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“That sounds unhealthy.”

“That sounds perfect.”

I snorted. “You’ve known him for, what, a month?”

“Two.” She flicked a stir stick at me. “Do not disrespect my epic love story.” Sam touched the silver mark curling along her neck. The bond had appeared after she and Daniel had seen each other’s faces, recognition settling beneath their skin before either of them knew the other’s last name.

But mate bonds didn’t create love, despite what every romance movie and overpriced greeting card claimed. They created awareness. A constant pull toward one person, an overwhelming need to be near them.

It linked your emotions and physical bodies in a way that was hard to ignore. Protection came fast. Love came later, built through trust and by learning whether your divinely selected soulmate chewed with his mouth open like a cretin.

I dodged the stick and went to pull a shot. “Right. Sorry. I forgot we’re in the honeymoon phase.”

“We are,” she said. “It’s sticky and sweet and disgusting, and I never want it to end.”

I tried not to stare at her mark. It was hard. The pattern was beautiful, delicate lines curling like vines. Mine was nothing. Just bare skin. Same boring stretch of throat I’d always had.

Sam must have noticed where my eyes went, because her smile softened.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

“Yep.” I grabbed a pitcher and started steaming milk like it could somehow save me from this conversation. “Froth is my religion.”

“Liv.”

“It’s fine,” I said. The hiss of the steamer filled in the silence. “Really.”

I set a mug under the spout and watched the dark coffee swirl in. My reflection wobbled on the surface, all shadows and tired eyes.

A lull. The shop exhaled. On the television, experts argued over whether the freight attack constituted an act of war. One insisted national peace remained stable. The other discussed casualty projections.

Sam muted them. “You had a delivery shift last night, right?” Sam asked. “The hospital thing?”

“Yeah.” My shoulders eased a little.

Sam laughed. “You like that job more than this one.”

“It’s quieter,” I admitted. “People are different when you give them flowers. Even the shitty ones. They still act like something good is happening.”

“It’s because you walk in smelling like roses instead of burnt beans and broken dreams.”

She wasn’t wrong.

“Just think about all the weddings you get to see,” she said, pumping an unhealthy amount of syrup into a cup. “You get this gooey look on your face when you talk about the flower shop,” Sam teased. “You know that.”

“Don’t slander me.”

“You do,” she insisted. “It’s like . . . hopeful.”

“Or nauseous.”

“Liv.”

“I see a lot,” I said finally. “Proposals, anniversaries, apology bouquets. Everyone is paired off or wants to be. They get that glow when the flowers are for their mate. Or when they think they might be close to finding them.”

“And you’re surrounded by all that and still think you’re doomed?” she asked, leaning in.

“Some demons never find their mate,” I said, softer. We both knew it was true. Some marks never appeared. Some bonds never snapped into place. “Statistically, it would be irresponsible of me to have hope.”