jess

Rendra (no last name) met Hester in college. They had sex one (1) time and Hester got pregnant with Morticia. Being traditional and holding Catholic beliefs, he wanted to "make things right" so he proposed to Hester. They were not intimate but amicable and tolerated each other for 10 years, during which Rendra's family back in Indonesia continued to pressure him to come back home and "repent"-- which he finally gave in after Hester had an affair and got pregnant with Ophelia. He doesn't think of this as "leaving his family" but instead answering a higher calling and "doing important work". Rendra considers his psychic abilities a gift from God™ and utilizes them for his exorcisms. (He also often chastises Hester for messing with the occult, even though it is part of a psychic's culture)

Last time Morticia saw her father after he left when she was 13 was during her wedding with Gomez. After which he left again and Hester presumed him dead until he suddenly came back to the USA 30 years later acting like nothing happened.

Loraine was a surgeon only because her parents were both doctors, she took the opportunity to retire immediately after marrying Merrick and started her true passion for equestrianism. Unfortunately she loves her horses more than her own daughter, Larissa, who was basically raised by nannies instead. Loraine and Merrick's marriage wasn't of love but they do like each other.

Merrick Weems is a well-known architect in the UK and is the in-universe equivalent of Norman Foster. He owns an architecture firm called MW Architects. Merrick was somewhat close to Larissa during her childhood, but as soon as he realized Larissa did not show interest in being an architect he effectively lost interest in his own child.

For one long heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe.

The locket glinted softly between you, catching the lamplight in a way that made the room feel suddenly smaller, more intimate. Larissa’s fingers hovered just above it, as if some instinct warned her not to touch it.

“Where?” she asked again, voice still soft but laced with more urgency and frustration.

You felt the answer rising—the truth, raw and jagged, that you had pried it from rubble with shaking hands, the air thick with smoke and the metallic sting of blood. That you had carried it for years like a relic, a fragment of a woman you’d never met alive.

You swallowed it back.

“I found it,” you said, the lie tasting like ash. “At an estate sale. Years ago. It… reminded me of Nevermore. I thought it might’ve belonged to someone here once.”

Her eyes lifted to yours, searching for cracks. You did your best not to flinch under the weight of her gaze.

“An estate sale,” she repeated slowly, as if rolling the words over in her mind to see how they fit. “In Jericho?”

“Near enough,” you managed. “I didn’t know who it belonged to. I just… kept it.”

Her expression was unreadable, but something shifted—some internal calculation adjusting itself. She let her hand fall away from the locket, though her eyes lingered on it for a heartbeat longer, like a person trying to recall a dream they’d nearly grasped.

“Regardless,” she said at last, voice smoothing back into cool authority, “it doesn’t belong on my desk.”

She closed the ledger, the quiet thud far louder than it should’ve been.

“You’re clearly in no state to be interrogated about paperwork today,” she continued, turning that same assessing gaze back on your face. “And I’m far too tired to be as thorough as I ought to be.”

There it was again—a sliver of something almost like kindness, threaded through her sternness.

She circled around the desk, coming to stand closer than before. Close enough that you could see the faintest trace of fatigue smudged beneath her eyes, the way carefully applied makeup couldn’t quite hide it. Close enough that the scent of her perfume—lavender, spice, and something warmer—settled over you like a memory you hadn’t yet made.

“You’re pale,” she observed. “And you’re trembling.”

You hadn’t noticed, not consciously, but now you could feel the fine tremor running through your fingers. Your body, still half in the ruins, hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that the world here was intact.

“I’m fine,” you lied.

“Clearly not,” she countered, without any bite. “Come along.”

She picked up the locket, weighing it in her hand a moment before passing it back to you. Her fingers brushed yours, cold from the early morning air, and the fleeting contact sent a shiver up your arm that had nothing to do with fear.

“Keep your… estate-sale sentimentalities with you,” she said lightly but pointedly. “If we’re to have a conversation later today, I’d prefer you not collapsing on my carpet before then. It’s vintage.”

