Page 8

DEREK

S he’s laughing again.

It’s early—just after morning drills—and the sun hasn’t fully committed to rising yet. A lazy gold light stretches across the clearing, catching on dew-damp grass and warming the edges of the tents and cabins in that quiet, holy way that makes things almost feel still. Almost.

Except for her.

Hazel Blackmoore is never still.

She’s sitting cross-legged in the grass near the north trail, surrounded by a gaggle of campers who are far too energetic for this hour.

Her hands are waving animatedly, paint smudged across one knuckle, and she’s halfway through telling a story that involves a magically sentient hairbrush, a minor hex, and what sounds suspiciously like arson.

Every time she hits a punchline, the kids erupt like they’ve been shot full of espresso and moonlight. And she—gods, she glows in it.

Her laugh bubbles up and cuts across the clearing like music. Like something alive. Not pretty. Not polite. Loud. Wild. It fills space and doesn’t apologize for it.

I should be working.

Instead, I’m standing ten feet away, stiff as a ward post, pretending to check the perimeter stones while absolutely not staring at the way her hair catches the morning light.

Or the way she leans toward the kids like every single one of them matters.

Or how she tips her head back when she laughs—unguarded, throat bare, like she’s never been taught the world bites.

She’s a problem.

She’s been a problem since day one.

And I—an immortal creature of discipline, silence, and emotionally distant brooding—am in trouble.

I stack another ward stone against the edge of the boundary line, pressing it into the moss with more force than necessary. The runes flash as they settle into the ley pulse. I tell myself the work matters. That I’m doing this for camp safety. That this is why I came back.

But the truth hums under my skin like an old song.

I came back to make sure nothing broke again.

So why am I standing here, watching the one thing most likely to crack me wide open?

“She’s pretty,” a voice says beside me.

I glance down.

Milo.

The kid’s wearing a shirt that says Wands Up, Buttercup and mismatched shoes.

He’s carrying a plastic bug jar that’s glowing faintly from the inside, like he’s caught a pocket-sized constellation.

He’s got a marshmallow in one hand and a look on his face that suggests he’s planning something borderline illegal.

“I didn’t ask for commentary,” I mutter, reaching for the next stone.

“You didn’t have to,” he replies, climbing up onto the edge of the path with all the subtlety of a gremlin in training. “You’re making the face.”

“What face?”

“The one that says, ‘I feel things and I hate it.’”

I stop.

Slowly look over at him.

He grins like he knows he’s right.

“She’s loud,” I say.

“She’s honest,” he corrects.

“She’s reckless.”

“She cares.”

“She throws glitter.”

“She holds the younger kids' hands when they cry and doesn’t make a big deal out of it.”

I grit my teeth. “You’re eight.”

“I’m observant.”

Milo sets the jar down gently. The fireflies inside buzz and swirl like tiny orbiting stars.

“I’ve seen you watching her,” he says. “You get all weird. Not, like, creepy weird. Just… tense. Like you’re about to run or growl or maybe dramatically declare you have no emotions even though we both know that’s a lie.”

“I don’t growl,” I say.

He snorts. “You do growl. You also do that thing with your voice when you talk to her. Low and rumbly. Like you’re in a supernatural romance podcast and about to kiss someone against a bookshelf.”

I stare at him, horrified.

“Anyway,” he continues, blithely unaware of my internal implosion. “You should kiss her already.”

I don’t respond.

Mostly because my entire brain has short-circuited.

“She’d kiss you back, you know,” he adds, scooping his jar back up. “Even if you’re ancient and weird.”

Then he trots off like he hasn’t just detonated a verbal bomb directly over my chest.

I stand there for another minute.

Two.

Maybe five.

I shouldn’t care what a kid thinks. I shouldn’t care what anyone thinks. But something about the certainty in Milo’s voice cuts deeper than Thorn’s lectures or Hazel’s accidental spells ever could.

Because he’s not wrong.

I do watch her. Constantly. Obsessively.

Not because I want to.

Because I can’t not.

My eyes drag back to her again before I can stop them.

She’s laughing again—head thrown back, arms flailing slightly as she tells another story. The wind picks up, and a few strands of hair escape the braid she never finishes. They catch in the sun. She’s not trying to be anything right now. Not clever. Not flirtatious. Not brave.

She’s just her.

And something inside me aches.

It’s not want.

Not the sharp, hungry kind that makes my skin itch.

It’s something worse.

It’s warm.

It’s hope.

It’s the idea of her hand in mine, not because we’re bound by magic, but because she chose to be there.

It’s the thought that maybe, just maybe, I’m not as dead as I thought.

I look away. Force myself back to the stones. Back to silence. Back to the rules I built to survive.

She’s a problem.

She laughs like a storm. Feels like fire. Fights like a spell mid-burn.

And I want her anyway.