Page 50 of Healed By the Grumpy Elf

"You're remarkable with them," I admit. "I've never seen anything like it."

We stop in a quiet corner of the hallway near her office. The school is peaceful now, with most classes engaged in afternoon activities. Sunlight streams through a nearby window, catching in Maeve's copper curls and turning them to fire.

Something unfamiliar expands in my chest as I look at her, a sense of peace and belonging that I haven't felt in years. Without overthinking, I reach for her hand and bring it to my lips, pressing a kiss to her palm in an intimate gesture that would have been unthinkable for me even a week ago.

The simple contact sends warmth through our newly formed bond. Maeve's eyes widen slightly, then soften with understanding.

"Lorian," she whispers, her fingers curling around mine.

We stand like that for a long moment, silently connected in the empty hallway. Then a flicker of movement catches my eye. At the far end of the corridor stands Principal Braggstone, his massive frame unmistakable, watching us with a dark, angry expression.

Our eyes meet over the distance, and I can read the threat in his gaze as clearly as if he'd spoken it aloud. Then he turns and walks away without a word, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway.

I should feel concern, perhaps even fear, at what he might do with the knowledge of my past. Instead, I feel a curious lightness. I'm done running. Done hiding. Whatever comes next, I'll face it.

After all, what could be worse than I’ve already faced?

Chapter 15

Maeve

Thefinalschoolbellrings, sending a wave of relief through my tired body. I check the clock on the wall. It’s well past five o’clock. I've stayed later than usual, catching up on paperwork and checking in with the last few teachers about their students' responses to the tonic.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and close the last file with a satisfied sigh. Twenty-seven confirmed cases of Pixie-Pox and not a single new infection reported today. The tonic is working. Ourplan is working.

Our. The word brings a smile to my face. Lorian and I make a good team, professionally and in other ways, too.

My cheeks warm at the memory of last night. Lorian's hands exploring every inch of my body, his usual control abandoned as he whispered my name in the crook of my neck. The way he looked at me afterward, those ice-blue eyes soft.

Things are moving fast, but I’m still not afraid. In fact, I’m strangely at peace. I gather my things, sliding folders into my worn leather bag. My fingers brush against something small and sparkly, a piece of pink glitter that must have transferred from Lorian's hair to my bag. The sight of it makes me grin like a lovesick teenager.

The halls are quiet as I make my final rounds, checking that the medicine cabinet is locked and the emergency supplies are in order. My sensible flats make little sound against the polished floors. Most of the classrooms are dark now, their occupants long gone. Only a few lights remain on in the administrative wing.

I pause at the doorway to the nurse's office. The afternoon sun slants through the windows, highlighting the crayon drawings children have given me over the years. A stick figure with wild red hair holding the hands of smaller figures.

This is why I do what I do. Why I chose school nursing over the higher-paying hospital positions Harriet is always telling me to apply for. Here, I make a difference every day, one scraped knee and upset tummy at a time.

And now, with the Pixie-Pox outbreak under control, I feel a surge of professional pride. The children trust me. The parents trust me. And somehow, amazingly, I found love.

Love? Is that what this is? It’s crazy, but it is.

I flip off the light switch and lock the door behind me, my thoughts already racing ahead to tonight. Lorian texted earlier to ask if I wanted to come over. "I'll cook," he wrote, and the simple domestic offer made my heart flutter in a way that should be embarrassing for a grown woman.

The main hallway stretches before me, afternoon sunlight streaming through the high windows and turning dust motes into floating gold. I pass the spot where Lorian kissed my palm yesterday, the memory sending a tingle up my arm. No man has ever made such a simple gesture feel so intimate.

"You're being ridiculous," I mutter to myself, but I can't stop smiling.

The parking lot is nearly empty when I push through the heavy doors. Most teachers left an hour ago, eager to start their weekends. Only a few cars remain scattered across the asphalt—mine, an ancient blue compact that's seen better days; Mrs. Finch's red minivan; and Principal Braggstone's oversized black SUV in its reserved spot near the entrance.

The air has that particular golden quality of late afternoon, still cool but with the promise of warm temperatures to come. As I cross to my car, I dig through my bag for my keys, pushing aside tissues, pens, and the emergency chocolate bar I keep for particularly stressful days.

The lot is quiet except for the distant sounds of children playing in the park across the street. I hum softly to myself, a habit I developed years ago to fill silences.

"Maeve, wait up!"

The deep voice behind me sends an immediate chill down my spine. I turn to find Principal Braggstone's massive form approaching, hisheavy footsteps crunching on the gravel. He moves with surprising speed for someone his size, closing the distance between us before I can unlock my car door.

"Principal Braggstone," I acknowledge, keeping my voice neutral. Something about his expression sets my nerves on edge. His usual forced smile is missing, replaced by something more intent, more focused. More angry.