The corner of your mouth twitched despite the ache inside your chest.

“Yes, Principal Weems,” you murmured, not sure what else to say..

She gestured toward the door with a graceful sweep of her arm. “Come. I’ll show you to a guest room. We have a few on the staff level that aren’t currently occupied.”

You followed her out into the hallway, the shift from warm office to stone corridor making your skin pebble. The castle at dawn was quiet—properly quiet, not the hollow, echoing silence of the ruins, but the kind that held within it sleeping bodies, dreams, and the soft rustle of nocturnal life.

Your boots thudded beside her heels, slightly out of rhythm.

Torch sconces and low lamps cast pools of amber light along the walls. Familiar portraits watched from their gilded frames, alive and unharmed, not charred or torn free. A few blinked. One tilted his head to squint at you and Larissa both, deciding you weren’t worth comment.

You had walked these same corridors in another lifetime with a flashlight and a respirator mask, stepping over fractured stone and dark, unidentifiable stains on the floor. Now you forced yourself not to look for cracks in the ceiling, not to listen for the whistle of wind through broken glass that wasn’t broken here.

“I do apologize for the lack of… ceremony,” Larissa said after a stretch of silence, her tone clipped but not unkind. “We don’t typically welcome new staff by startling them in my office after hours. Or at all, ideally.”

You glanced at her profile—at the controlled line of her jaw, the way her gaze flicked over each shadow as they passed, cataloguing threats that weren’t there.

“It’s all right,” you said. “This is more ceremony than I’m used to.”

That earned you a faint hum of acknowledgment.

“And you’re certain Marilyn signed your appointment?” she asked, light but pointed. “Because the last time she surprised me, it involved a rather unfortunate choice of floral arrangement in the foyer.”

“She did,” you replied. “If there’s been… a miscommunication, I’ll accept full responsibility. I’m just here to help.” The words came out too earnest, too quickly.

Her eyes narrowed by a fraction, and you felt heat crawl up the back of your neck.

“To help?” she repeated, something dry creeping into her tone. “An alarming phrase in a school full of outcasts and secret societies.”

You huffed a weak, startled breath that was almost a laugh. “I meant administratively. Records. Correspondence. Whatever you need.” Whatever keeps you alive, you didn’t say.

You two reached a landing and she veered left, leading you down a quieter corridor with fewer portraits and more doors marked discreetly with brass numbers. The air here smelled faintly of old paper and wool—staff quarters, not student dormitories.

“We’ll see what I need,” she said. “Nevermore is… demanding. Those who work here don’t last long if they’re inflexible.”

“I’m adaptable,” you said quietly. You’d had to be, in a world that kept collapsing beneath your feet.

“I suppose we’ll find out,” she replied.

She stopped outside a door near the end of the hall, unlocking it with a brass key she produced from a ring at her hip. The hinges creaked softly as it opened, revealing a modest but comfortable room: a neatly made bed, a small wardrobe, a writing desk by the window, and a lamp shaped like a raven perched on a stack of books.

It was absurd how seeing an intact mattress almost undid you.

“You’ll stay here for the time being,” Larissa said, stepping aside to let you enter first. “I’ll have one of the janitorial staff bring you a change of linens and something suitable to wear until we sort out your… situation.”

You lingered on the threshold, looking back at her. Her silhouette filled the doorway, a tall, still figure framed by shadow and soft lamplight. She looked every inch the headmistress you’d spent years reading about in reports and testimonies. The difference was that now, when you blinked, she was still there.

“Thank you,” you murmured earnestly.

She tilted her head, studying you more closely at that. “Don’t thank me yet. I’ve hardly decided if I trust you.”

“I know,” you said. “You shouldn’t.”

Her brows lifted at that, just enough to show you’d surprised her.

“You’re remarkably forthright for someone who’s just lied to me about paperwork,” she observed, one corner of her mouth curving in a faint, wry almost-smile.

