Page 7

AUTUMN

T he walk back to Briar Hollow was quiet, save for the crunch of gravel beneath their feet and the gentle rustle of wind through the trees. Autumn kept her hands shoved deep into her coat pockets, fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of her charm like it was a lifeline.

Dorian strolled beside her, quiet but steady, radiating heat like a walking hearth. She could feel it even from inches away—comforting, constant. It tugged at something deep in her bones. Something she didn’t want to name. All she knew was that she was in trouble.

Not the ghost kind or the hexed-mirror, cursed-bathroom, spirit-tries-to-yeet-you-across-the-room kind of trouble. This was worse. Something she had no idea how to handle.

This was emotional.

That damn dinner at The Spellbound Sip had cracked something open. She could still feel the brush of his fingers over hers, the way her magic had reached out on its own and wrapped around him like ivy finding its favorite tree. And she’d let it.

Hell, she’d wanted it.

That was the problem.

Dorian didn’t talk much on the way back, which should’ve soothed her. But it didn’t. Not when his silence felt less like absence and more like… patience.

He wasn’t pretending. Not anymore. But had he even really tried?

Autumn didn’t know what to do with that.

By the time they stepped onto the creaking porch of the inn, her nerves were stretched tight as ghost wire. She paused, one hand on the railing, staring at the warped front door like it might swallow her whole.

“You okay?” Dorian asked, voice soft.

She nodded. A lie.

He opened the door, held it for her. She slipped inside, the warmth of the house curling around her like breath. The air carried traces of honeysuckle and something older, more aching. The spirits were stirring again. Watching. Always watching.

Autumn dropped her bag by the entryway and turned to head upstairs, needing space and air.

His hand brushed her arm. She flinched.

Not violently. Not enough to call attention. But it was a reflex, fast and instinctive. And it stopped him cold.

Dorian’s hand fell away instantly.

“Sorry,” he said, already taking a step back. “Didn’t mean to?—”

“It’s fine,” she snapped, sharper than she meant. “You didn’t… it’s not you.”

But the look in his eyes that had turned from warm fading to guarded told her she’d already hit a nerve.

“Autumn—”

“I’m tired,” she cut in. “It’s been a long day.”

He nodded slowly. “Right. Of course.”

She turned, climbed the stairs two at a time, shut the door behind her before the guilt could sink in fully.

Then she leaned against it, heart pounding like she’d just outrun something.

Because she had.

Him.

No, that wasn’t fair. She hadn’t run from Dorian. She’d run from herself.

Her past curled up like smoke around the edges of her thoughts. A thousand moments that had taught her that getting close meant getting hurt. That love was a leash, not a home. That the more someone saw her, the more it would eventually cost her.

Her mother’s voice whispered from memory, You scare people, Autumn. They don’t understand. And when people don’t understand, they leave.

And so she had learned to stay small. Stay distant. To let people get just close enough to think they knew her, but never enough to see where she really bled.

And then came Dorian with his bad jokes and steady hands and eyes that looked at her like she was safe.

She couldn’t trust that. She wasn’t sure how to trust that.

Autumn sank onto the bed, hands trembling slightly. She lit a small lavender candle, the flame steady even if she wasn’t. The light flickered over her fingers as she rubbed the red jasper stone between her palms, grounding herself.

“I don’t do this,” she whispered to the room. “I don’t feel like this.”

But her magic betrayed her. It still hummed in her skin, responding to his presence even when he wasn’t in the room.

It had reached for him, claimed him, in the way only her gift could.

And that terrified her more than any spirit ever had.

Because what if she let him in, and he left? What if he stayed, and she broke?

There was a knock at the door.

Autumn stiffened.

“Yeah?” she called.

Dorian’s voice, low and cautious. “Left a cup of tea outside your door. Just chamomile. No tricks.”

She didn’t answer.

“Sleep well, Autumn,” he added after a moment, then his footsteps receded down the hall.

She waited a full minute before opening the door.

The mug sat there, steam still curling from the rim. No note. No message. Just warmth.

She picked it up with careful hands, brought it to her lips.

It tasted like honey and peace and something that almost made her cry. She sipped it anyway, watching the moonlight spill across the floorboards.

In that moment of weakness, she let herself wonder what it might feel like to stay.