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I consider his list.

"Those are all… fun."

Will's eyebrow cocks.

"But what about the traditions that aren't for fun? The ones you keep because they keep everyone else in their place. Because without them, nobody would know how things are supposed to go."

Will, to his great credit, doesn't cringe or grimace like so many others have during similar conversations.

"I'm sure my family’s previous generations had traditions, but as the island and society evolved, we let them go, Randy. We only honored what brought us joy."

Joy.

I almost scoff.

"Joy doesn't protect the island. Joy doesn't create order."

"That," he says sharply, making me nearly drop my cinnamon roll.

He strides over and sits across from me, pointing one finger at the table between us. "That is what concerns me most about the two of us right now. The island has protection spells that maintain order and safety."

I glower.

"You may not approve of all the updates, but they're not permitting monster hunters, human news organizations, or Comic-Con folks onto the island. You heard Laz. The spell only permits mates and people the island considers useful to the existing population. So demanding that we persist with tedious traditions or avoid change ‘for our own protection’ isn't relevant anymore, Randy."

I stare at my pastry. He's correct, but it's a hard pill to swallow.

"The old ways worked," I argue again, already knowing it's futile.

"The old ways did not work. The old ways were actively harmful. Our citizens couldn't find their mates, Randy, even if they were right in front of each other."

I meet his irritated, insistent gaze. He's pleading with me to understand.

So I try.

"Why do my views on tradition matter so much to you? My council stances don't affect you. If anyone had listened to me, the battle never would have happened and your garden would still be fine." The edge stays in my voice. "And humans are dangerous."

He grasps my hand, warm and insistent. "What makes you say that?"

I splutter. "Everyone knows humans can’t be trusted."

"Not me," he says. "Lawrence, whose great-grandmother was human, wouldn’t agree. Amy, whose parents appeared so human that they were shocked she inherited any shapeshifter traits, certainly wouldn’t support that idea. And Ivy, a human who's mated to our island’s faehound, probably doesn't consider herself dangerous."

He squeezes my hand. "So what actual proof do you have that humans are automatically a threat? You've known Amy since she was little. Lawrence bakes the pies you order for the festivals. Is he dangerous?"

"Of course not."

I struggle for words. He waits, patient, giving me his full attention.

"My family had stories."

He nods. "Mine did too. About scary humans. They also had stories about greedy leprechauns."

I flinch.

"Those are slanderous—" I start, but he leans forward and runs the backs of his knuckles against my cheek. I stop.

"I know," he soothes. "I would never assume that."