Page 98 of Hexed & Hazy

Thank you, Nerissa.

He turns to face me. We’re entirely too close, chest-to-chest, and his scent wraps around me like a security blanket.

“Every night with you is good.” He reaches back and smoothly turns off the water.

Step away. That’s what I should do, but he’s close enough to kiss, and I’ve never struggled with willpower as much as I do now. The step I take back is torture.

I clear my throat and avert my gaze. “Walk me home?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

He’s still as sweet as ever, holding my hand and walking me across the street once it’s all over. It’s the most proximity I’ve allowed us to have in days, and I savor the feeling of his thumb brushing over the back of my hand.

“Thanks for coming,” he says. “I know things have been weird.”

My brow furrows, and I open my mouth to speak.

What comes out instead is a yelp as I slide over a patch of ice and slush, my hand slipping out of his. I land right on my backside.

Seth stumbles to catch me, but it’s all so quick. Too late. And I can feel the cloudy weight of the hex’s magic around us as my ankle stings—just enough to make me wince.

And laugh.

The moment I doubt his hex, it insists upon reminding me of it. But Seth doesn’t laugh along with me, and it’s hard to say whether my laughter is amusement, shock, or pure frustration. Perhaps it’s all three. Chaotic giggles burst from me, enough to bring tears to my face, sliding down my frozen cheek, and he stares at me from above.

“Are you okay?” he asks, lifting me.

I wince, almost wishing I had remained on the ground. “I’m fine. Just my ankle—probably a strain⁠—”

“Damn it.” I’m in his arms before I know what’s happening.

He enters our house without knocking and sits me down on the couch, silently checking my ankle. He says nothing, his fingers digging into his temple.

“What?” I ask in a strained whisper. “What is it?”

“It’s probably nothing. A strain, like you said.”

He would know a thing or two about simple injuries, of course. They happen all the time in sports. Laurel has sprained her ankle at least twice playing one sport or another, and Seth was there both times.

Still, he stands up and paces around the living room. “Stay there. Ice. I’ll get ice.”

And he does, but not before propping my ankle up on a pillow. It doesn’t hurt that bad when I’m not using it—I’ve had period cramps that hurt worse—but I already know Seth is going to baby me about it.

It would be sweet if I couldn’t sense the urgency floating over him like a rain cloud, and the hex—that dreaded hex, it’s still clinging to him for dear life. He returns with an ice pack wrapped in a cloth, likely Laurel’s, and presses it to my ankle. We sit there in quiet, with nothing but the fire crackling, for several moments.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says. “I can’t keep hurting you.”

Maybe I should feel shocked.

But I don’t. It never comes.

In a way, I’ve been waiting for this ever since the flower incident—or perhaps from the moment we began seeing each other. Seth was never going to stay with me. Whether the hex or something else, he was always going to move on.

I just didn’t think it would be this soon.

“I wasn’t aware that you could control the weather,” I deadpan. “You’re not hurting me.”

“I am.” He gives me a pained look. “And I already hurt you for so long by not realizing what you felt for me. By not acting sooner. And I hurt everyone else, too. Maybe…”