Page 28

DEREK

I t’s just after dawn when I hear the knock.

Soft. Rhythmic. Unapologetically twelve-year-old.

Milo.

I’m half-dressed, still groggy from a night of too much peace and not enough sleep.

Hazel’s curled sideways across my bed, tangled in my shirt and three layers of blanket like a very smug chaos demon.

Her hair’s a halo of disaster. Her mouth’s parted.

I watch her for a second longer than I should, then slip out quietly and crack open the door.

Milo’s standing there with his usual wild energy and a piece of toast hanging from his mouth.

“Sup,” he mumbles around it.

“You knock like you’re delivering secret scrolls.”

“I didn’t want to wake Hazel.”

I grunt. “Too late.”

She groans behind me and throws a pillow at the wall.

“See?” Milo grins, stepping inside like he lives here now. “I wanted to ask you something.”

He drops the toast on my counter and pulls something out of his backpack. A little scroll. Sealed with wax shaped like a sword through a book.

“I made it,” he says proudly, handing it over. “It’s official.”

I raise an eyebrow. Break the seal. Read.

Then read it again.

“‘Apprenticeship Binding Contract,’” I say slowly. “‘Issued by Milo McTavish. Clause One: I get to stay with you and Hazel forever, even after camp ends, unless I die tragically in a spell explosion, in which case I want a statue shaped like me holding a flaming marshmallow.’”

He beams.

I don’t.

I can’t .

Because something’s pressing behind my ribs. Hard.

I lower the scroll. Look at him.

Really look .

Wild-haired, rune-scrawled hoodie, boots on the wrong feet. This kid’s been through more than anyone his age should have. And still—he smiles like the world owes him good things. Like we’re one of them.

“Let me get this straight,” I say gruffly. “You want to stay. Here. With us. As our... what? Magical gremlin?”

“Apprentice,” he says proudly. “Forever.”

A beat passes.

Something breaks open in my chest.

I don’t let people stay.

Not since Rowen.

Not since I buried my brother and walked away from the only home I ever knew, swearing I’d never build another just to lose it again. I kept my head down. Took jobs. Stayed moving. Never got attached.

But then Hazel crashed into my world like a lit match in a gunpowder room.

And now this kid—this feral, brilliant, sugar-fueled disaster of a child—wants to tie his life to mine?

I sink into the armchair. Quiet. Still.

And say the only word that matters.

“Yes.”

Milo doesn’t cheer.

He launches himself at me like a missile and wraps his arms around my neck, grinning so wide it could crack the sky.

“I knew it,” he whispers. “I knew you were a big softie.”

“Tell anyone and I’ll hex your snack stash.”

“You’ll have to catch me first, old man.”

Hazel groans again from the bed. “Why is there bonding happening before coffee?”

“Because,” I say, glancing at her, “our apprentice made it official.”

Her face softens.

She reaches for the scroll, reads it, and smiles so wide it could melt mountains.

“Looks like we’re stuck with you, kid.”

“Good,” Milo says. “Because I was never planning to leave.”

And in that moment?

Neither was I.

The fire crackles low, spitting sparks into the air like little golden ghosts. Derek’s stretched out beside me on a blanket, one arm behind his head, the other brushing against mine every time I shift.

We’re alone out here—just us, the trees, and a sky full of stars smeared across the dark like spilled glitter.

“I never liked quiet before,” I murmur.

He turns his head. “You talk enough for two people.”

“Rude.”

“True.”

I nudge him with my elbow. “I meant it used to make me antsy. Like I was missing something, or about to. But this?” I look around, letting the firelight flicker across the carved runes on nearby stones, the faint trail of soft lights leading back to camp. “This is good quiet.”

Derek hums. “The kind that settles in your bones.”

“Exactly.”

I shift closer, resting my head against his shoulder. He doesn’t move. Just lets me settle like he was waiting for it. I watch the flames for a long time, and then I whisper, “Do you ever think about what your life would’ve been if you hadn’t ended up here?”

“Every damn day,” he says, voice low and honest.

I look up.

He’s staring into the trees. His eyes aren’t glowing. They’re soft. Human.

“I’d still be wandering,” he says. “Still hiding from who I used to be. From what I lost.”

His fingers brush mine, slow. “But here? With you, and Milo, and the Grove—this is the first place that feels like it’s mine.”

I swallow the lump forming in my throat. “Yeah. Same.”

He glances at me. “Really?”

“I’ve never stayed anywhere this long before,” I admit. “Not without blowing something up or getting thrown out or… running.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Just pulls me into his side, tucking my head under his chin.

“I thought I was broken,” I say quietly. “Too much. Too wild. Too loud. ”

“You’re not too much,” he murmurs into my hair. “You’re exactly enough.”

The words land like magic.

Like truth wrapped in warmth.

We lie there for a while, letting the fire burn low and the woods hum around us. Then I speak again, voice soft.

“What does camp mean to you?”

He exhales slowly.

“It means second chances.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

He turns toward me, lifting my hand to his lips and kissing my knuckles. “It means building something instead of burying everything.”

“Even with gremlin apprentices and ley surges and raccoons that steal your boots?”

“Especially then.”

I smile.

Then lean up and kiss him.

It’s slow.

Certain.

The kind of kiss that says I know who you are. I still choose you.

His hand cups my jaw, the calluses rough but his touch gentle. He kisses me back like he’s memorizing the shape of this exact moment.

When we pull away, breathless, I rest my forehead against his.

“I think we’re building something good.”

“We are,” he whispers. “We already have.”

And now, I don’t feel like a spark trying to escape the fire.

I feel like I belong.