“Less than two weeks,” she said suddenly.
He looked up, found her studying him. “Twelve days.”
She nodded, returning to her plate. “Right. Twelve days.”
He gripped his fork tighter. Stayed in his chair. Didn’t reach across the table to thread his fingers through hers. Didn’t ask what happened after twelve days, when the trial ended, and their reason for being together evaporated like morning mist.
“Marcus?” She set down her fork. “What happens after?”
He looked up, found her watching him. “After the trial?”
“After everything. When I testify and Viktor goes to prison. When there’s no legal reason for you to be here anymore.”
Neither of them moved.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”
“Me too.” She laughed, but it was shaky. “Not very successfully.”
The firelight caught the copper in her hair. Marcus was imagining Sunday mornings in this cabin, making breakfast without burning the toast. Well — making breakfast and only slightly burning the toast. He wasn’t delusional. The image was so specific it hurt.
“Willowbrook isn’t that far from Boston,” he said slowly. “Three hours, maybe. Less if I drove the way I did getting you out of the city.”
“You’d visit?”
“Visit. Consult on local supernatural cases. Find excuses to be here more than there.” He reached across the table, finally letting himself take her hand. “I’ve spent five hundred years building a career, Hazel. I never once wondered if there might be something more important.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m wondering.”
She turned her palm up, threading their fingers together. The purple-gold light of their combined magic flickered softly in the dim room.
“The shop is important to me,” she said. “My clients. This community, even when they don’t deserve my loyalty.”
“I know.”
“But maybe…” She bit her lip. “Maybe those things don’t have to be all I have. Maybe there’s room for something else. Someone else.”
Marcus brought their joined hands to his lips. “We could make it work. Long distance at first, then… we figure it out as we go.”
“Is that your professional legal opinion?”
“It’s my completely unprofessional personal hope.” He smiled. “I’m not good at this, Hazel. At feelings, at vulnerability. But I’m willing to learn. If you are.”
“I’m terrified,” she admitted.
“So am I.”
“Good.” She squeezed his hand. “Terror means we’re paying attention.”
They sat like that, hands clasped across the table, letting themselves believe.
Then Azrael jumped onto the table, scattering papers and shattering the moment.
“Subtle,” Hazel muttered, pulling her hand back.
“I aim to please.” The familiar settled between them, tail swishing. “Also, there’s something at the perimeter. Probably nothing, but someone should check.”
