Page 12 of The Summoning Spell (The Holiday Glitch #1)

Sticky Fingers, Hexed Teenagers, and a Demon in Flannel

S he woke tangled in limbs and her black velvet sheets.

For half a second, her brain fought it. Instinct kicked in, telling her to brace. That nothing this good lasted. That she’d open her eyes and find nothing but a cold pillow and that creeping ache in her chest.

But then, there was Ashar.

Warm, solid, his body curved around hers like punctuation to a sentence she’d never dared finish.

His arm lay heavy across her waist, anchoring her.

His breath brushed softly against the back of her neck.

One of his legs was draped over hers, pinning her in place like he thought she might try to run.

She didn’t. She just lay there, heartbeat steady, letting it sink in.

He stayed.

She didn’t know what the rules were for demons, or whatever he technically was, but this part? This was new. This was human. The kind of quiet intimacy she never let herself hope for, let alone believe she could keep .

And still, he stayed.

Later, she found him in the kitchen.

Making pancakes.

No shirt. Just flannel pajama pants riding low on his hips, tattoos shimmering, and that ridiculous red leather jacket from the night before draped over a chair.

“You cooked pancakes. Is breakfast the only thing you can make?” she asked, voice still rough with sleep, her hair an apocalypse, and her hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

Ashar looked up, flipping a pancake with one hand like he’d done it a thousand times. “I was forged in the Before, not raised by wolves.”

She smirked. “Debatable.”

He pointed the spatula at her with mock sternness. “Careful. I’m in a very emotionally vulnerable post-possession state. I might start quoting Notting Hill .”

She walked toward him, slow, deliberate, like she was testing if the moment would break under the weight of real feeling. “You know you’re still glowing, right?”

“Magically or metaphorically?”

“Both.”

Ashar set the spatula down and stepped closer. His fingers traced her cheekbone, his lips brushing her forehead with a kiss that felt more honest than anything he’d said last night.

She melted against him without even meaning to.

“Hey,” she whispered.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, or next week. If you’re going to glitch again or need a recharge via orgasm or whatever. ”

He chuckled, low and warm. “Is that your way of proposing more sex?”

“No,” she said, then paused, “Okay, maybe.”

He kissed her again, this time slower, deeper, not hungry, just sure.

And when he pulled back, he looked her dead in the eye and said, “For the record, I’m staying. Not because the spell lets me. Not because the need is unfinished, but because you chose me, and because I chose you.”

Blair’s throat tightened.

She stared at him, something old and hollow cracking quietly inside.

“I almost didn’t choose you,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said. “But you called, and I came back.”

They ate pancakes in bed.

Too much syrup, sticky fingers, and laughter were bubbling up between bites. She pretended not to notice when he added cinnamon to the batter without measuring. He pretended not to notice when she licked syrup off his chest like a test.

It wasn’t perfect, it was better than perfect, it was theirs.

* * *

Later that night, Blair adjusted the brim of her witch hat in the hallway mirror. The reflection stared back like a spell gone slightly slutty, purple lipstick, smoky eyes, spiderweb tights. Her skirt was short enough to be flirtatious, long enough not to show anything. Cute, not desperate.

Behind her, Ashar leaned against the wall like a walking Halloween fantasy. Black jeans. Combat boots. Fitted black tee. A red leather jacket, like the final boss of a forbidden dating sim. His horns were back, small, subtle, just enough to pass as a costume.

But Blair knew better.

“Okay,” she said, juggling a candy bowl, broomstick, and what was left of her dignity. “No scaring the children.”

Ashar raised an eyebrow, clearly offended. “I don’t scare children. I delight children.”

“You literally grow horns when you get worked up.”

He flashed her a grin, one fang peeking out. “Then let’s hope no dads flirt with you tonight.”

She shoved a plastic pumpkin full of Snickers into his hands. “Try to behave.”

He leaned in, mouth brushing her neck, voice low and far too amused. “Define behave.”

Blair bit her lip and cursed softly.

* * *

The neighborhood bathed in gold and ember as the sun slid behind the trees.

Fall clung stubbornly to the branches, leaves spinning down like whispers.

Porch lights flickered to life. Skeletons rattled gently in the breeze.

Somewhere down the block, “Thriller” played on a loop from a tiny Bluetooth speaker.

The first trick-or-treaters arrived like summoned spirits: a toddler dressed as a marshmallow, two glitter-fighting Elsas, and a very serious Spider-Man with a lispy “thank you.”

Ashar knelt, conjuring harmless sparks that danced and fizzled above his palm like fireflies with flair. The kids gasped. One Elsa squealed. The toddler just stared, pacifier bobbing .

“Are you a real devil?” Spider-Man asked, awe in his voice.

“Only on weekends,” Ashar said gravely.

Blair stifled a laugh. “Okay, Prince of Darkness, let’s not traumatize them.”

Ashar winked as the kids scampered away.

She tried not to swoon.

An hour passed in a haze of sugar and laughter. Tiny pirates and feral princesses. Ghosts in crooked bedsheets. Ashar charmed every single one.

Then the teens came.

No costumes, no manners. One shoved a hand into the candy bowl like he was looting it. Another leaned too close to Blair, eyes crawling down her legs.

“Nice costume,” he said, smirking.

Ashar’s smile went razor-sharp. “Happy Halloween,” he said smoothly. “May your acne worsen and your TikTok get shadow-banned.”

The boy blinked. “Uh, what?”

“Go. Now.”

They fled.

Blair turned to him, voice low. “Did you just hex them?”

“Lightly,” he said, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve.

She tried to look stern, but giggles betrayed her.

When the porch light clicked off and the last wrapper had been tossed, Ashar leaned in the doorway, watching her. His eyes were darker now. Smoldering.

Blair stepped into his space and tilted her head. “Trick.”

Ashar caught her waist and pulled her flush to him. “Treat,” he growled, mouth already finding hers.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom.

Or the couch .

They barely made it inside the door.

They turned off the porch light, and her witch hat hit the floor first. Her tights tore mid-gasp. His belt clattered, then the jacket, and then everything else.

Their clothes made a trail from hallway to wall, breadcrumbs of lust and want.

Ashar pinned her against the cool plaster, mouth hot and searching, hands everywhere. Her laughter melted into moans, fingers tangled in his hair like rope she didn’t plan to let go of.

Because she didn’t, because this, this felt different.

Not desperate, not borrowed, just them, real, raw, magical.

And somewhere, between heated kisses and whispered names, the words slipped out.

“I think I want to keep you.”

Not planned, not polished, just the truth.

Ashar’s lips brushed her collarbone. His voice, when it came, was steady.

“Then don’t let go.”

And she didn’t.