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“The weave is irritated. Your mate lives.” Zhenjun’s tone could have frozen coffee. “Consider this remedial practice in cleaning up your partner’s messes. A skill you will need if you ever wish to share a realm again.”

I bristled. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be all-knowing, you really have shit for people skills.”

Zhenjun’s gaze narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Angel’s out there, trying to fix a weave problem, which if I’m not wrong is your job, and you’re lecturing me about remedial practice.” I stepped closer, jabbing a finger at his chest.

“I should be with him, while you stand around looking constipated and lecturing me about pending tears.”

“I am not⁠—”

“Constipated? Yeah, you are. Emotionally, at least. You’ve had that same expression since I met you. Like you swallowed a lemon and a thundercloud and can’t decide which one to spit out first.” I tilted my head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Actually, maybe that’s just your face. Do you practice that in the mirror? ‘Cause it’s impressive. Really sells the whole ‘cosmic asshole’ thing.”

Nat made a choked sound that might have been a laugh. Zhenjun’s eye twitched.

“You will mend the snag,” he said, each word clipped and precise, “or I will⁠—”

“Or you’ll what? Unmake me?” I snorted. “Buddy, I’ve been unmade. It’s not the threat you think it is. I long for a forever nap with my hot boyfriend. Don’t threaten me with a good time.” I crossed my arms, mirroring his stance. “I’ll fix the tear, because that’s who I am. And by the way, Jon Jon, maybe try asking nicely next time. You catch more flies with honey than with vague threats and existential dread. Living offers both those on tap.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“What,” he said, his voice dangerously low, “did you call me?”

“Jon Jon.” I said, completely straight-faced, though I knew it irritated him. “Unless you’d prefer Que? Which sounds like Chewy. But you’re not a giant hairy alien from the best movie series of all time,” I paused, “or maybe you are, but Jon Jon is better.” I tilted my head to study him. “Or maybe you’d like Jonnie Cakes better?”

Nat made a sound that might have been a cough. Or a laugh. Or a desperate plea for mercy.

Zhenjun stared at me. A muscle in his jaw jumped.

“Jonnie,” he repeated, his voice flat. “Cakes?”

“Yep.” I nodded, with a pop on the P, warming to the nickname. It was so much less stuffy. “You know, ‘cause you’re so sweet and approachable. It fits.”

“I am the Marshal of the Weave.”

I shrugged. “Titles are just words, buddy.”

His hands clenched at his sides. For a heartbeat, I thought he might actually smite me. The air crackled, and somewhere behind me, Nat took a cautious step back.

Then Zhenjun closed his eyes. Took a breath. And when he opened them again, there was something almost... human in his expression. Annoyance, yes. But also—was that amusement?

“Fine, Judy,” he began.

I gaped at him.

“If your clumsy tongue stumbles so greatly over my title, you may call me Jon.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Stared at him.

“Jon,” I repeated.

“Jon,” he agreed. “Short. Simple. Manageable for even the most limited of vocabularies.”

“Did you just—” I stopped. Squinted at him.

He stared back. I threw my hands in the air and shook my hips, twerking around the narrow section of the library. Zhenjun looked horrified.

“What? You like me! You really like me. It’s a reason to celebrate. Wanna dance?”