***
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Can’t believe it, or don’t want to believe it?” Tally asked, arranging a mess of crystals she yanked from her bag and a shaker of salt I’d found behind the bar, like we were one candle away from summoning a coven.
“I can’t believe I’m indulging this nonsense,” I muttered, dropping her drink on the table and folding my arms like I was guarding what little dignity I had left.
She wagged a finger at me. “Careful with that negativity, Pruitt. Spirits can smell bad attitudes.”
I sighed, though it came out more like a laugh. “Jesus. Let’s just get this over with.”
She didn’t even flinch as she lit the candle like it was the most serious thing she’d done all day. “Okay,” she said, settling in. “You ready?”
“No.”
Her eyebrow arched, the corner of her mouth twitching. She pointed to the seat across from her. I stared at it like it might bite, then finally dropped into it, arms still locked tight across my chest.
“First things first,” she said, sprinkling salt in a neat circle like she was seasoning a pot roast.
I sneezed so hard I nearly blew the candle out.
She gasped, grabbing it before it toppled off the table. “Do you have any respect for the dead?”
“I have allergies. What evenisthat?”
She held up the salt shaker, squinting at the label. “It’s margarita salt. With Tajín, you goof.”
“It was all I could find.”
“You’re trying to ward off spirits with cocktail seasoning?” She gave me a look sharp enough to cut, then set it down and spread her hands, palms up.
“Now put your hands in mine.”
I blinked. “You’re serious?”
Her fingers wiggled in invitation. “It’s part of the ritual.”
I hesitated long enough for her brow to arch and that smug little smirk to form—like she already knew I’d cave.
And, of course, I did.
She slid her hand into mine without hesitation, her fingers tracing the ridges and rises of the calluses on my palm. I’d held her hand before, felt the weight of it, small but steady, but this was different—intentional, almost reverent.
And now I knew she didn’t have a boyfriend. Knew the only thing standing in the way wasthis—this charged, impossible pull stretched tight between us, like it had been waiting for one of us to finally say the word.
It had almost been easier when I thought it couldn’t go anywhere. When I could pin it on timing, or circumstance, or her maybe-boyfriend, or the fact that we were both living on borrowed time. But now? Now there was nothing standing between us. And that thought lodged itself in a place I didn’t have defenses for. Because if this thing between us wasn’t atemporary distraction from the chaos—then it mattered. Way more than I was ready to admit.
Her thumb gently brushed over my knuckles, and I didn’t pull away.
I didn’twantto.
Because the second I touched her, everything else slipped out of focus. The bar. The candles. The Tajín-laced salt. Her ridiculous setup. It all blurred at the edges.
All I could register washer.
Her hand rested against mine, warm and deliberate, her thumb tracing an absent path over my wrist. The steadiness of it anchored me. She didn’t make a joke or pull away; she stayed there, focused, her fingers tightening slightly as if to remind me she was still with me.
And I sat there, pretending I wasn’t already falling headfirst into a place I had no map to navigate and no tools to help me climb out of it.
