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AUTUMN

A utumn needed out of the house.

Not because of the ghosts, though their presence pressed at the back of her skull like an ache she couldn’t reach. And not because of the journals or the burn mark Dorian was still downplaying like it hadn’t practically branded him. No, she needed space because of him.

That man—big and stupidly warm and heartbreakingly gentle—was getting under her skin like he belonged there.

She’d spent the better part of the morning patching his hand, pretending the brush of his fingers didn’t burn in ways that had nothing to do with magic. And the way he’d looked at her… like she was something important. Like he saw her.

It was unbearable.

So she left. Told him she was going to “gather supplies” in the town. Didn’t mention that she needed air that didn’t smell like cedar and yearning.

Celestial Pines wasn’t large, but it didn’t need to be.

The town pulsed with quiet magic beneath the cobblestones, in the crooked windows of every storefront, in the way the wind carried laughter like it was guarding something precious.

Autumn pulled her sweater tighter around her as she crossed the square, eyes scanning the familiar lineup of shops until she spotted the painted lavender sign that read Moonshadow Apothecary.

She decided to go in.

The scent hit her first—lavender and patchouli, layered over something darker and smokier.

The kind of smell that made your shoulders drop without realizing it.

The shop was cluttered in that intentional, witchy way—shelves of herbs in jars with hand-scribbled labels, hanging bundles of dried mint and marigold, and drawers that rattled when no one was touching them.

Behind the counter stood the owner, Missy Sage.

Autumn had met her briefly in passing and during one of the market days.

Dorian had warned Autumn not to even bother lying to her about their ruse because she saw the truth no matter what and would make it known to the whole town if you tried to play her.

She was eccentric and unbothered, wearing a caftan that might’ve once belonged to Stevie Nicks and a collection of silver bangles that jangled like wind chimes.

“Well, if it isn’t the ghost girl,” Missy said, not even looking up from the jar she was pouring into.

“Please don’t call me that.”

Missy’s eyes flicked to her, sharp as ever. “Then don’t wear it so loud.”

Autumn sighed and moved deeper into the shop. “I’m just here for restock. Wards, salt, something to help with spirit dissonance. And maybe something that shuts off my emotions.”

Missy snorted. “You want a potion for denial, honey, you’re in the wrong business.”

Autumn trailed her fingers along a shelf of protection candles, avoiding the way Missy always knew too much without asking.

“You ever get the feeling something’s watching you?” she asked, voice soft.

Missy arched a brow. “You mean besides the dead, fate, the townsfolk, and Dorian Hawthorne’s hopeful eyes?”

Autumn froze. “It’s not like that.”

“No?” Missy came around the counter, walking with the unhurried grace of someone who knew exactly how the world worked and didn’t need to rush to catch up with it. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks exactly like that.”

“I’m not interested in him,” Autumn insisted. “I’m just… playing a part.”

Missy gave her a look that could have curdled milk. “You don’t lie very well for someone who talks to the dead.”

Autumn’s shoulders sagged. She hated how easily the other woman saw through her. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s always complicated, baby.” Missy plucked a jar from a high shelf and handed it to her. “Here. Mugwort and vervain blend. Good for boundary work. Physical and emotional.”

Autumn accepted it with a quiet “thanks,” her eyes fixed on the dried herbs inside. “It’s easier when I don’t feel things. When I keep the work and the rest of my life separate.”

Missy hummed, tapping a ringed finger against her own temple. “Sure. And how’s that working out for you?”

She didn’t answer.

Missy reached out and touched Autumn’s shoulder, gentle, grounding. Her bangles clicked once, like punctuation.

“You’re not running from the ghost,” she said softly. “You’re running from the living.”

The words landed like a stone in Autumn’s chest.

She opened her mouth, closed it, tried again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Sure you do.” Missy’s smile wasn’t cruel. Just knowing. “You think you’re afraid of these spirits. As if they are different from any of the others you’ve met. But it’s not the dead who scare you. It’s the ones who might stay.”

Autumn swallowed, throat tight. Her gaze dropped to the countertop.

“Dorian’s got a good heart,” Missy continued. “He sees people. Wants to protect them. That’s dangerous, you know. When someone like that looks at someone like you.”

“Why?”

“Because you start to believe it.” Missy squeezed her shoulder once more, then pulled away. “That maybe you deserve it.”

Autumn clutched the jar in her hand like it could anchor her. The air felt too thick again.

She paid for her items in silence, save for the quiet clinking of coins and a muttered thank you. Missy didn’t press, didn’t pry. Just handed over the little paper bag and went back to her herbs like she hadn’t cracked Autumn open with a single sentence.

Outside, the breeze was cooler.

She sat on the bench just beyond the shop, the one carved with moons and vines, and let her eyes close for a moment.

She didn’t want to feel this. Not the longing. Not the guilt. Not the fragile thread of hope that tugged at her every time Dorian seemed to see her like she wasn’t a burden but a blessing.

He was wrong about her.

People didn’t stay.

Not when they knew the real Autumn, the one who still carried echoes in her bones, who couldn’t sleep without salt under her pillow and a charm over her heart.

But gods help her, he made her want to believe.

She pulled her phone from her bag and stared at the screen.

One message.

Dorian: Made lunch. Come back before it gets cold. And yes, I still have both eyebrows.

Autumn smiled before she could stop herself.

Maybe she was a little doomed.