His hands trembled. He noticed it distantly, the way he might notice weather changes or traffic patterns—an observation rather than a feeling. His whole body quaked actually. Forty years of believing he was defective, that he’d somehow failed at the most basic supernatural instinct, that he would never know what it felt like to be whole?—
“Hey.” Lunaria’s voice cut through the spiral. Her hands tightened on his, anchoring him. “Look at me.”
He looked. Her face was close. Closer than it had been in the archives, closer than it had been during any of their interactions. The Fate Lilies cast pale light across her features, illuminating the concern there, the fierce determination beneath it.
“We’re going to figure this out.” No sarcasm. No deflection. Just certainty. “Whatever your family did, whatever was done to you—we’re going to find it, and we’re going to fix it.”
“You don’t even like me.”
The words came out without permission. Defensive. Vulnerable. The kind of thing he’d never say to anyone, least of all the chaotic witch who’d spent the past two weeks pushing every button he had.
Her laugh caught him off guard. Genuine. Surprised. The sound of it loosened tension wound tight behind his sternum.
“I like you fine. You’re insufferable, and you have too many forms, and your color-coded filing system is a monument to control issues, but you’re also—” She stopped. Looked away. When she spoke again, her voice was different. Softer. “You’rethe first person in ten years who’s made me want to stay somewhere long enough to solve a mystery.”
The air between them changed.
The Fate Lilies pulsed brighter, responding to energy neither of them had named. The night wrapped around them, heavy with starlight and possibility. Her hands were still in his. Her face was still close. Her lips were slightly parted, and the beast under his skin was doing things it had never done before—not growling, not prowling, butreaching. Straining toward her with desperate hunger.
“Have you eaten today?”
She blinked. “What?”
“Dinner. Food. Have you had any?”
“I...” She frowned, clearly trying to remember. “No, actually. I haven’t thought about it.”
“There’s a diner on the pier that stays open late. Best pancakes on the coast.” He stood, pulling her up with him. “This counts as a work meeting. We can discuss investigative strategies over waffles.”
The corner of her mouth twitched. “You’re taking me out for pancakes at 11:00 PM.”
“Waffles are also an option.”
“That wasn’t a complaint.” She let him help her to her feet, and for a moment, they stood close, hands still linked. “Lead the way, Mayor Clipboard.”
THIRTEEN
HUX
The Harbor Light Diner was everything a late-night coastal establishment should be.
Worn vinyl booths in faded red. A counter with spinning stools that had probably been there since the 1950s. Fluorescent lights that somehow managed to feel warm instead of clinical. The smell of coffee and bacon grease and salt air drifting through windows propped open to catch the ocean breeze.
They took a booth in the back corner. The dinner rush was long over—only a handful of other patrons lingered, mostly night-shift workers from the harbor and a young couple clearly trying to sober up before driving home.
Their waitress was a woman named Marge. She took one look at him with a woman and nearly dropped her order pad.
“Mayor Holt. With a date.” Her voice carried the particular satisfaction of someone who’d been waiting thirty years for this moment. “Should I call the Herald?”
“It’s a work meeting, Marge.”
“At eleven at night? In a diner? With a pretty girl?” Marge snorted. “Honey, I’ve been serving food in this town longer than you’ve been alive. I know what I’m seeing.”
Lunaria’s smile was dangerously amused. “I’m a contractor. He’s my administrative oversight.”
“Uh-huh. What can I get you, administrative oversight?”
They ordered—pancakes for Lunaria, waffles for Hux, coffee that Marge poured with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d filled approximately one million cups over the decades. When she finally left them alone, Lunaria was still smiling.
