My fingers dug into the metal handle hard enough that I heard it creak. I yanked the door open with more force than necessary.
Hazel looked up, straight at me. Her expression was thoughtful, distant, but her shoulders sat level and easy. There was no defensive tension. No visible injuries. No sign of struggle. The worst of my panic eased, but my body still hummed with the need to verify she was actually unharmed.
She smiled when she saw me, and the warmth of it reached somewhere deep behind my ribs. “Brok. I wasn’t expecting you until later.”
I stepped inside and shut the door, scanning the shop the way I’d assess a training space for hazards. There was nothing obviously out of place. No cursed object left behind to harm Hazel.
Nothing… except a coat. It was draped over the counter, partially covered in wrapping paper. A gift of some kind? But for what purpose? A simple glimpse at it told me it was magical. Had Reynard tried to use it against Hazel?
“Hazel, what happened?” My legs moved before I finished thinking, eating up the distance between us in a few quick strides. The wolf scent was everywhere, and my brain kept insisting on a threat even though she looked calm. “Did Reynard harm you? Isengrim?”
“Reynard wouldn’t hurt me, Brok,” Hazel replied, shaking her head. “If nothing else, it wouldn’t be very joy-inducing. It would defeat the entire purpose of the challenge. And Isengrim was never here.”
Right. Physical harm would tank the Joy Coefficient and work directly against their strategy. My brain understood the logic perfectly. But that didn’t make me feel any better about knowing she’d been in potential danger.
I gathered her against me, and her weight settled into me immediately, solid and real. She wrapped her arms low around my back without hesitation. That instant trust made the worst of the tension finally drain from my muscles. Her heartbeat thumped steadily where our bodies pressed together, and her warmth started convincing my hindbrain she was truly safe.
For a few moments, neither of us spoke. We just stood there, holding each other. Something was bothering her, I knew, but I couldn’t push her. Not until she said something.
“Reynard came by earlier,” she said at last. “We talked. I’ve been a little confused since then. I ended up sitting here, looking at old pictures, trying to work everything out.”
She gestured toward the counter, and for the first time, I realized that she had indeed been looking at a photo album. A younger Hazel stood in front of TheCocoa Bean with flour on her cheek and a grin that took up half her face. Opening day, probably. More photos showed different angles of the same scene—balloons, a ribbon-cutting, customers lined up outside the door. She looked happy in a way that was uncomplicated, pure.
I cradled her closer to me. “Work what out, Hazel?”
She shifted position so we were both facing the counter, her back against me and my arms circling her waist. She flipped through a few pages. I saw photos of smiling customers with cakes, children’s crayon drawings of lopsided cupcakes, thank-you cards tucked between pages. Evidence of joy she’d created over the years, all documented and saved.
“If I’m really helping Barnaby like I thought I was.”
I almost couldn’t believe my ears. Had Reynard managed to sow the seed of doubt in her heart? That damn fox! “Hazel, of course you—”
“Hear me out. I know what you’re going to say. He’s much better now than he was. The flat cakes worked. My truffles are supporting him. Barnaby has his energy back, his joy back.” She slumped against me and sighed. “But what made him lose it in the first place? Was it just exhaustion? Or was it something deeper?”
The question settled heavily in my gut. I’d been so focused on fixing the symptoms—the fatigue, the poor performance, the declining Joy Coefficient—that I hadn’t stopped to examine the cause.
“Burnout,” I started, but the word felt incomplete even as I spoke it.
“From what, though?” Hazel turned around to face me and met my gaze. “From doing something he loves too much? Or from forcing himself to do something he doesn’t actually want to do?”
I opened my mouth and found I had no answer. Barnaby had been the Easter Bunny for centuries. He’d always seemed to embrace his role. But had he been content, or had he just been going through the motions because it was what he was supposed to do?
“He wants to keep the Title.” But even as I defended him, doubt crept into my voice.
“Does he want it, or does he just not want to lose it?” She tilted her head, studying my face. “Those aren’t the same thing, Brok. I know that better than anyone.”
I thought about Barnaby’s face when he discussed his duties. The way he described the endless deliveries, the expectations, the weight of making sure every child experienced the magic of Easter morning. He talked about it like a responsibility, like a burden he’d been given and had to carry. Not like something that brought him joy.
“The flat cakes give him energy,” I admitted slowly. “They make him faster, stronger. But they don’t change what he’s using that energy for.”
“Exactly.” She brought both hands up to frame my face. “Reynard said something to me about self-acceptance.About how there’s no greater joy than fully accepting who you are and what you want. And I realized…” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “I’m not actually sure I’m doing the right thing. We’re giving Barnaby the tools to keep doing something that’s making him miserable.”
I almost didn’t want to admit it, but she was entirely right. All my training, all my careful planning, all the work I’d put into helping Barnaby improve—and I’d never once asked him if he wanted to be doing this at all.
“The world is so often about who wins and who loses,” Hazel continued quietly. “About fighting for what you’re supposed to want and beating everyone else who wants it too. And I keep thinking…” Her hands stayed against my jaw, anchoring me. “Joy shouldn’t have to be about that.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying maybe the question isn’t whether Barnabycanbeat Reynard.” She held my gaze steadily. “Maybe the question is whether heshould.”
