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DORIAN

D orian had never believed in love at first sight, but he was starting to think maybe it came in stages.

First was scent. That hit him like a freight train the moment Autumn stepped out of her car—warm cinnamon, old paper, and something wilder, something that stirred his bear in ways no one else ever had. Then came her voice—cool and clipped, like she didn’t give herself away easily. But now?

Now, he was watching her laugh.

And he was toast.

They stood just inside Pines & Needles , the warm, charming antique bookstore that doubled as the unofficial romantic epicenter of Celestial Pines.

The lighting was soft and golden, dust motes dancing in sunbeams like lazy fireflies.

Bookshelves curved and wound like tree roots through the space, whispering to each other when no one watched too closely.

Autumn was leaning against a table stacked with vintage poetry volumes, her eyes crinkling at the edges, mouth parted in a rare, real grin. Her laugh—low and a little scratchy—had just tumbled out at something Markus said, and Dorian didn’t even remember the joke.

Didn’t matter. He’d have carved that sound into the floorboards of Briar Hollow if he could.

“Alright, don’t let the bear fool you,” Markus was saying, his tone dry as the bone dust they kept in the shop’s back room. “Dorian looks like he bench-presses pianos, but the man once cried at a Hallmark commercial.”

“I didn’t cry,” Dorian muttered.

“You made a sound, ” Rowan added, perched behind the counter with a mug that read Don’t make me hex you . “Like a bear caught in an emotional trap.”

Autumn snorted into her coffee, and Dorian gave her a betrayed look.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said.

“A little,” she admitted, her voice lighter than he’d heard it before. “You were right, though. This place has a vibe. Not the haunted one like yours, way more relaxed and enjoyable.”

Pines & Needles did have a vibe. Books arranged themselves based on who needed them, the back room occasionally ate people for a few hours of personal introspection, and the air always smelled like a blend of old stories and fresh bread.

Markus and Rowan—the bookstore’s guardians—were as much a fixture in the town as Hazel Fairweather’s riddle-laced flower crowns.

Markus, all salt-and-pepper scruff and sharp eyes, had a way of seeing through people without making them feel skinned. Rowan was the softer one, all oversized sweaters and quiet knowing. Together, they curated love and literature like it was a religion.

Dorian sipped his coffee, trying not to stare at Autumn too much.

It wasn’t easy. She had her brownish-blonde hair tucked into a haphazard braid, dark circles under her eyes that somehow made her look more enchanting than tired, and her combat boots were crossed at the ankles like she belonged anywhere she damn well pleased.

He wanted to touch her.

Not just for the fake-dating gig or to appease his bear. He wanted to reach over, tuck that one flyaway strand behind her ear, maybe press his palm to her lower back just to feel her lean in.

She hadn’t given him permission. So he didn’t.

But damn, it was getting harder to remember where the lines were and they had just started this charade.

“So,” Markus said, tilting his head toward Autumn. “Ghosts, huh?”

She nodded. “Whispers, mostly. Sometimes memories. I don’t see them in the classic sheet-and-chains way. More like… impressions. Emotional residue.”

“Must be exhausting,” Rowan murmured. “Carrying all that.”

“Sometimes,” Autumn said, eyes flicking briefly to Dorian before settling on the shelves again. “But better me than someone who doesn’t understand it.”

There it was again—that quiet strength. She wasn’t flashy, didn’t strut her power around, but when she spoke about the dead, her voice carried a weight that silenced the room.

Dorian felt it like gravity.

Markus let out a low whistle. “Well, if anyone can talk a haunted inn into behaving, it’s you. Though you might wanna throw a few drops of vervain under the floorboards, just in case.”

“I’ve got black salt, enchanted sage, and an iron nail that belonged to a shipwrecked banshee,” Autumn said dryly. “We’re covered.”

Rowan blinked. “You have a banshee nail?”

Autumn’s mouth twitched. “It was a trade. Long story.”

Dorian watched her settle into the space, talking shop with the bookstore wolves like she wasn’t completely new to town.

She still kept her arms crossed over her chest, one boot toe tapping the floor absently, but her shoulders had lowered.

Her laugh had loosened. That wall she kept around herself had a few cracks now, and he couldn’t help but hope some of those were for him.

“Well,” Markus said, slapping his hands on his thighs, “if you two ever want to attend Couples Night, we’ve got one coming up this Friday. Love spells, tea leaves, and mildly possessed fortune cookies.”

Autumn shot him a look. “We’re not?—”

“We’ll think about it,” Dorian said quickly, cutting her off with a charming smile. “Thanks, Mark. Appreciate the invite.”

Autumn looked at him as they stepped back out onto the cobbled sidewalk, the door jingling behind them.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” she muttered.

“What, walking through town with a beautiful woman on my arm?” he asked, offering his elbow like an old-school gentleman.

She let out a disgruntled huff but took it anyway, sliding her arm through his. “This is still pretend, remember.”

He didn’t say it, but gods help him, it wasn’t pretend for him. Not anymore. Not with the way his bear seemed to recognize her.

Celestial Pines buzzed with midday activity as they passed The Spellbound Sip, where Nico Voss was arguing with a talking mug.

Across the street, Missy Hawthorne was stringing wards in her shop window with more flair than necessity.

Every corner seemed to pulse with magic and gossip and the kind of supernatural charm you couldn’t find anywhere else.

“You really like this town,” Autumn said softly.

Dorian looked around. “I do. It’s weird, and noisy, and nosy—but it feels like home.”

She was quiet for a beat, then said, “I’ve never had a place that felt like that.”

Dorian’s fingers tightened slightly where their arms touched. “Maybe you just haven’t stayed long enough yet.”

She didn’t answer but didn’t pull away either, just kept her thoughts to herself.

When she glanced up at him a few minutes later, cheeks slightly pink from the cool mountain breeze—or maybe something else—Dorian knew one thing for sure.

He was already in deep.