"That's all I'm asking." Jeni squeezes my hands and releases them, sitting back with something like relief in her expression. "Now. Tell me more about this project. What kind of song are they looking for?"
The conversation shifts to safer territory—music and concepts and the creative process I know so well. We order more coffee, and then pastries, and the morning slips by in a haze of familiar banter and comfortable silences. For a while, I almost forget about the mark pulsing gently against my neck, about the five gray flowers waiting for their moment to bloom.
Almost. It's nearly noon when we finally gather our things to leave. Jeni has meetings to attend, she works in fashion, a job that somehow suits her bold personality perfectly, and I have lyrics to write.
"Same time next week?" she asks as we push through the café door and out onto the busy sidewalk.
"Definitely. And Jeni—" I catch her arm before she can turn away. "Thank you. For listening. For not telling me I'm crazy."
"You're definitely crazy," she says with a grin. "But I love you anyway. Now go write your siren song and try not to panic about destiny. You've got this." She disappears into the crowd with a wave, leaving me standing on the sidewalk with my bag slung over my shoulder and my thoughts still tangled in knots.
Try not to panic about destiny. Easy for her to say. I turn to head back toward my studio, already mentally shifting into work mode. The lyrics I started yesterday are waiting, raw and unfinished, demanding attention. If I can focus on the music, maybe I can keep the fear at bay for a few more hours.
I take two steps and collide with someone coming around the corner. The impact is solid, unexpected, sending me stumbling backward with a startled gasp. My bag slips from my shoulder, contents threatening to spill across the pavement. Strong hands catch my arms, steadying me before I can fall.
"I'm so sorry—are you okay?" The voice is warm, slightly breathless, tinged with genuine concern. I look up, ready to assure this stranger that I'm fine, that it was my fault for not watching where I was going.
Our eyes meet.
The world stops.
He's beautiful—that'
s my first coherent thought, rising through the sudden chaos in my mind like a bubble breaking the surface of dark water. Dark eyes framed by long lashes, sharp cheekbones, full lips parted in surprise. He's wearing a black cap pulled low over his forehead and a mask that covers the lower half of his face, but even with so much hidden, his features are striking. Memorable.
Familiar.
Recognition crashes over me a split second before the pain does.
It starts in my chest—a sharp, electric jolt that steals the breath from my lungs and makes every nerve ending fire simultaneously. Then it spreads outward, racing down my arms and legs, up my neck, across my scalp. It's not painful, exactly, but it's overwhelming, like being caught in the blast radius of an explosion I never saw coming.
My mark burns.
Not the gentle warmth I've grown accustomed to over the past two days, but actual heat, searing against my skin like a brand being pressed into flesh. I gasp, my hand flying up to press against my neck, and beneath my fingers I feel it—feel the change, the shift, the moment one of those gray flowers transforms into something else entirely.
The man in front of me, the man whose hands are still gripping my arms, makes a sound that's half gasp, half groan. His own hand moves to his neck, pressing against a spot just below his ear, and I see it in his eyes, the same shock, the same overwhelming sensation, the same sudden, terrible understanding.
The bond is triggering.
Right here.
Right now.
With him.
"You," he breathes, and even muffled by the mask, I can hear the wonder in his voice. "It's you. You're?—"
No.
No, no, no, no, no.
I wrench myself backward, out of his grip, and the loss of contact sends another wave of sensation crashing through me, this time painful, a sharp ache of separation that makes my knees want to buckle.
"I have to go," I manage, but my voice is thin, reedy, barely recognizable.
"Wait—please." He reaches for me again, and I see his hand trembling, see the same overwhelm in his expression that I'm feeling in every cell of my body. "Don't run. Just—let me?—"
I'm already moving, backing away, putting distance between us even as every fiber of my being screams at me to stay close, to touch him again, to let the bond complete what it just started.
