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I yawn as I stir my coffee—though calling it coffee feels generous. It’s a desperate swamp of sugar and cream with just enough actual caffeine to qualify as something consumable. The kind of drink that gets you judged by serious people, which is exactly why I drink it. Also, I like things that rot my teeth.

I lean over the chipped counter in the makeshift kitchen we’ve been using, waiting for the energy to hit. Or for the building to burn down. Honestly, either would be fine.

Then I hear it—footsteps. Slow, weighted ones. Riven.

He looks like the embodiment of a bad mood, wrapped in black sleeves and sharper angles than usual. His expression is unreadable, but his exhaustion is obvious in the way his hand drags through his hair like it’s a punishment.

“Morning, sunshine,” I mumble, not bothering to turn around as I blow across the rim of my mug.

He doesn’t respond. Which would be normal. Except… he’s looking at me like I’ve just said something worth stabbing me over. His eyes narrow, hard and assessing.

I freeze, frowning. “What?”

And then I hear it.

My voice.

But notmyvoice. It’stoomine. Too precise. Too deliberate. Like a recording of me, but laced with a kind of intimacy I wouldn’t dare show, especially not to Riven.

“I think about her at night,” it says, soft as sin. “Not in the ways you’d think… It’s worse. I wonder if she’ll still want me when I stop making her laugh.”

Riven's head jerks slightly, and for a second, I swear he looksstartled.Not by the words. But byhow true they sound.

And I’m fucking horrified.

“What theactualshit was that?” I bark, spinning around.

The room’s empty. Just me, my sugar sludge, and Riven’s confusion morphing into something much more dangerous—curiosity.

“You tell me,” he says slowly, crossing his arms. “That came from your mouth. Or your throat. Or whatever the fuck is wrong with you today.”

I blink.

Nope.

Nope, nope,nope.

“That wasnotme,” I say, heart spiking. I glance down at my hands like they’re going to fall off or reveal hidden mics. “I mean, itsoundedlike me, but I don’t monologue about my secret nightly insecurities to the guy who looks like a rejection demon.”

Riven doesn’t smile. Heneversmiles. But the edge of his mouth twitches.

Just once.

“You worried your jokes are gonna wear off?” he asks. And that’s when I realize: he’s not making fun of me. He’s asking.

And I hate it. I hate how fucking close it is to the truth. How fast that fake voice peeled me open in front of someone who’s made of knives.

I swallow and down half the coffee to cover my pause.

“It’s probably the circle,” I mutter, rubbing at the back of my neck. “Residual magic. You summon a lingerie version of your favorite person and suddenly the walls are singing your secrets. Typical post-ritual side effects.”

“Convenient.”

“No,” I say, “what would beconvenientis if you’d pretend you didn’t hear that. Like anormalemotionally constipated immortal.”

He raises an eyebrow.

And I glare.