Page 40 of Hexed & Hazy

But I have a few things that ground me. Taking care of my body—and recently, learning to take care of plants. She’s the first person other than him I’ve talked to about this. Maybe that’s why she inspects me, her eyes dragging over me as if she’s trying to memorize something.

I lead her toward my pride and joy, my newly thriving calathea. “This… is… okay, I haven’t actually named it, but this one is mine.”

“You name them?”

I scoff. “Of course.”

“Wise man.” She coos and runs her fingers over the leaves. “You know, in my practice, plants are nymphs—minor goddesses of nature. I think she would be a beautiful one.”

“That’s nice of you. She’d be flattered, I think.”

Rowan tilts her head to the side, giving me a look I know all too well—scrutinizing, curious. It’s a Rowan look, so entirely her.

“I enjoy seeing you as a plant man. It’s a good look for you. Hands in the dirt. Do you wear overalls?”

“No. Never.”

She hums and bites her lip, her gaze never wavering. “You would look good in a pair, I think.”

I roll my eyes up to the stars. “Stop looking at me like that. You’re making my face hot.”

“Not sure how when it’s still so cold in here.”

She mutters magical words under her breath, and before I can ask what she’s saying, our hands light up. Warmth rushes through them. She takes my hand wordlessly, holding both in hers, and looks away.

And it’s not cold at all, not in here, but there’s no way I’m going to say that when she’s touching my hand and looking at me like that. She’s stepping closer. I could count the freckles on her nose, scattered there like stars in the night sky.

My gaze drops to her lips, but I only let myself look for a moment. “Yeah,” I breathe, ruining everything with a single word. “Kind of cold. We should probably get going. Now, right?”

She deflates, and I regret saying anything. “Right.”

And even though we don’t agree to it, we’re still holding hands on the way out. When she tries to pull away, I hold her tighter, and she relaxes under my touch.

I don’t know what I’m doing, or why I’m doing it, and those things matter. This can’t be because of Dave, right? That wouldn’t be fair to her.

But I can’t stop.

Between the warmth and just the feeling, the feeling of someone who has seen me at my worst and still accepts me, I don’t want to stop touching her.

Friends hold hands all the time, right? Not that Rowan has ever been affectionate. At big gatherings, she usually rejects hugs and goes for a handshake or a pat on the back. Why are we doing this now?

Actually, better question: why didn’t we start doing this sooner?

“Thank you.” She stops once we’ve taken a few steps down the path, turning to face me. “I know you have a lot going on in your own world, and that you took the time to do something so thoughtful for me⁠—”

“It was nothing,” I say earnestly. “Seriously. I wish I could do more.”

She steps in, close enough that the smell of incense, Earl Grey tea, and the slightest hint of cinnamon wrap around me. It’s her scent. How have I never noticed it?

“What… what if the hex has already worn off?” Her gaze flickers to my mouth. Again. I fight not to mirror it. “Do you still feel it?”

There’s more weight behind her words. It isn’t about the hex. It’s about something we’ve ignored for a long time, and I don’t know if I’m ready to bring it into the moonlight and give it a good look. But try as I might, I can’t pull away.

It’s too hard to speak. Much easier to lean in, my attention drifting to her glistening lips. “I don’t know.”

Yes, I still felt the hex. All day. All night. Heaviness. Sleepless. But here, with Rowan, the world is lighter. She’s pure moonlight, a beacon in this shadow that’s been lingering around me.

“We would have to test it,” she says, “as with any important scientific theory.”