Davrin snorts. “You make chaos. The pancakes are just a byproduct.”
Iris is trying very hard not to laugh. Her eyes flick to mine—soft, uncertain, and a little bit nervous like she’s checking to see if I’m okay with this.
I am not okay.
But I also don’t want her to leave.
I clear my throat. “You’re welcome to stay,” I say, trying to keep my voice neutral, casual, absolutely unaffected by the idea of Iris sleeping under my roof again. “If you want.”
She smiles at me, small and warm. “I’d like that.”
Ivarr raises his glass. “Then it’s settled.”
Davrin raises his too. “To our new housemate.”
“I’m not—” I start.
“To Iris,” Flora says, toasting right over me.
I hate everyone at this table.
Iris clinks her oversized mug against mine. “To dinner,” she says quietly.
And for once, I don’t argue.
Because despite everything—despite the teasing, the flushed cheeks, the aching want that still simmers low and steady beneath my ribs—this feels good.
It feels like the beginning of something dangerous.
And I’m not sure I’ll survive it.
7
IRIS
The guest room is too quiet…or maybe it’s just that my thoughts are too loud.
I’ve been lying in this giant bed for what feels like hours, tangled in a fortress of oversized quilts and equally huge pillows, staring at the ceiling and trying very hard not to think about the way Garrik looked at me over dinner. Or the way hedidn’tlook at me afterward. Or the fact that his family clearly ships us harder than a romantic subplot in a dusty archive drama.
I roll over. Then again. The beds here are massive, made for giants, and I feel like a single sock lost in the middle of a laundry pile. I’m both too cold and too warm all at once, and the air smells too much like honey and wildflowers andhim.
I give up.
Quietly, I slip out of bed, climbing down the stepstool and padding across the wide-planked floor in nothing but my underwear and the massive sweater I borrowed from Flora that fits me more like a nightdress. I pause at the window to look out through the gauzy curtains and glass panes, finding the orchard growing softly in the moonlight. Fireflies dance through the trees, and everything is still. Everything isgolden.
The house creaks faintly behind me—just the usual settling—but it feels louder in the quiet. It gives me that uncomfortable sensation of being sleepless in someone else’s space, intrusive.
I just…need a second to settle my thoughts.
When I ease open the front door, the scent hits me all at once: ripe berries, sweet flowers, and the overwhelming scent of honey. A breeze catches the edge of my sweater, and I shiver as it brushes against my bare legs, but I don’t stop. No…I thought I would just go for a walk, but I’m clearlygoing somewhere. Because now that I’m out here, I need to talk to him.
To Garrik.
So we can start to figure out what’s happening between us…and where we go from here.
His cottage isn’t far from his family’s home, just past the orchard’s edge. I pass under an archway of blooming vines and into a low, moonlit path flanked by humming plants and soft, glowing moss. Every step feels like a choice, like I’m choosing him. The fireflies glow brighter the further I go, drifting in lazy spirals through the trees, casting their spell.
By the time I reach the cottage, the air is thick with warmth and alien magic…and he’sthere.
