Page 22

DORIAN

T he fire crackled in the main hearth of Briar Hollow Inn, casting golden light over the stone floor and timber beams that had, until recently, echoed with more memory than merriment.

Now, it buzzed gently with conversation, laughter, and the occasional clink of mismatched mugs borrowed from The Spellbound Sip’s overstocked collection.

The inn, once known only for cold drafts and colder spirits (the non-drinking kind), was alive.

Dorian stood near the foyer, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning the space like a man watching his dream walk around in borrowed boots as he plays host for the community event.

The lanterns flickered with warm amber glow, the scent of cinnamon scones and woodsmoke wafted from the open kitchen, and people—actual people—milled about without a trace of fear or suspicion.

It was working.

He didn’t dare say it out loud, not with the history of the house pressing quiet behind the walls, but tonight felt like the start of something.

Across the room, Autumn laughed.

Not just a chuckle or a smirk or one of those dry smiles she gave when she was humoring someone. This was different. Her head tilted back, eyes bright, mouth open. And it hit him square in the chest like a bolt of light.

If he hadn’t been done for before, he was now.

She wore a dark green knit sweater and jeans tucked into her boots, her damp curls pushed back with a leather headband that looked like it had been enchanted by someone with too much taste and too much free time.

She was talking to Hazel Fairweather and Cassian Drake, her mug cradled in both hands like a talisman.

He watched her talk, half-shy, half-sarcastic, and wholly present.

It did something to him.

She caught his gaze across the room and gave him the smallest smile—just a flicker. But it landed like a vow. He started moving toward her without thinking, his boots thudding softly on the old floorboards, like they remembered the rhythm of his hope.

“Hey,” she said as he reached her, voice low and warm like spiced wine.

“You good?” he asked, tilting his head toward the open room. “Any ghostly growls or wailing mirrors yet?”

She sipped her tea. “None. Just one mug that tried to flirt with me, but I think that’s more of a Nico issue than a haunting.”

He huffed a laugh. “So the house is behaving?”

She nodded, then added more quietly, “They’re not interested in the crowd. Whatever’s been stirring—it’s been personal. Centered on me and you.”

He tensed instinctively, jaw tightening. “They hurt you again?—”

“No.” Her hand landed lightly on his arm, just above the elbow. “Not tonight. I think... they’re watching. But not ready to act.”

He studied her face, searching for cracks in her calm, but found none. There was a steadiness there he hadn’t seen before. Not peace, exactly, but purpose. She belonged here, whether she believed it or not.

“Thank you for coming out of your room to be here tonight,” he said, voice gentler now. “I know this kind of thing ain’t your usual scene.”

“I was bribed with free tea and the promise of no matchmaking spells.”

He smiled. “Those might still be in effect. Hazel hasn’t denied it.”

Autumn glanced around, eyes sweeping the room trying to take it all in. “This place… it feels different tonight.”

He nodded. “It’s breathin’ again.”

“Because of you,” she said.

“No,” he said firmly. “Because of us. You being here, working with me, not running when it got hard. That changed everything.”

She looked down at her mug, quiet for a moment. Then she whispered, “I feel like I belong here. For the first time in possibly ever.”

Dorian didn’t say anything.

He just reached out and brushed his fingers down her arm, slow and grounding. She leaned into the touch, just slightly, and it was enough. More than enough.

They stood together near the hearth for a few moments, silence shared like a story too sacred to say aloud, both pretending it was due to the facade they had to play into.

Then, from the hallway, Markus emerged with a tray of enchanted honeycakes and a dramatic flourish. “Alright, you cozy lovebirds, who wants to try a dessert that tastes like first kisses and forest air?”

Autumn blinked. “I don’t know whether to be intrigued or concerned.”

Markus grinned. “Both. Always both.”

As guests filtered through the room, sampling local treats and quietly gossiping about the new life breathed into Briar Hollow, Dorian caught glimpses of what the inn could become—of the future he’d dared to dream about. Not just walls and wooden beams, but home.

A place people returned to.

A place people chose.

By the end of the evening, after the last of the guests from the Harvest Spirits Sampler Night had drifted back toward town—full of spiced cider, enchanted honeycakes, and far too many speculative whispers about the inn’s "mildly haunted" charm—Dorian leaned against the doorway to the foyer, watching Autumn stack mugs by the kitchen sink.

Her sleeves were pushed up, revealing the faint bruising from her last spirit encounter, and her hair was tied back with a ribbon that looked like it had been borrowed from one of Junie Bell’s cheerful impulse buys.

She didn’t see him at first. Her focus was on the rhythm—rinse, dry, stack. A methodical sort of calm. So different from the storm she carried when he first met her.

He approached slowly, not crowding her space.

“Need help?” he asked, voice low and casual.

She glanced over her shoulder. “I’ve got it.”

But she didn’t bristle. Didn’t pull away when he stepped beside her instead of behind her. Progress, in her own language.

“The townsfolk didn’t run screaming,” he said, offering a towel.

“That’s a win,” she admitted, taking it.

“They seemed to like the ghost trivia game.”

Autumn allowed a ghost of a smirk. “Who knew fake haunted history could be so popular?”

He leaned on the counter. “They don’t know it was fake.”

“Mostly fake,” she corrected.

Dorian chuckled and handed her another mug.

They worked in companionable silence for a bit. The kind that had weight but not pressure. She didn’t lean into him, didn’t reach for his hand, but she also didn’t step back. Didn’t put that usual steel wall between them.

He’d take it.

When the last mug was dried and set aside, Autumn exhaled and pressed her hands flat against the end of the counter, staring down at the soapy sink water like it held some kind of answer.

“This has been pleasantly unexpected.” she said softly.

“What?”

“People. Liking me. Letting me… be part of something.”

“That’s good,” Dorian said. “You just have to let yourself enjoy it instead of fight it so much.”

She looked over at him then, eyes clear and tired but open. There was no kiss. No dramatic swoon into his arms.

But she smiled.

And that, for now, was everything.