Cassia’s heat lightning flickered outside the window. Dahlia’s kitchen magic hummed approval. Narla’s candles burned steady gold. And Avine—Avine, who’d been exactly where Junie was standing three months ago—reached over and took her hand.
“Then stop.” Avine’s voice was simple, direct. “Not all at once. Not perfectly. But start. Take the risk. Let yourself want, even if you might lose it.”
“And if I do lose it? If he goes back to San Francisco and forgets all about the chaos witch who made him eat cheeseburgers in a parking lot?”
“Then you’ll be devastated.” Cassia’s tone was matter-of-fact. “And we’ll be here. We’ll drink wine and eat Dahlia’s truth pastries and curse his name with increasingly creative hexes.” Her grin turned sharp and protective.
Junie laughed despite herself. The sound was wet, wobbly, but real.
“You’re all terrible.”
“We’re wonderful.” Cassia corrected. “We’re also fiercely protective of our people. And you, Juniper Reed, are our people.” She leaned forward, intensity replacing humor. “So here’s the deal. You can keep hiding. Keep deflecting. We’ll love you anyway—that’s not conditional. But you’ll spend the rest of your life wondering what might have happened if you’d been brave.”
“Or,” Dahlia continued, “you can take the terrifying, vulnerable risk of letting someone in. Someone who, by all accounts, is already more invested than he planned to be.”
“The scent doesn’t lie,” Narla murmured.
She looked at her friends—and for the first time, she wanted to stop hiding from them.
“I don’t know how to do this.” The admission felt raw. “I don’t know how to want without immediately preparing for it to be taken away.”
“No one does, at first.” Avine squeezed her hand. “You practice. You let yourself want, and when the fear comes, you acknowledge it and keep wanting anyway. You build even though you know it might fall apart. Because the alternative—never building anything—is worse.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.” Avine’s voice held certainty.
Junie thought about her apartment above the ruined shop. About the familiar routines she’d built—morning coffee with Glimmer, afternoons at the brewing station, evenings with friends who knew better than to ask too many questions. Safe. Comfortable. Controlled.
She thought about breakfast with Leo. About the way he’d started leaving coffee outside her door without being asked, and the way she’d started leaving pastries outside his. About the library sessions that turned into late-night conversations that turned into looks that lasted a beat too long.
About the way she felt when he was near—like her magic was surging, but in a direction instead of chaos.
“I’m terrified.”
“Good.” Cassia’s reply was instant. “Means you’re paying attention.”
It was nearlymidnight when Junie stumbled back to her room, pleasantly wine-warmed and exhausted from emotional honesty.
Glimmer slithered down and then coiled on her pillow, scales glowing soft amber in the darkness. The snake lifted her head as Junie let out a deep sigh.
“I know.” Junie shed her clothes and pulled on the oversized T-shirt she slept in. “I said a lot of things tonight. Feel free to judge me in the morning.”
Glimmer’s scales rippled with what might have been agreement. Or solidarity.
Junie climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to her chin. Through the wall, she could hear the faint sounds of Leo’s room—footsteps, maybe, or the creak of furniture. He was awake too. Probably lying in his own bed, staring at his own ceiling, processing his own version of whatever was happening between them.
I want to stop being afraid.
The words echoed in her mind. She’d said them out loud, in front of witnesses. She couldn’t take them back now.
Maybe she didn’t want to.
Junie reached for her phone, typed a message before she could talk herself out of it.
Thanks for dinner. Even the terrible restaurant part.
She stared at the screen, thumb hovering over send. Deleted the message. Retyped it. Deleted it again.
