Page 38 of Impawssible Magic

She’s quiet for a moment. Just looking at me, the tourmaline turning slowly in her fingers.

“Are you staying?”

The couch. All the very good reasons I’d been repeating to myself all night.

“Yes.”

She nods. Goes back to bed. I hear her door close—not the click of a lock, just the soft sound of someone settling in.

I stay at the bottom of the stairs for a long time.

Something settles in my chest—the constant hum of urgency loosening its grip, just for now.

Then I go back to the couch and pretend I wasn’t watching over her all night.

The lie tastes like copper. Like hope. Like the beginning of something I’m too scared to name.

NINE

LEIRE

Iwake to the smell of coffee.

Then memory floods back. The ward alarm. Aslan hunting through the mist. His voice, rough and final.

And now there’s coffee.

I push upright, shoving hair out of my face. Sunlight streams through my bedroom window—later than I usually sleep. The mist has thinned to a shimmer over the rooftops. A good sign, according to locals. Calm magic. Nothing stirring.

I grab a cardigan and pad downstairs, bare feet silent on the wooden steps.

He’s still on the couch.

Not sleeping—I’m not sure he slept at all. He’s sitting with his back against the armrest, legs stretched out, watching the door like he’s been staring at it for hours. Which he probably has. The morning light catches the sharp angles of his face.

Unfairly attractive. That’s the only way to describe it. The man spent the night keeping watch over my shop, and he looks like he belongs on the cover of a paranormal romance novel. Meanwhile, I probably look like a pixie dragged me backward through a hedge and then through a second hedge for good measure. My hair has achieved sentience and is attempting to escape my skull in multiple directions.

“Coffee’s in the kitchen.” His voice is scraped thin. Tired, maybe. Or just morning-raw. “Didn’t know how you take it.”

“You made coffee.”

“Your machine has four buttons. I managed.”

I move to the kitchen, hyperaware of him watching me. The space behind the counter is small—smaller with him in my peripheral vision. I pour two cups, the rich aroma filling the air. My hands are steadier than they should be, considering. Add sugar to mine, stir it longer than necessary just to have an excuse not to turn around yet.

I carry both cups back to the main room. When I hold one out to him, he takes it without comment. Our fingers don’t touch. I’m very careful about that.

I settle into the chair across from him, tucking my feet underneath me. The coffee is good. Strong. He didn’t skimp on the grounds.

We drink in silence. Not awkward—that’s the strange part. It should be awkward. Last night we almost... and then the wards, and someone watching, and he stayed. On my couch. All night.

But the silence is comfortable. Easy. Like we’ve done this before, which we haven’t.

“Anything after I fell asleep?”

“Quiet.” He takes a long drink. “Whoever it was didn’t come back.”

“Yet.”