I don’t know what to say to that…so I put her down, then I open the door for her. “Come on,” I say. “Let’s go find you something smutty and floral.”
She laughs, bright and joyful, and I swear I could live in that sound.
The Bloom & Quill is small, but cozy and lush, every surface covered in books or flowers or little magical lights that hover midair like fireflies. Low wooden shelves spiral out from the center, each one carved with tiny motifs—hearts and vines and quills and bees. A little bell chimes over the door as we step inside, and the scent of rosewater and aged paper wraps around us like a hug.
A hybrid Joten–Mlok female behind the counter glances up and smiles, antennae quirking from a scaled head. “Welcome to the Quill!” she says. “Can I help you find anything specific?”
“Just browsing,” I grin.
Iris is already wandering into the shelves, her fingers skimming along the spines of books. There are novels from every corner of the universe here—re-prints of salvaged human romances, Merati courtly love novels, Jotun gardening guides for how to “grow” a healthy marriage. Iris touches each book gently, reading the titles aloud, grinning when she finds one with a glittery cover or a ribbon-bound spine. She looks like a kid in a candy shop—or a librarian let loose in an archive with no curfew—and I want to bottle the way she looks right now and keep it forever.
“You should pick something,” I say. “Whatever you want. My treat.”
She turns, one eyebrow raised. “Garrik…is this your secret plan? Lure me in with romance novels and then seduce me over annotated smut?”
I shrug, completely unrepentant. “Would it work?”
She makes a show of pretending to think. “Yes.”
I grin. “Then yes. It was absolutely the plan.”
We wander the aisles together for what feels like hours. She reads me snippets from the backs of books, makes fun of overwrought titles, and presses the occasional one into my hands with a whispered,“This sounds like us.”
One of them isThe Beekeeper’s Bride.
Eventually, she settles on three books—one cozy, one spicy, and one she refuses to tell me about. She’s got them cradled against her chest like treasures as we make our way to the counter.
The shopkeeper rings them up with a knowing smile. “Date day in Fablegrove?” she asks.
I nod. “Trying to impress her.”
“You’re doing very well.”
Iris blushes.
We step back into the sun, and she tucks her journal under her arm, lacing our fingers together again. Her steps are lighter. Her smile is lazy and full of contentment.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For all of this.”
“You’re welcome,” I murmur. “But I was just trying to keep up with you.”
She leans her head against my arm. “You make it really easy to fall in love with this place.”
I stop walking.
She stops too, looking up at me.
“Iris,” I say, voice barely above a whisper. “You make it really easy to fall in love.”
She stares at me, stunned for just a second. And then she smiles—soft and slow, like she already knew.
And maybe she did.
Because when she rises on her toes to kiss me, right there beneath the storytree’s hanging vines, I know two things:
She’s already mine.
And I’ve been hers since the day I was born.
