Page 14

DEREK

I t was just a kiss.

That’s what I keep telling myself.

Over and over, like a spell I’m trying to believe in.

Just a kiss.

One slip. One second of weakness.

It doesn’t mean anything.

And if I say that enough times, maybe I’ll stop feeling like I just ripped something out of my chest and left it behind in the clearing with her name still etched into it.

I’m walking aimlessly. Past curfew. Past the edge of camp. Past reason.

The forest is quiet now. Even the sprites know better than to mess with me when I’m like this.

Like a live wire dragging through a rainstorm.

I shouldn’t have kissed her.

I shouldn’t have felt that much—like my whole body forgot how to be alone for a second.

Because she makes me forget. That I’m not supposed to want. That I don’t get to have.

Hazel Blackmoore is light and noise and messy hope. She deserves more than a monster who only knows how to ruin what he touches.

I wanted her anyway.

Still do.

The image of her is burned into the backs of my eyes—eyes closed, lips parted, hands clutching at my coat like I’m the only thing keeping her upright. She tasted like magic and defiance and something mine.

I stop walking.

I’m halfway to nowhere, heart racing like I’m being hunted.

Because I am.

By this. By her. By what that kiss meant.

And it meant something.

No matter what I tell myself.

My feet move before my brain catches up.

I’m back at the cabin before I realize it.

The lantern’s out. Door closed. No movement.

But I don’t go in.

I don’t knock.

I just… stand there.

Listening.

And there it is, soft, barely audible through the wood.

Her heartbeat.

Steady. Strong. A little too fast.

I shouldn’t be able to hear it from this far. Not unless I’m tuned into her. Not unless I’m listening for her.

But I am.

And I hate myself for it.

Because I can still feel her in my hands. Still hear the way she gasped against my mouth like I cracked something open she didn’t know was locked.

She should hate me.

I ran.

Coward.

I clench my fists, pressing my forehead against the doorframe like maybe the wood can knock some sense back into me.

She’s just a girl.

Just a witch with sharp edges and messy hair and a laugh that lives under my skin.

I step back.

Turn.

But I don’t walk away.

I sit on the steps instead.

And I listen to her heartbeat until mine forgets how to be quiet.

—

I don’t sleep.

Not really.

Vampire physiology makes it more… resting than dreaming. Most nights it’s just darkness, a cold and comfortable nothing that never asks anything of me.

But lately?

She’s there.

Hazel.

Every time I close my eyes, she’s already in the room—laughing, grinning, glaring, pacing around the inside of my head like she’s lived there all along and just waited for me to notice.

Tonight, I’m in the old sanctum. The one I burned to the ground after Rowen died. The stone is still cracked under my feet, but there’s no fire now.

Just her.

She’s sitting on the altar like it’s a picnic table, legs swinging, chewing on a licorice wand. Hair wild. Boots scuffed.

And when she looks at me, it’s like she sees.

“You always brood in grayscale?” she says, voice too bright for the ashes beneath her.

“This isn’t real,” I murmur.

“Yeah,” she says, hopping off the altar. “But it still feels like something.”

I reach for her. Don’t mean to. Just do.

Her fingers thread through mine before I even make contact.

And when she pulls me closer, I let her.

And right before I wake, she presses her forehead to mine and whispers, “Stop pretending you don’t want me.”

I sit bolt upright in my bunk, heart pounding, chest tight.

The cabin is dark. Quiet.

She’s not here.

But her scent still clings to the pillow beneath me.

Vanilla, sage, and danger.

I close my eyes again.

But sleep doesn’t come.

Just the ghost of her hands on mine.

And a single, echoing truth:

She’s inside me now—in every way that matters.

And I don’t think I can let her go.

—

I’m chopping firewood behind the cabin.

Not because I need to—there’s a spell for that. But because I like the rhythm. The repetition. The clean split of blade against grain. It’s the kind of silence that asks nothing of me but presence.

And right now, presence is the only thing keeping me together.

Camp Lightring hums behind me. Kids laughing too loud. Magic crackling where it shouldn’t. Pixies divebombing the mess hall roof for the fifth time this week. Thorn pretending he’s not the one feeding them sugared rosemary.

It’s chaos.

And it’s the closest thing I’ve had to home in a century.

Here, I’m not a weapon.

I’m not a ghost.

I’m just… Derek. The one who fixes broken wards, makes sure the ley lines behave, and catches kids when they fall off their brooms.

And lately—keeps an eye on one particular witch who throws spells like grenades and somehow makes the whole world brighter.

I split another log. Watch the wood fall apart cleanly.

Camp gives me purpose. Structure.

Hazel makes me feel like I’m still capable of something else.

Something I thought was lost.

Not peace.

But maybe something like wanting it.

And gods, I don’t know what to do with that.