Page 5

HAZEL

L et the record show: I didn’t cry.

Okay? I didn’t.

My eyes may have watered aggressively. My nose may have betrayed me.

But there were no tears. There was no sobbing.

No emotional collapse. There was just a very dignified moment where the universe kicked me in the metaphorical kneecaps and I had a minor magical meltdown in front of my infuriatingly composed vampire roommate.

So. We’re clear.

It happens in the meadow near the moon pond—my favorite spell practice spot. It’s quiet here. Just a wide open clearing ringed by willow trees and stubborn wildflowers that always bloom out of season. Lyra says it’s because the soil remembers good magic. That it responds to intention.

And today, my intention is to prove—to myself, to Derek, to literally anyone—that I can still do something right.

“Third attempt,” I mutter, rolling my sleeves up. “Simple restoration. One cracked charm tag. One basic sigil. No pressure.”

The charm tag is an old one—a kid must’ve dropped it during last summer’s ritual. I found it near the tool shed this morning, bent and faded. Easy fix. Should take thirty seconds, tops.

I grip the charm in one hand, draw the sigil in the air with the other.

“Reparo.”

Nothing.

“Re-paro.”

Still nothing.

I grit my teeth. My fingers twitch. I focus harder. Try to push past the static buzzing in my chest.

“Reparo.”

The sigil pulses—then fizzles. With a faint pop , the charm crumbles into dust.

I blink at the empty space in my palm.

Then the world tilts sideways.

It’s like all the glitter I’ve ever thrown, all the bravado, all the jokes—just drain out of me. And suddenly I’m standing in a field with shaky hands and a broken charm and a gaping hole where my magic used to be.

The breath I take catches halfway.

No. No, no, no.

“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay, it’s fine. I just—maybe the humidity’s messing with the flow.”

I wipe my hands on my pants. Try again with a nearby pebble. Just something, anything.

“Lumina,” I say, aiming for a basic light spell.

The pebble hisses—and turns black.

That’s when I feel it. That awful, heavy thing behind my ribs. The one that’s been creeping in since spring. The one that whispers you’re losing it and you’re not enough.

I crouch, digging my fingers into the grass like that’ll ground me.

It doesn’t.

The tether buzzes.

Before I can even fully register what’s happening, Derek’s boots appear in the edge of my vision.

Of course he’s here. Stupid tether. Stupid vampire instincts.

“Don’t,” I say, voice ragged. “Don’t say anything.”

He doesn’t.

I stare at the ground. At my traitor fingers. At the dust of a charm that should’ve been easy.

“I can’t—” I start. Stop. Try again. “Something’s wrong with me.”

The wind stirs. A bird chirps. My throat tightens.

“I used to be good at this,” I say, softer now. “Not perfect. But good . I could make sigils in my sleep. I could light six candles with one breath. I once summoned a ghost cat on purpose. But now…”

I look at my hands again.

“They keep slipping through me,” I whisper. “My spells. Like they don’t want to stay.”

The tether tugs. A faint pull. I don’t move.

Derek steps closer.

I brace for a lecture. A snide comment. Maybe an eye roll so aggressive it causes a lunar eclipse.

Instead, he sinks down onto the grass beside me—slow, deliberate. His boots crease at the ankle. His coat pools around him.

Still, he says nothing.

I finally glance sideways.

He’s just looking at me.

Not judging.

Not annoyed.

Just… watching . Like I’m a puzzle he actually wants to understand.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” I say. “And I’m so damn scared it’s never going to come back. That I peaked at seventeen and now I’m just a broken sparkler pretending to be a firework.”

There’s a pause. Long enough to make my chest ache.

Then he reaches out.

Slowly. Gently.

And he pulls me into him.

No words. No fanfare. Just arms like iron and leather and dusk wrapping around me until I’m pressed against his chest and the panic… quiets.

I freeze.

Derek Virel does not hug people.

He does not comfort. He scowls and lectures and folds towels with military precision.

But he’s holding me now, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like he’s done it before. Like he knows what it feels like to break and need something steady to lean against.

And gods help me, his heartbeat is steady.

It’s slow and rhythmic and real. And somehow, I don’t feel like I’m about to fly apart.

I let myself sink into it.

Just for a minute.

Just to breathe.

His voice, when it comes, is low and gravel-soft. “You’re not broken, Hazel.”

My breath hitches.

“You’re tired. And scared. But not broken.”

I don’t say anything.

Because if I do, the not-crying will turn into actual crying and I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

So I nod.

Tiny.

Silent.

And stay there in his arms, anchored by nothing but the tether and the quiet and the fact that—for some inexplicable reason—this grumpy, ancient, broody vampire is the safest thing I’ve felt in months.