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DORIAN

D orian didn’t do dates. Not real ones, not fake ones, and definitely not ones involving emotionally volatile beverages served by gossip-hungry potion witches.

There he was, standing outside The Spellbound Sip in his cleanest jeans and a button-down shirt that didn’t smell like sawdust or regret, waiting for Autumn like a damn schoolboy with a crush.

Not that he had a crush.

He had… interest. Respect. Deep, gnawing, can’t-sleep-want-to-watch-her-breathe-through-a-haunting-level admiration. That wasn’t the same thing. But he had to do this. She had been here a couple of days and he knew people were questioning his lie, so, it was time for a public appearance.

The bell over the café door jingled as he pushed it open, stepping into the warmth and magic of the shop. It smelled like roasted espresso and cinnamon, and something sweeter hidden underneath—hope, maybe. Or trouble.

Probably both.

“Dorian Hawthorne,” Nico Voss greeted from behind the counter, their voice laced with all the smug delight of someone who knew things they shouldn’t. “We were starting to think you got cold feet.”

“Just warm boots,” he said easily, tugging at his collar. “She here?”

“Oh, she’s here,” Nico purred, eyes gleaming as they tilted their head toward the back corner.

And there she was.

Autumn Sinclair, perched in a candlelit booth like she wasn’t fully convinced she should be there. Her brownish-blonde hair was loosely curled, soft around her face, and her violet-blue eyes were wary as always—but they softened when they met his. Or so he thought.

His bear perked up immediately. It had been restless since she arrived—twitchy and over-aware, pacing just under his skin. But when her gaze touched him, everything stilled.

Dorian crossed the room slowly, every step careful. Measured. The fake-dating plan was hers as much as his now, but this moment? This was something else. Something unscripted.

“You clean up nice,” she said, voice wry, but her eyes flicked down his chest like she approved.

“You look like you just broke a poet’s heart,” he said. “Which, honestly, is kinda what I expected.”

“Flattery’ll get you a seat. Maybe.”

He slid into the booth across from her, the table small enough their knees brushed beneath it. Her boot was warm against his shin.

“I appreciate you agreeing to this,” he said after a beat. “Even if it’s mostly for show.”

She looked down at her menu—handwritten, enchanted to change ink depending on the drinker’s mood. Hers currently read guarded with a chance of emotional thunderstorms.

“You’re lucky I’m bored,” she said, flipping it closed. “And hungry.”

“Then let’s order before Nico decides to lace our pastries with truth serum.”

Too late.

Their drinks arrived before they finished deciding—two steaming mugs that shimmered faintly at the rim. One glowed a soft violet. The other pulsed gold.

“Special blend tonight,” Nico said, placing the mugs with a theatrical flourish. “Crafted to reveal just enough to keep things interesting. Drink wisely.”

“Define wisely,” Autumn muttered.

“Not at all,” Nico whispered back, then disappeared into the back with a giggle.

Dorian eyed his cup suspiciously. “What’s in this?”

Autumn sniffed hers. “Guilt and maybe rosemary.”

They drank anyway.

It hit almost instantly—a warmth blooming low in his chest, not alcohol-warm, but familiar. Like the scent of her had taken root in his lungs and was now curling upward through his bloodstream. Her magic brushed his aura like a kiss—soft, careful, but undeniable.

He watched her fingers curl around her mug, saw the moment her shoulders dropped. Her mouth parted slightly in surprise.

“You feel it too,” he said quietly.

She nodded. “It’s… you.”

“No,” he said. “It’s us. ”

Her eyes flicked to his, wide with something unspoken. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s a lie.”

He glanced down at the tea like she had forgotten already. “It’s not.”

She stared at him. And for the first time since he met her, she didn’t deflect. Didn’t joke or scoff.

“I’m not made for this,” she said. “I don’t do relationships. I do hauntings and salt lines and leaving before things get messy.”

“And I build things that last,” he said. “Doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate what’s temporary. But this? This doesn’t feel temporary.”

The magic pulsed between them—thicker now. Her scent wrapped around him like the woods after rain, and his bear rumbled in his chest, pushing forward with something feral and possessive.

Mine , it whispered.

Dorian gritted his teeth. This wasn’t the time.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, voice barely a breath. “That’s why I push.”

“I don’t bruise easy.”

“I do. ” Her fingers tightened on the mug. “And when people see me, really see me, they leave. Or worse. They try to fix me.”

He reached across the table, his hand warm over hers.

“I’m not here to fix you, Autumn. I just want to sit in your shadows and know the shape of them.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Her hand then slowly turned beneath his, fingers threading through his deliberately.

“I hate how good that line was,” she whispered.

He grinned. “It just came to me.”

“Liar.”

“Still not possible.”

They stayed like that with their hands linked, drinks barely touched as the café hummed around them. Other tables filled. Laughter bubbled. But in that booth, beneath the twinkle lights and slow jazz, something sacred settled between them.

It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t a promise.

But it was enough to make Dorian think maybe he wasn’t going to have to play pretend for long.