the edge of the bedframe. “And then when you almost lost control… I was still trying to piece it all together.” He pauses, jaw tight. “But it’s real.You’rereal.”
“Noa, I…”
There is so much I want to say.
And even more I know I can’t.
Because how do I explain thatIdon’t even know what I truly am? That magick isn’t just a secret—it’s a fracture line inside me. And every time I speak it aloud, the ground seems to shift beneath me.
Suddenly, he stands, the air sparking with tension. “You said yes to me earlier,” he says quietly. “But I know you didn’t tell me everything.”
He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to. It’s the restraint that cuts deeper.
“Why didn’t you tell me? That you’re Magick? How long have you been hiding this—hidingyou?” He gestures broadly, hands rising in emphasis, as if trying to grasp the weight of what he’s just learned and how long he’s been kept in the dark. His hands fall to his sides, then lift again in a helpless, frustrated motion. “Did you not trust me? Did you truly notknow? Was itbecause of your dad?” His voice softens as he looks at me, eyes flicking back and forth, trying to extract truth from emotion. “What exactly were you afraid of?”
I flinch.
“You said it started at your lake,” he goes on, a shadow crossing his face. “But that’snothow magick works. There are always signs. I mean—gods, we spent practically every waking moment together this summer. I would have thought I’d be thefirstperson you told. Knowing who and what I am.” His voice rises, more incredulous than angry. There’s no venom in it—just disappointment. “I had my suspicions,” he admits, his eyes meeting mine again, searching. “And now…noweverything makes sense.” He stops in the middle of the room, again running a hand through his hair. “The questions. How you lit up every time magick came up. How you always dodged swimming. That time at the waterfall—Alissa’s bracelet?” He shakes his head. “That wasn’t you finding it, I realize that now. Youcalledit. And then the shower…”
My cheeks flush instantly.
Gods, theshower.
I think about all the things we did in that shower. But there was a moment—when we were wrapped around each other—when the water suddenly spiraled around us in a rush of sputtering torrent. I blamed the plumbing.
But that was a lie.
Noa’s gaze is on me again—intense, wounded, and laced with something else. Something like… betrayal.
“If we’re really doing this,” he says, quieter now as he moves back to the bed, “you and me… then we have to trust each other.” He sits beside me, our knees brushing. “No games. No half-truths. I know there are things you’re keeping from me—maybe things you felt like youcouldn’ttell me before—but if this is going to work…” He threads his fingers through mine. Warm. Steady. Anchoring. “I need honesty, Celeste. Real honesty.”
He gives me a moment. The space to breathe.
“Just—start at the beginning.”
Just start at the beginning.
It sounds so simple. Like untangling everything I’ve buried is as easy as choosing a thread and pulling. But there’s nothing simple about the truth. Still, something in his voice… in the way he holds my hand like he’s not letting go… makes me want to try.
So I inhale, steady and slow, and I begin.
* * *
I wastwelve when my magick first manifested. Younger than most other Magicks.
My father’s work had brought us to Bulgaria—another embassy, another temporary address. There was a lake near the house we were staying in. I passed by it every day on my way to school. One morning, I saw a boy climb up an old oak tree. A rope swing dangled from one of the limbs, the kind that arced out over the water like something out of a storybook.
The next day, determined, I decided to try it.
I waited until my father was gone—he’d always warned me to stay away from water because I couldn’t swim.
I remember looking up at that oak tree, thinking that its shadow was taller than our whole house. The swing was just two rough pieces of wood nailed together—crooked, unstable, like a child had built it. The rope was frayed and twisted. I grabbed it anyway and climbed up the hill to where I had seen the boy jump to move over the water.
