Page 9

HAZEL

I ’m not crying.

Again.

That’s the official story and I’m sticking to it.

Because crying implies vulnerability, and vulnerability implies feelings, and feelings imply dangerously close to caring , which is how people end up writing dramatic poetry and emotionally haunting love spells on accident.

And we don’t do that anymore.

What we do is trip over a half-buried leather-bound notebook in the dirt behind the Grove and instantly get sucker-punched in the heart by our own twelve-year-old handwriting.

“Oh, gods,” I mutter, brushing dirt off the cover. “Please let this be a book of potion disasters and not an emotional landmine.”

It’s not potion disasters.

It’s worse.

It’s a journal. My journal.

From my second summer here—back when I still believed I’d be a High Enchanter by twenty and could make tulips bloom with a wink and had a crush on literally every counselor with a pulse and a staff.

I flip it open.

Page one: a sketch of a unicorn with stars around it and a title in sparkly pen that says Hazel Blackmoore’s Spellbook of Wonder and Mischief . The ‘o’ in Mischief has a heart in it.

I audibly gag.

But I keep reading.

Because I hate myself, apparently.

“Today I cast a circle and it actually held! Thorn said it felt steady and real and like I knew what I was doing. I didn’t tell him I was making it up as I went, but maybe that’s part of being good at magic. Pretending you’re not scared until the pretending turns real.”

That one gets me.

Because pretending is basically my specialty now. And I don’t know when it stopped turning into something real.

I keep flipping. There are spell diagrams, scribbled ideas for magical inventions, half-baked runes with enthusiastic commentary like definitely will not explode! next to them.

Then a page with a single sentence.

I want to be something worth keeping.

I stare at it.

The words blur a little.

Not crying.

Nope.

Just… pollen. Or maybe magical side effects. Or I’m cursed.

Yeah. Definitely cursed.

I snap the book closed and rest my chin on my knees, curling up like I can fold myself small enough to forget who I used to be.

The Grove rustles quietly around me. Wind in the leaves. Distant sounds of camp behind me—kids yelling, spells going off, laughter. All of it feels far .

I’m so caught up in my own storm that I don’t hear him until he’s already beside me.

Derek.

No sound, no announcement. Just the gentle shift of air and the unmistakable scent of leather and ancient woodsmoke that somehow always clings to him like an afterthought.

I glance sideways, startled.

He doesn’t look at me.

Just sits there. Legs long in front of him, arms draped over his knees, expression unreadable.

“Stalking me now?” I ask, voice dry. “You’re terrible at it.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide,” he says.

“I didn’t ask for company.”

“You didn’t not ask.”

That earns him a slow, side-eye squint. “You’re really leaning into the cryptic vampire thing, huh?”

He shrugs.

We sit in silence.

But it’s not awkward.

It’s… present.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask what I’m holding. Doesn’t push for a conversation. Just sits . Solid. Quiet. Steady.

And I hate how much that helps .

“How long were you watching me?” I ask eventually, not looking at him.

“Long enough.”

I snort. “Creepy.”

“I could say the same about you crying into a notebook.”

“I wasn’t crying.”

He tilts his head slightly, and that tiny almost-smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Sure.”

I roll my eyes and clutch the journal tighter.

“She was such a little idiot,” I say. “This version of me. Bright-eyed. Obsessed with unicorns. Thought if she just worked hard enough, she could fix everything. Be the one everyone needed. Be… enough.”

Derek doesn’t respond right away.

When he does, his voice is low. “Maybe she wasn’t wrong.”

I blink. “Wow. Is that a compliment? Are you okay?”

“I didn’t say it well ,” he mutters. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Too late.

I’m already doing that thing where my chest feels warm and heavy and something inside me wants to reach out . I don’t. But it’s there . And that’s bad enough.

“You’re a menace, you know,” I say. “All broody and supportive and weirdly poetic.”

“I haven’t said anything poetic.”

“Exactly. That’s the worst part.”

He exhales. Shakes his head. But he’s still here .

And it’s the being here that’s wrecking me.

Because I’ve had a lot of people talk at me. Fix me. Lecture me. Walk away from me.

I’ve never had someone just sit .

Especially not after seeing the messy, broken, glitter-free parts.

“You’re not leaving?” I ask, voice smaller than I want.

“No,” he says simply. “Not unless you make me.”

I don’t say anything.

I just open the journal again.

And this time, I let him stay.

—

I’m not spying.

Let’s just get that out of the way.

I’m simply… observing. Casually. From behind a magically camouflaged bush. As one does.

It’s not my fault Derek is currently kneeling beside an eight-year-old camper named Phoebe, who is holding a frog and crying like it personally betrayed her.

I was walking to the greenhouse! Coincidentally.

At the exact moment he crouched down, coat sweeping behind him like some dark prince from a particularly emo fairytale.

“I didn’t mean to step on him,” Phoebe sniffles, clutching the limp frog to her chest. “I just—I wasn’t watching and—and?—”

“It’s not dead,” Derek says, voice low and calm, but not sharp. Never sharp with the kids.

Phoebe blinks at him.

He holds out his hands. “May I?”

She hesitates. Then nods.

He takes the frog carefully like it’s made of spun sugar and heartbreak. He mutters something too quiet for me to hear, then presses two fingers to the frog’s head.

There’s a faint glow. A pulse of something ancient and strange and somehow gentle .

The frog shudders.

Then croaks.

Phoebe gasps, loud and bright. Derek doesn’t flinch.

“See?” he says, offering the frog back. “Just stunned. Happens sometimes. No real harm done.”

Her lower lip wobbles. “You’re like… a vampire vet.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing.”

“It should be.”

She hugs him.

She hugs him.

And the truly shocking part?

He hugs her back.

Awkwardly. A little stiff. But it’s real.

He stands after a beat, brushing dirt off his knee like nothing happened.

And me?

I’m hiding behind a bush, holding my stupid chaotic heart together with metaphorical duct tape and glitter glue.

Because something in my chest does this stupid fluttery swoop thing like we’re in the third act of a romance movie and I’ve just realized the guy I thought was emotionally constipated is secretly the softest damn person on Earth.

Which is fine.

Totally fine.

Normal.

I am not falling for him.

I am not.

...But if I was?

This would be the moment I started.