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DEREK

T he day starts with a fire in the laundry cabin and ends with me magically tethered to a witch who thinks sarcasm is a personality type.

I should’ve known. I did know. The moment Hazel Blackmoore rolled into this camp with enough chaotic energy to short-circuit a ley line, I felt it in my bones—this one was going to be a problem. Not just for camp security, but for me .

And now we’re stuck. Literally.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she huffs, arms crossed, hip cocked in that infuriating way she does when she’s feeling defensive but pretending she’s not. “It was an accident.”

“You mixed two incompatible enchantments,” I growl, tugging at the invisible cord linking our wrists together. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

“I was stabilizing a charm!” she protests. “The squirrel was on fire , Derek!”

“The squirrel was smoking slightly. You panicked.”

“I didn’t panic,” she snaps. “I reacted creatively .”

“Creatively?” I tilt my head. “You fused our energy signatures. That’s not creative. That’s reckless.”

She opens her mouth to argue and then notices—finally—that the cord glows faintly gold between us. One end wrapped around her wrist like a spell gone rogue, the other wound around mine, warm and pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

Twenty-four hours. That’s what the scroll says. Twenty-four hours of shared energy. Shared space.

She groans, eyes closing in dramatic despair. “This is your nightmare, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I say flatly.

“Mine too,” she mutters, and starts walking toward the infirmary.

The bond yanks at my arm like a leash. I stumble slightly, catch myself, and swear under my breath.

“Oh right,” she says over her shoulder. “Can’t move more than ten feet apart or the tether zaps us. Forgot to mention that.”

“Of course you did.”

We get halfway down the trail before we’re intercepted by Alice, who looks at the glowing bond, the dark scowl on my face, and Hazel’s guilty smile, and sighs like she’s aged ten years in ten seconds.

“Don’t tell me,” Alice says. “Botched binding sigil?”

“She lit a squirrel,” I supply.

“It was smoking, ” Hazel says.

“Do you want me to call Thorn?” Alice asks, already pulling out a communication crystal.

“No,” Hazel and I say in unison.

We both blink.

Alice raises a brow. “Well, that’s horrifying.”

Back in the cabin, it becomes painfully clear we’re going to have to coordinate everything—from bathroom schedules to spell prep to where we sleep. Which is apparently six feet apart, on bunks, like prisoners in a particularly sassy fairy jail.

Hazel kicks off her boots with a dramatic flourish and flops on the bottom bunk. “This is fine. We’ll make it work. Just two professionals sharing magical space. Totally not awkward.”

I don’t respond. I’m at the desk, scanning a text on tether spells, trying to ignore how loud her presence is.

Her magic, normally scattered and wild, is now brushing against mine constantly.

Little sparks. Warm pulses. Her emotional state bleeds into my edge of the tether, and it’s like riding shotgun in a car with no brakes.

“Stop clenching your jaw,” she says after a while.

“Stop making me.”

“I’m not making you.”

“You’re leaking.”

Hazel sits up. “Excuse me?”

“Emotionally,” I say. “You’re leaking emotion through the tether. Focus. Rein it in.”

She scoffs. “Says the brooding bloodsucker who’s been radiating ‘I hate everything’ vibes since breakfast.”

“I do hate everything,” I mutter. “But at least I contain it.”

She watches me for a beat. Then, quieter, “Is it always like this for you? Feeling everything all the time?”

I pause.

“Yes,” I admit. “But I’m trained for it. You’re not.”

She looks down at the tether and swallows. “I didn’t mean to… mess things up.”

I glance up.

Her voice isn’t sharp now. It’s soft. Almost… embarrassed.

“I know,” I say, more gently than I mean to. “But next time, don’t throw experimental charms at wildlife.”

“I panicked,” she murmurs. “It reminded me of my cat, Mercury. He set his tail on fire once. Long story. Bad potion. Anyway, it freaked me out.”

“Mercury,” I echo. “Like the element?”

“Like the planet. He had big moods.”

Despite myself, the corner of my mouth lifts.

She catches it. Her eyes narrow. “Was that a smile ?”

“No.”

“You smirked.”

“I grimaced. ”

“You are the worst liar.”

We fall into silence again. It’s not comfortable, but it’s less sharp now. Something’s shifted. I feel her heartbeat through the tether—fast but steady. Her magic brushes mine again, not chaotic this time but cautious. Curious.

“I don’t know how to turn it off,” she says quietly. “The leaking. My magic. I used to be able to control it. But lately…”

I turn to face her fully.

“Your power’s tied to your emotional state,” I say. “Right now it’s... loud. Unsettled.”

She bites her lip. “You think I’m unstable?”

“No,” I say. “I think you’re afraid of being seen as unstable. That’s different.”

She doesn’t answer.

I feel her shift on the bed, the tether tugging lightly as she leans back against the wall.

“Do you always do this?” she asks.

“What?”

“Figure people out.”

“Only when they’re throwing fireworks into the woods.”

Hazel snorts. Then she’s quiet again.

Eventually, she says, “I hate this.”

“The binding?”

“The not being able to fake it. You feel everything I feel. You see it. That’s…”

“Intimate,” I finish for her.

She nods.

I lean back in the chair. The tether stretches between us, humming.

“Go to sleep,” I say. “We’ll deal with the fallout tomorrow.”

“You sleep?” she asks, eyes flickering with mischief.

“I rest.”

She rolls her eyes and curls up under the blanket.

“Goodnight, grumpire.”

“Goodnight, chaos witch.”

And somehow, despite the tether and pressure, it’s the best rest I’ve had in years.