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I slumped in the passenger seat while Frosty drove us to town.

Yes, my three-foot rooster familiar drives.

He installed custom pedal extensions in my ancient Volvo and wears special driving gloves over his wing feathers.

It's less weird than it sounds. Actually, no, it's exactly as weird as it sounds.

"You could cancel," Frosty suggested, expertly navigating a curve. "Fake a magical emergency. Cauldron explosion. Hex gone wrong."

"Roger would know. He always knows." I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass. "Besides, I already paid for this session, and my cheapness outweighs my avoidance issues."

Roger's office sat above the town's only laundromat, which meant therapy always smelled faintly of fabric softener and poor life choices. I trudged up the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

I pushed open the door and was immediately assaulted by the newest addition to Roger's "art" collection—an enormous canvas depicting what appeared to be two abstract figures in a position that defied several laws of physics.

"Do you like it?" Roger appeared from his inner office, gesturing proudly at the monstrosity. "It's called 'Tantric Tuesday.'"

"It looks like someone threw paint at two octopuses while they were mating."

"That's exactly what the artist said! You have an eye." He ushered me inside. "So, how's life with Mr. Warlock Wonder-Dick?"

I choked on air. "We are NOT discussing Lincoln's... anatomy."

"Fine, fine." Roger dropped into his chair, notepad ready. "How about we discuss why you haven't told him about your meeting with Zelda? Three days and counting."

I narrowed my eyes. "How do you even know about that?"

"Small magical town, big magical gossip." He tapped his pen against the pad. "Why are you keeping Lincoln at arm's length? And don't give me that constipated look—you know exactly what I'm talking about."

"I'm not keeping him anywhere. He's in New York, doing important New York things with important New York people."

"While secretly buying property in your town." Roger leaned forward. "Interesting that you're not curious about that."

I picked at a loose thread on my sweater. "Maybe I don't want to know."

"Because?"

"Because what if it's not what I think? What if he's just diversifying his investment portfolio or whatever rich people do?

" The words tumbled out faster than I could filter them.

"Or worse, what if it is what I think, and he's planning some grand gesture without asking me, and then realizes small-town life with me isn't what he expected, and he goes back to his real life and?—"

"Ah." Roger's expression softened. "There it is."

I stared at Roger, hating how easily he'd zeroed in on my deepest fear.

"So what if I'm afraid?" I crossed my arms. "Lincoln has this whole glamorous life in New York with fancy cocktail parties and intellectual conversations about books. I have...a cottage in a town called Assjacket and conversations with poultry."

"Hey now," Frosty called from the waiting room where he was thumbing through a magazine with his wing tips. "I'll have you know I'm exceptionally well-read poultry."

Roger ignored him. "You think you're not enough."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." He leaned back in his chair. "Chloe, has it occurred to you that maybe—just maybe—Lincoln is buying property here because he wants to be closer to you?"

"That's worse," I mumbled.

"How is that worse?"

"Because then I'd have to believe he actually wants me." The admission felt like pulling out a splinter—sharp, quick pain followed by relief.

Roger's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then smirked. "Speaking of your feathered Socrates, he just texted me that Lincoln called your house phone while you were driving here."

My heart did a pathetic little flip. "And?"

"And nothing. That's all Frosty said." Roger tapped his pen against his notepad. "Interesting that your familiar is texting your therapist about your boyfriend."

"It's not interesting, it's annoying. And inappropriate. And?—"

"A sign that everyone in your life is conspiring to make you happy despite your best efforts to sabotage yourself?"

I slumped in my chair. "I hate when you make sense."

"It's literally my job." Roger set his notepad aside. "Here's your homework: call Lincoln back and ask him directly about the property purchases. Use your words like a big girl witch."

"I'd rather drink a potion made from toad warts."

"That can be arranged too." Roger grinned. "But I think a conversation would be less nauseating."

"Debatable," I muttered, but I knew he was right.

I dragged myself through my front door, Roger's homework assignment hanging over me like a guillotine.

The emotional excavation of therapy had left me hollow, my nerves raw and exposed.

All I wanted was to curl up with a book and pretend the outside world—particularly the part containing tall, handsome warlocks with property-buying habits—didn't exist.

"Welcome back to the nest of neurosis," Frosty said as he walked ahead me into the kitchen. "Therapy go well, or should I hide the sharp objects?"

"Very funny." I dropped my bag and followed Frosty into the kitchen to find him now standing on a step stool at the counter, putting chocloate into a saucepan. He wore the tiny reading glasses perched on his beak that he insisted helped him read recipes but I suspected were purely for aesthetic.

"Sit." He gestured with a wing tip to the kitchen table. "I'm preparing my special medicinal cocoa."

"Is the medicine whiskey?"

"Cinnamon schnapps, actually. I'm feeling festive.

" He poured the steaming liquid into a mug and waddled over, setting it before me with a flourish.

Then he hopped onto the chair across from me, folded his wings, and fixed me with what I recognized as his "serious counseling face"—beak slightly downturned, eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Oh god," I groaned. "Not you too."

"As your familiar and primary emotional support poultry, it's my duty to help you process your psychological trauma through cognitive reconstructional therapy."

I snorted into my cocoa. "You mean cognitive behavioral therapy?"

"That's what I said." He waved dismissively. "The point is, you're experiencing classic avoidance paradigms due to your fear of abandonment issues stemming from your childhood neglect syndrome."

"Did you swallow a psychology textbook?"

"I watched a YouTube series." He preened. "Now, let's discuss your transactional analysis and how it's affecting your libidinal displacement with Lincoln."

I nearly choked. "My what with Lincoln?"

