U.U.
Nonsense! You’re exactly what he needs. And who knows? Perhaps this will be your sweetest batch yet.
The message fades with a shimmer of gold dust, sparkling briefly above my phone like fairy lights before vanishing into thin air.
I blink.
Then I blink again.
Did that really just happen?
Yup. Definitely did.
I stare at the screen, floored—half expecting a second message to appear, maybe from a snarky celestial customer service rep reminding me to rate the magical matchmaking app on the App Store.
But no. Just me, my phone, and a lingering hint of cinnamon and sugar in the air.
I blow out a breath and rub the bridge of my nose.
“Perfect,” I mutter, tossing my hair up into a messy bun like the day’s already too much. “My love life is being micromanaged by a magical meddler with Wi-Fi.”
Because apparently, my latest Date to Mate match has arrived. And apparently, the Universe thinks I need help.
It figures.
Still, even as I grumble, something twists low in my belly. Not nerves. Not dread. Something else.
Hope.
Excitement?
No, that would be ridiculous.
And yet.
I press my palm against my stomach like I can calm the flurry inside. A quiet flutter of possibility I haven’t felt in years, honestly.
Like maybe Abuela was right.
Maybe I am destined for more than my straightlaced, church-going, SAT-prep-book-pushing parents ever imagined for me.
Maybe the weirdness I’ve carried since childhood—this sixth sense, this subtle second sight, this knowing—isn’t a burden, but a gift.
Maybe.
I close my eyes and try to force a vision, something solid I can grab onto. A face. A place. A sign.
But of course, that’s not how it works for me. The Sight doesn’t come on command. It comes when it wants to. Trickle-fed by emotion, instinct, and the kind of faith that can’t be faked.
By the time I give up, I’ve only succeeded in giving myself a mild headache and a strong desire to lie face down on the kitchen floor.
Great.
I sigh again, deeper this time, and shove away from the counter.
“Alright, Fates. You win,” I mutter to no one in particular. “But you better make him tall, hot, and emotionally available. Or I swear I’m adding raisins instead of chocolate chips to all my recipes!”
Grabbing my towel, I head for the shower.
