Page 11

HAZEL

L ove is a scam.

That’s my official statement, signed in glitter and legally notarized with a sparkly pen.

Because clearly , whatever I’m feeling lately—the chest-fluttery, stomach-swoopy, weirdly wistful, emotionally constipated mess of it—isn’t love. It’s a spell. A curse. A deeply unfortunate alignment of hormones and poor judgment that must be hexed out at the earliest convenience.

So obviously, the solution is to date someone safe.

Someone not undead. Not brooding. Not prone to intense eye contact and soul-shattering silences.

Which brings me to Rowan.

Rowan the Elf.

Rowan who’s attractive in a nature-worship, moisturizes-with-moon-dew kind of way. He volunteers at the apothecary tent, composts religiously, and once told me with a straight face that he believes true magic is in emotional honesty.

He’s everything I should want.

Which is exactly the problem.

“Wow,” I say, swirling my herbal tea as we sit at a carved wood bench under the wishing tree, “you really do love bees.”

“They’re a cornerstone of ecological balance,” Rowan says serenely, sipping from his leaf cup. “Their matriarchal structure is a model of harmonious leadership.”

“Right. Matriarchy. Big fan. Go bees.”

I smile. He smiles. It’s polite. Pleasant. Like two mannequins on a date.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make me want to rip his shirt off with magic or punch him in the shoulder because he’s being infuriating and perfect in the exact wrong way.

He just… talks.

“I’m working on a tincture for grounding spells,” he says. “Would you like to try it sometime?”

“Sure,” I say, even though ‘grounding’ makes me want to scream and also I hate the taste of licorice root and serenity.

My eyes drift. Reflexively.

Across the courtyard. Toward the training field.

Where Derek is standing in his usual looming fashion, arms crossed, watching a pair of older campers practice barrier magic. His coat flaps slightly in the breeze. He doesn’t move.

Until he sees me.

Sees us .

His eyes flick to mine.

Then to Rowan.

Then he turns and walks away.

And it’s like something yanks out of my chest with the grace of a badly timed teleportation spell.

“Hazel?” Rowan says.

I blink.

“Huh?”

“You looked like you were somewhere else,” he says kindly.

Oh, honey. If only you knew.

“Nope,” I say brightly. “Fully here. Bee feminism and grounding herbs and all.”

But even as I say it, the truth slams into me like a thunderclap.

I don’t want safety.

I don’t want calm.

I want him .

Grumpy, scowling, overprotective, emotionally bottled-up him .

The one who held me when I shattered.

The one who watched me without asking questions.

The one who walked away just now with that same silent weight that says he cares too much and thinks it’s better if he doesn’t.

“Actually,” I say, standing up way too fast. “I just remembered—I have to go. A unicorn situation. Very urgent.”

Rowan blinks. “Oh. Do you need help?”

“Nope! It’s a solo unicorn.”

And before he can ask what that means, I’m jogging away, journal clutched to my chest like a life preserver.

I duck behind the shed near the east path and finally let myself breathe .

I’m falling.

Gods help me, I am .

And I hate it.

Because falling means losing control.

Falling means giving someone the power to wreck you.

And I’ve barely put myself back together.

But Derek?

He doesn’t feel like falling.

He feels like landing .

Which might be worse.

—

I don’t know who I pissed off in a past life, but the gods clearly decided today was the day to collect.

Because I’m on a date.

A real one.

With an elf who composts his own shampoo and calls love “an energetic alignment of truth.”

“Isn’t this nice?” Rowan says, gesturing to the picnic blanket he brought, which is neatly arranged under a sycamore tree like a damn fairy-tale magazine spread.

“Oh yeah,” I say, settling cross-legged on the blanket. “Just me, you, and fifty thousand allergens.”

He chuckles. Like a polite, non-committal exhale of joy. It’s the kind of sound that says “I read emotional boundaries pamphlets in my free time.”

He hands me a cup of chamomile fizzwater.

I take it and immediately regret everything.

“So,” he says, tucking a piece of hair behind one ear like he’s in a moonlight shampoo commercial, “I’ve been reading about the energetic resonance of soul knots. Fascinating stuff. Did you know some beings believe soul knots can form from shared magical trauma?”

“Neat,” I say, already dying inside. “So that time I almost got turned into a tree by a cursed dryad probably created several knots.”

He blinks. “You’ve had a very eventful life.”

“That’s a word for it.”

We sip in silence.

Well, he sips. I try not to let my fizzwater bubble directly up my nose because I’m concentrating too hard on not thinking about Derek.

Which, of course, makes me think about Derek.

His coat. His scowl. The way he doesn’t talk, but says everything . The way he looks at me like I’m both the forest fire and the spark that started it.

Rowan passes me a daisy sandwich.

Yes.

A sandwich made of actual daisies.

I bite into it. It tastes like sadness and yard clippings.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Huh? Oh. Totally. Just chewing.”

“You looked like you were somewhere else.”

I swallow. Barely. “Nope. Just vibing with this… floral flavor journey.”

More silence.

He tries to talk about mushroom folk politics. I nod along. I try to make a joke. He says, “I value your levity.” I try to laugh. He says, “That’s a beautiful expression of joy.”

By the time the sun starts to set, I’m three daisies deep and considering whether it would be socially acceptable to fake a sudden magical emergency.

Rowan smiles again. “This was wonderful.”

“Sure was,” I say, standing up a little too fast. “But I should get going. Magical creatures to wrangle. Spellflames to extinguish. Probably something is on fire.”

“Would you like to do this again?” he asks gently.

I pause.

Because Rowan is kind. And earnest. And he deserves someone who hears him talk about soul knots and cares.

But that someone’s not me.

“I think… maybe I’m a little hexed right now,” I say softly. “Emotionally. You know, energetically misaligned.”

He nods solemnly. “I honor your truth.”

I bolt.

And the worst part?

As I walk away, the only thing I can think is Derek would’ve hated that sandwich too.