Page 46 of Embers of Midnight

“Don’t get mushy,” I warn, because if I thank him like I want to, I might embarrass us both.

“Perish the thought.” He takes two steps back, gives me space like a gift. “Eat. Sleep. If your heart won’t slow, try the window.”

“Bossy.”

“Correct,” he says, and leaves me smiling like a fool at his back.

I shower and steal Ronan’s sweater because the universe owes me at least that. Dinner is a blur of plates and laughter and Ash narrating a terrible movie we’re not even watching yet. My anchor hums happily at the thresholds. The ward lines in my room greet me like a cat that pretends not to care.

In bed, the quilt is a perfect weight. I stare at the wrong constellations and list the ways I didn’t do something reckless today. It’s a short list. I adddidn’t climb into Ash’s lap in a hallway,didn’t pull Caelum closer by his shirt,didn’t follow Ronan into the quiet and forget to come back,didn’t ask Darian to keep talking until dawn.

My body hums anyway.Equal and impossibleis apparently a setting.

My phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A message from an unknown number that I don’t need to ask about to know:Taya.

coffee tomorrow before class?

i’ll explain why half the academy stares and the other half pretends not to.

bring your sarcasm. leave room for gossip.

I huff a laugh into the dark. “Deal,” I tell nobody. My eyes drift shut slow as forgiveness.

Outside, the sky holds its wrong stars. Inside, my bones hold four warm points on a map and the outline of a life I did not plan and want anyway.

Tomorrow, I’ll ask questions I am not ready for.

Tonight, I let gravity have me.

Knots in My Gut, Maps in My Head

Seraphina

Breakfast smells like someone bribed the morning to be decent. Ronan moves at the stove with that quiet, competent rhythm that keeps panic from finding a chair. Ash narrates his own toast like it’s a sporting event. Caelum reads the news on a slate and hums at the parts that matter. Darian pours tea with mean precision and pretends not to wince when his shoulder complains.

I eat like I’m not still thinking about the weekend. Spoiler: I am. Two days of not launching myself at any of them counts as restraint. Two days of learning the exact temperature of Ash’s laugh and the way Ronan’s hands go gentle when he hands you anything, and the line of focus across Darian’s mouth, and how Caelum’s attention lands like a soft net. Equal, impossible pull in four directions. I hate it. My body has terrible taste.

After dishes, Darian is already by the door. Dark sweater, neat lines, the hint of static that clings to him when he’s thinking too hard. “Walk you?”

“Threaten me with a good time,” I say, because snark is armor and I need any that fits.

We take the central corridor. The Academy breathes in low tones—footsteps, a bell under skin, doors greeting anchors with a soft chime. My sweater is striped, black and something-between-cream-and-don’t-ask. Darian keeps to my right. Every time we pivot around a corner, his knuckles skim the ribbed fabric at my sleeve. Not a grab. Not an accident, either. The kind of touch that says I’m here without pushing.

Butterflies. A whole migration of them.

“You’ve got one class today,” he says, as if my pulse isn’t auditioning for percussion. “Interdimensional Navigation. Kieran Holt. Smart. Dry. He’ll draw you a map so detailed it argues back.”

“And before that,” I remind him, “I’m meeting Taya. She promised gossip and plant-based wisdom.”

“Good choice.” His hand brushes the stripes again when a pair of first-years bumps past. He shifts me out of their slipstream like a reflex, then lets go. “I’ll be nearby.”

“Stalking is a strong word,” I say.

He considers; the corner of his mouth admits guilty. “Shadowing,” he amends.

We find Taya outside the greenhouse café, barefoot on the warm stone because of course she is. Anklet bells, red curls, a grin that could sell bad ideas to saints. She throws her arms wide like the sun needs help.

“There you are,” she sings, then stage-whispers to Darian, “I’m stealing your girl for an hour.”