I shook my head, grinning. I liked Parker already. She had this easy confidence, like she’d decided long ago to lean into exactly who she was and didn’t care if the world caught up.
“One of these days, I’m going to ditch the commuter life and open my own spa—facials, energy work, CBD-infused everything. Just good skin and good vibes.”
“Well, you know who to go for honey scrubs,” I offered, meaning it. “I’ve got a lavender batch that would pair perfectly with whatever witchy, crystal magic you’re brewing.”
“I like you, honey girl.” She pulled out her phone. “Give me your number.”
I rattled it off, still smiling as she saved me under “Honey Girl.”
Professor Patel finally got the slides working, but Parker leaned in one last time. “Also, if you ever want an aura reading, it’s on the house. You’ve got this golden glow going on, but there’s a little gray cloud hanging out near your heart chakra.And I doubt it has anything to do with the Patagonia douche canoe.”
I froze, then let out a soft laugh. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to people who read energy for fun,” she said around a wink. “We’ll talk after class.”
And just like that, the knot in my chest loosened a little more. Maybe the universe wasn’t entirely against me today after all.
By the time I slid into the backroom at Thorn Tavern, my shoulders had finally unclenched.
The place always felt like a library that served beer—worn, woodsy, and unapologetically itself. The walls were all dark oak and old brick, the kind that had absorbed decades of laughter and spilled drinks.
The air smelled like aged whiskey and the faint, salty warmth of Totchos. They were the tavern’s claim to fame, a mountain of crispy tater tots smothered in queso, green onions, sour cream, and whatever else the cooks felt like throwing on that day.
Nachos, but better.
Family photos lined one wall—black-and-white shots of Nero behind the bar, a younger version of him and Nessa grinning with missing teeth, handwritten signs announcing specials from decades ago that no one had bothered to take down. The place had been in their family forever, passed down like a sacred duty or secret cookie recipe.
The backroom was my favorite part. Dice bags and character sheets littered the top of the oversized table, along with the first round of drinks.
I was the last to arrive, thanks to my forty-minute drive back from Portland. The rest of our “Bitchcraft” gang had already arranged themselves around the table.
Nessa, our campaign’s acting Dungeon Master, was busy flipping through her binder with the intensity of someone preparing for a bar exam. Clarke sat beside her, meticulously arranging her dice in color-coded rows.
Dani had claimed the corner seat, nursing a cider while checking her phone like she was expecting some disaster at any second. And June was listening intently to whatever story Jo was already in the middle of.
“. . . and that was before mytitigrilled Dean and I about how many kids we plan on adopting,” Jo said, rolling his eyes. “Right there at the dinner table, in between bites ofmofongo.”
June blew out a breath. “Oh,Titi.”
“I told her we were starting with a houseplant,” Jo continued. “If it survives, then we can talk kids.”
I dropped into the empty chair between them, setting my bag down beside me. “Sorry I’m late,” I said, shrugging off my jacket. “Traffic on the bridge was murder.”
Nessa looked up from her binder long enough to grin. “We saved you the good seat. And by that, I mean the one closest to the pretzel basket.”
Clarke didn’t even glance away from her dice rainbow. “You better not horde the pretzels like last time, Belles.”
“I’m offended. I only hog the salted ones.”
Dani pocketed her phone, exhaling like she’d been holding her breath. “Okay, let’s do this. The baby is finally down, which means I have exactly three hours to take down the zombie elflings, drive home, and fuck Brooks’s dick off before she wakes up screaming.”
June raised her cocktail in mock toast. “To Brooks surviving solo dad duty.”
Nessa laughed. “To Brooks surviving Dani’s vagina.”
The door swung open right then, and Nero backed in carrying a tray loaded with drink refills and basket of pretzels still steaming from the oven.
He was in his unofficial uniform—a black, button-down shirt, sleeves tight around inked forearms, dark brown hair pulled into a small ponytail at the base of his neck that somehow looked effortlessly cool instead of trying too hard. A few days’ scruff shadowed his jaw, and those dark eyes scanned the table with easy familiarity as he distributed glasses.
