I’m glad.
Glad that I met someone like me. No matter how secretive. If this man literally glows in the dark like a nova star, then he’s not someone whose power can be dismissed.
And that makes us two.
Sadly, I don’t know much about magic in general, at least not anymore. My amnesia cut me off from most of what I used to know. What’s left are scraps, faint shadows, more like intuitive thoughts than solid facts. So for now, I decide not to dig into it, but just knowing is enough, strangely reassuring, and maybe it’s better left unsaid for now.
There’s even something vaguely romantic about it, like a mystery waiting for the right time to unfold.
Before I know it, we’re pulling into the parking lot of a huge supermarket.
My anxiety spikes. My fingers brush against Nathaniel’s old baseball cap, and I pull it even lower over my face, wishing nobody will recognize me.
I just hope it's late enough that the place won't be too crowded.
Snow circles around the car and opens my door. I feel awkward being treated like that. I don’t look the part of someone who deserves it, sitting here in a T-shirt and sweatpants.
Snow, on the other hand, looks incredible. I glance at him as he moves with this effortless mix of elegance and the ease of a wild cat. Loose strands blow in the wind, falling across his chiseled cheeks. He draws attention without even trying, tall and broad-shouldered, carrying that aura of aloofness, distance, and mystery.
And if I add the fact that he hasmagicof his own, then yeah, on my list of ideal guys, he’s at the very top.
The only problem is… I’m not perfect myself.
I’m broken, damaged. Incomplete.
That thought makes me hunch a little as I step out of the car, trailing after Snow like some lame dog tagging along behind the wolf. I don’t feel like I deserve a place at his side.
But Snow seems to think otherwise. Every so often he slows down and waits for me to catch up. Then he moves ahead again, and I fall behind, and then he slows once more to let me walk beside him.
It’s sweet of him, but honestly, I’d rather he just kept walking. For now, I feel safer hiding in his shadow.
Luckily at this hour there are only a few tipsy groups of students hanging around, probably stocking up on more alcoholbecause their parties ran dry. They crowd the drinks section and stay out of our way.
Students?
I realize I never went to college myself. I’m sure of that. First, I was homeschooled, and then… maybe I was enrolled in an English lit class?
My hazy memories suggest that I once wanted to be a writer. I even have a vague feeling that I used to post a lot of short stories on some free platform. But I don’t remember any details. My identity still feels incomplete, and that leaves me uneasy.
If Snow and I ever talked about our interests, our dreams, our plans for the future, what could I even say? "I’m not sure. I don’t remember. Maybe. Maybe not. I think so?" Perhaps it’s mercy from Fate that speaking is so hard for me right now, because whatever came out of my mouth wouldn’t impress anyone.
Inside the supermarket, the harsh fluorescent light stabs at my senses. I rub at my temples and hunch in tighter. Too much. Too many stimuli.
Luckily, Snow seems to know exactly where the nesting supplies are. We head that way, and I take in the shelves.
Of course, you wouldn’t expect a hypermarket to stock luxury goods, but the selection isn’t bad at all. The materials might not be top quality, most of it sits in the price range aimed at middle-class shoppers, but what they lack in fabric, they make up for in colors and patterns.
The long aisles are crammed with nesting supplies: tiny pillows, bigger cushions, bolsters, scarves, ribbons, cords, blankets, throws, long shawls, and a mountain of decorations, bows, flowers, even little plush toys you can pin into your nest.
Damn, these supermarkets are making afortuneoff omegas’ nesting instinct.
I stare, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of it all, almost dizzy, yet at the same time, there’s this strange thrill buzzing through me.
Snow watches me for a while, then says calmly, "I’ll grab a cart."
He walks off, leaving me alone, and I wonder if that’s on purpose. Maybe he wants to give me space, not hover over my shoulder, breathing down my neck? I appreciate it, because I really do need that little pocket of privacy.
My fingers trail across the fabrics. The problem is… I like everything. It’s designed to catch the eye: cashmere, satin, velvet, silk, or at least a good imitation of those fabrics, practically begging me to touch it. I can already picture what I could build out of all this, surrounding myself, cocooning myself, creating a space that’s perfect. A private zone of safety. A way to regulate my own emotions, to find comfort. Yes. I need this. Desperately.
