Shifting slightly, I notice the bag in the seat between us.
A white paper bag rests there, grease-spotted and folded shut, unmistakably fresh.
I hesitate before opening it, moving slowly, careful not to draw attention to the way my breath catches. The smell of fried dough, powdered sugar, and a hint of cinnamon hits me immediately.
With everything that happened at my rig, I had completely forgotten his comment about Cafe du Monde.
Something tightens in my chest before I even take a bite. The familiarity of it aches in my heart at the quiet way he’s always given without making a show of it.
I eat one in silence, powdered sugar dusting my fingers, using it like armor to keep my expression neutral, like makeup that might hide the heat gathering behind my eyes. Lucian doesn’t comment or give me a triumphant look. He keeps his gaze fixed out the window, jaw set, as if this is simply a thing that needed to be done, not something meant to earn a reaction.
By the time the Superdome comes into view, the bag is empty, my pulse has evened out, and something else has started to hum beneath my skin.
The walk to the green room passes in silence. Lucian doesn’t hover, but he doesn’t trail either. He stays close enough to me; he doesn’t crowd me, entirely aware of everything happening around us. Neither of us speaks. By the time we reach the door, my spine is tight, and my jaw aches from clenching.
I slip inside without looking back.
The door closes behind me, and the silence changes shape.
Korbyn is sitting cross-legged on the couch, her oversized hoodie bunched at her wrists, a half-drunk smoothie sweating onto the table beside an open tarot deck. Her hair is piled into messy space buns on the side of her head, and she’s humming under her breath—an old melody we never officially recorded, something familiar enough to feel like a loop meant to keep her anchored.
She looks up when I walk in and gives me a tired smile.
“Hey,” I murmur, letting the tension drain from my shoulders as I drop my bag by the door. “How was your run? Are you okay?”
Korbyn shrugs. “Yeah, I had some really weird dreams last night. So I did a quick spread when I woke up and thought about it while I was out on my run.”
Raising a brow, I sink into the chair beside her, grateful for the excuse to shift my focus away from the door. “What’d you pull?”
She gathers the deck and thumbs through it, drawing a few cards free with practiced ease. “Wheel of Fortune. Reversed Three of Swords. And the Sun.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah,” she says with a crooked smile. “Cosmic bitch-slaps incoming, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel.”
“That’s your entire love life in three cards.”
She laughs, then gestures to the space between us. “Do you want one?” She’s already watching me like she knows the answer.
“Sure,” I say. “Hit me.”
Korbyn shuffles with that quiet grace she slips into when she reads, her movements smooth and deliberate, eyes half-lidded as if she’s listening for something beneath the noise. Thewhisper of the cards grounds me in a way I didn’t realize I needed.
She stops, then taps the deck once. “Cut it.”
After I do, she draws the top card and lays it face-up between us.
The Lovers.
We stare at it in silence, then she slowly looks up at me and winks.
I don’t trust myself to respond. Laughing feels hysterical, crying feels too close to the surface. Although throwing the deck across the room does feel tempting.
Instead, I study the illustration of the two figures standing at a crossroads, connection and choice tangled together, something that looks equal parts divine and devastating.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, voice low and careful.
“No.”