"Your inability to accept happiness without waiting for the other shoe to drop." His tone softened. "Chloe, I've known you for years. You're pushing away the one thing you actually want because you're terrified it might work out."

The simple truth of his words cut through my defenses. "What if he realizes I'm not worth it?" I whispered.

Frosty's eyes gentled. "What if he already knows exactly what you're worth?"

I blinked back the embarrassing moisture gathering in my eyes. "When did you get so wise?"

"I've always been wise. You've just been too busy being a disaster to notice." He hesitated. "Lincoln and I have been talking, you know."

My heart stuttered. "About what?"

"Ways to bridge your worlds. He's been asking about what makes you comfortable, what you need to feel secure." Frosty looked almost sheepish. "He really wants this to work, Chloe."

The revelation warmed something in my chest even as alarm bells clanged in my head.

"Wait, what exactly have you and Lincoln been discussing?" I demanded, suddenly imagining my rooster familiar divulging all my embarrassing habits. "Please tell me you didn't mention the time I tried to enchant my hair and ended up with tentacles for a week."

Frosty ruffled his feathers indignantly. "Give me some credit. I only shared the important things—like how you pretend to hate romance novels but have a secret stash under your bed."

"I do not?—"

A sharp knock at the door cut me off. We both turned toward the sound.

"Expecting anyone?" Frosty asked.

"No." I approached the door cautiously, peering through the peephole to find a courier in a crisp uniform holding a package.

"Delivery for Chloe Woolsworth," the man announced when I opened the door.

I signed for the package—a sleek, black box tied with silver ribbon that practically screamed "Lincoln." The courier tipped his hat and departed.

"Ooh, presents," Frosty said, hopping onto the coffee table as I brought the box in. "Maybe it's jewelry. Or lingerie. Or jewelry to wear with lingerie."

"Can you not?" I muttered, untying the ribbon with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy.

Inside the box lay a thick manuscript, its title page reading "The Midnight Garden" by Elizabeth Chen. Two envelopes sat atop it—one formal and cream-colored with "Woolsworth Editorial Services" typed on the front, the other a rich navy blue with my name written in Lincoln's elegant script.

I opened the blue envelope first.

Chloe,

After our conversation about that fantasy novel you "corrected" (eviscerated might be more accurate), I realized something: you have a natural talent for editing. Your insights were sharper than most of my senior editors.

This manuscript landed on my desk last week. I'd love your perspective on it—professionally.

Lincoln

"What is it?" Frosty asked, craning his neck.

I wordlessly opened the cream envelope and pulled out a formal offer letter from Sands Publishing, offering me a position as a freelance developmental editor, complete with a contract offering terms that made my eyes widen.

"Holy shit," I whispered.

A second note fell from the contract:

This way, even when I'm trapped in board meetings or you're hiding in your library, we can still work together. No pressure—but I think we'd make an excellent team.

Yours, L

"Well?" Frosty demanded, practically vibrating with curiosity.

"He's offering me a job." The words felt strange in my mouth. "As an editor."

"Brilliant!" Frosty clapped his wings together. "He's finding ways to be part of your life without invading your space. That's some top-tier courting strategy."

I stared at the contract, excitement and terror waging war in my chest. A job at a prestigious publishing house—something I'd never even dared to dream about. A connection to Lincoln's world that was entirely my own. A way for us to build something together while maintaining our separate lives.

It was thoughtful. It was perfect. It was absolutely terrifying.

"What if I'm terrible at it?" I whispered.

I sat at my desk, tapping my pen against the contract while staring at the signature line like it might spontaneously combust. Frosty had retreated to the kitchen, claiming he needed to "marinate on this development" (which usually meant stress-baking something with cinnamon).

The blank space where my name should go seemed to mock me. My reflection in the desk's polished surface showed the same hesitation I'd worn most of my life—the same expression I'd had when I declined joining the coven's advanced herbology course because I feared being the worst student.

The memory of my old bedroom in Connecticut surfaced—walls lined with books I'd analyzed but never dared to edit, journals filled with observations I'd never shared, opportunities passed over because they required stepping out of my comfortable isolation.

My phone rang, Lincoln's name lighting up the screen.

"I was just going to call you," I lied, answering.

"Did you get my package?" His voice carried that mix of confidence and vulnerability that always made my stomach flip.

"I did. It's... unexpected."

"In a good way, I hope?"

I traced the contract's letterhead with my fingertip. "Lincoln, what if I'm terrible at this? What if I embarrass you? Your reputation?—"

"Chloe," he interrupted gently, "my first year as an editor, I accidentally approved a children's book that contained what I thought was a charming foreign phrase. Turned out to be an extremely vulgar insult in Portuguese."

I snorted despite myself. "You didn't."

"We had to pulp the entire first printing. Ten thousand copies. My grandfather nearly disowned me." His chuckle warmed something in my chest. "Everyone fails spectacularly at least once."

"The town council's been asking questions," I blurted. "About why you've been buying property. About your intentions here."

A pause. "And what do you think my intentions are?"

"I don't know. That's the problem. Are you just... visiting my world? Or building something more permanent?"

"I've been looking into opening a satellite office in Assjacket," he said quietly. "Nothing huge—just enough to justify spending at least half my time there. With you."

The air seemed to still around me.

"That's... a big change."

"It would be. For both of us." His voice softened. "I'm not asking for an answer today. About any of it. But I want you to know I'm thinking about our future."

I picked up the pen, looking at the contract. "This won't be easy."

"The best partnerships rarely are."

I signed my name with a decisive flourish. "There. I'm officially your newest editor."