One of the shadows slinks up beside her boot, then dramatically swoons across the floor like it’s fainting. Another follows, waving a tendril like a fan. A third forms a heart in front of her face and promptly stabs it with a dagger.
Aurora laughs. It’s not sweet or soft, but a smoky, ember-sparked sound that punches through me and settles in the quiet parts I pretend don’t exist.
I stare at her. “You’re laughing.”
She waves a hand at the shadows slinking behind her like stagehands at a burlesque show.
“I mean … look at them. They’re so dramatic.”
“They’re shadows.”
“They’re theater kids, Ezra.”
I narrow my eyes. She grins back, all teeth. “If it helps, I haven’t named them … yet.”
I raise a brow.
She leans in like it’s a secret. “But I am workshopping some options.”
I sigh. Loudly. “Of course you are. I expect nothing less, darling.”
As if on cue, the shadows behind her twist and writhe, curling into a fucked-up bouquet.
Long, inky tendrils form elegant, spiraling petals, while dark leaves unfurl with unnecessary flourish. One of them plucks itself free and offers it to her, trembling slightly, aching to be noticed.
At least they know who their queen is.
Aurora stares at it, stunned.
Then … fuck me, she blushes.
Not faintly. Not a soft pink across her cheeks. No, it blooms all the way to her ears and down her chest, like they’ve handed her a corsage and asked her to slow dance in Hell.
She looks up through her lashes, biting back a smile. “Seriously? I take it back. They’re not just theater kids. We’re dealing with peak 2006 emo energy.”
She gestures at the bouquet. “This one definitely cries to early Fall Out Boy lyrics. That one there is eyeliner. Just—personified eyeliner. And I swear one of them just whispered ‘rawr means I love youin shadow.’”
Aurora gasps and turns to me with pure mischief in her eyes, biting her lip like it doesn’t make me want to bend her over this fucking table.
“Ezra! Theyarethe black parade!”
“I don’t know what any of that means, but I know I probably hate it.”
“Yeah, well, the one pretending to be a daisy definitely has a LiveJournal full of poetry about you.”
She’s so fucking cute that I don’t even know I’m smiling until I speak.
“Whatever you wish, Aurora.”
I want to scream. I want to kiss her until the blush spreads to her thighs. I want to wring the neck of whatever shadow shit just made a flower out of raw void and hope.
Instead, I just sit here like an idiot while her little groupies preen.
Because apparently? I’m not the only one obsessed with her.
And I get it. Me, the shadows, anyone lucky enough to be known by her—we belong to her the second she sees us and doesn’t flinch, but smiles.
Ezra
