Page 36 of Impawssible Magic

“You’re not over it. You’ll never be over it. That’s not how grief works.” Torin’s hand lands on my shoulder—heavy, grounding, warm. “But you’re not dead either. And that witch looks at you like you hung the moon. Whatever’s happening between you, don’t let fear make the decision for you.”

He leaves me alone at the bar, my empty glass sweating rings onto the wood.

The walk back to Whisperwind Charms takes longer than it should.

I tell myself I’m patrolling. Checking the perimeter. Making sure no one’s lurking in the mist with crystal patterns and dead birds and threats carved in elegant script.

But the truth is simpler. I’m stalling.

Because when I get back, she’ll be there with that sharp tongue that makes me want to either argue with her or kiss her senseless. Her scent will wrap around me. Her presence will settle something restless in my chest.

I pass The Crescent Cup, where Marcus is wiping down tables with methodical precision, his wife organizing receipts with supernatural speed. They’ve been together three centuries and still hold hands when they think no one’s watching. I pass Eternal Flame Candles, dark now but with an orange glow flickering in the back—Ember must be having a moment. The phoenix has those sometimes. I pass the consignment shop, dark and quiet, a hand-lettered sign in the window promising the ghost will be back from her break by morning.

Normal. Quiet. Safe.

Every instinct disagrees. I’ve been on edge since the ward alarm, since I found nothing in the mist but the feeling of being watched. Someone’s playing a long game, and I don’t know the rules.

I push through the door. The wards recognize me now—a development neither of us has acknowledged. The bell chimes.

She’s at her workbench, bent over the smoky quartz she’s been arguing with for two days, hair piled in a messy bun that’s mostly escaped its constraints. She’s talking to it. The crystal is not cooperating. The sight hits me like a physical blow—a certainty I don’t get to have anymore, some deep part of me insisting otherwise.

She looks up.

“You’re late.” No heat in it. Just observation.

“Ran into Torin at The Den. And Veren.”

“Ah. Fox gossip.” She sets down the crystal—the stubborn one, she calls it. According to her, it refuses to hold a charge properly and gives her attitude about it. “What’s the verdict? Has the town decided our fate yet?”

She stretches, spine cracking in three places. “I saved you dinner. It’s probably cold by now.”

“You didn’t have to⁠—”

“I know.” She moves toward the kitchen. “Eat it anyway. You look like you haven’t had a real meal in days.”

She’s not wrong. I’ve been subsisting on bar snacks and protein bars, too focused on patrol routes and threat assessments to bother with actual food.

I follow her into the small kitchen. She hands me a plate—pasta, some kind of vegetable, bread that’s definitely from Moonpetal Bakery. The domesticity of it makes my chest ache.

“How was the Den?” She leans against the counter, watching me eat.

“Loud. Crowded. Torin gave me unsolicited advice.”

“About?”

“Life choices.”

“The bear wisdom.” Her mouth curves. “Torin once told me that storms pass but roots remain. I’m still not sure if he was talking about gardening or something deeper.”

“With Torin, it’s probably both.”

She laughs. I want to make her laugh like that every day for the rest of my life.

The thought lands like a punch to the chest.

“You should sleep.” She pushes off the counter. “The couch awaits. I’d offer you something better, but—” She trails off. A flush climbs her cheeks.

“The couch is fine.”