Your cheeks warmed. “I… don’t want to lie to you.”

“Then I suggest you don’t,” she replied simply. “Consider that my first piece of guidance as your employer. Provisional employer.” Her gaze softened faintly. “Rest. You look as though you haven’t slept properly in weeks.”

You almost told her it had been years.

“I’ll try,” you said instead.

She nodded, fingers curling lightly around the edge of the door.

“Breakfast is at eight in the main hall,” she added. “Be there. And afterward, you and I will have a more… thorough discussion.”

You swallowed, still unsure of everything you would be able to say. “Yes, Principal Weems.”

She hesitated for a heartbeat longer, as if there was something else she might say—some instinct nudging at her to ask one more question or offer one more reassurance. In the end, she turned to close the door. It clicked shut behind her with a soft finality.

You stood in the center of the room for a long time, listening to the receding echo of her footsteps down the corridor. Your knees felt shaky, the adrenaline that had dragged you through the spell and into her office finally ebbing, leaving behind a hollow ache.

You set your journal carefully on the desk, smoothing a hand over its worn cover. The room’s silence pressed in on you, but it was a full silence, cradling the faint tick of old pipes, the distant hoot of an owl, the crackle of the castle settling.

You’d slept in abandoned safe houses before, in drainage tunnels and crumbling stairwells, your back to concrete and your face pressed into your own arm to muffle your breathing. This felt wrong in its softness. Safe in a way that made your skin crawl, because you knew—too well—how easily safety could be ripped away.

You sat on the edge of the bed and let your shoulders sag, elbows on your knees, hands laced together. The locket lay heavy in your pocket, warmed now by your skin. After a moment’s hesitation, you pulled it out and let it rest in your palm.

It looked different here, under the warm lamplight instead of the sickly gray wash of a ruined sky. You thumbed over its worn edges, tracing the faint engraving along the rim. You’d done this a thousand times, trying to imagine the woman who’d clasped it around her throat, who’d once worn it as casually as a second heartbeat.

You had never expected that woman to look at you like you were a problem she meant to solve.

You turned the locket over, pressing your thumb against the tiny hinge. You’d never been able to open it in your timeline—the clasp too corroded, the mechanism damaged. Now, here, it clicked open with the softest of sounds.

Inside, the photograph was crisp and whole.

A younger Larissa gazed out at you in black and white, hair pinned back tighter, smile smaller but no less sincere. Beside her was a woman you didn’t recognize—dark hair, a sharp jaw, eyes crinkled at the corners with laughter. Larissa’s arm was tucked behind her back, fingers just visible where they curled around the other woman’s hip.

Your throat tightened.

In your world, whoever this was had long since turned to dust.

Carefully, you closed the locket again, the metal clicking shut like the end of a held breath. You lay back on the bed without undressing, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The ceiling above you was smooth, uncracked, clean white plaster framed by dark wooden beams. You lay there in the quiet and catalogued the differences between this ceiling and the one you remembered: no scorch marks, no water stains, no jagged lines where collapse had begun.

You should have felt relief. Instead, you felt like an intruder.

You didn’t come back to the past to get comfortable…to get distracted.

But your body remembered the way she’d looked at you, the way her eyes had narrowed not with malice, but with a kind of wary curiosity. The way her voice had softened, just slightly, when she’d told you to rest. The way her perfume still lingered faintly on your skin where the locket had passed between you.

You rolled onto your side, facing the wall, and forced your eyes closed.

Sleep, when it finally came, was shallow and full of fractured images: Larissa’s office collapsed in on itself; Laurel’s smile knife-sharp and stained red; a thousand nameless faces turning to ash on the wind. Through it all, one thing remained constant—the sound of Larissa’s voice in the present, low and steady, threading through the nightmares like a tether.

—

You woke to the sound of a bell.

For a terrifying moment, you didn’t know which world you were in. Your heart surged against your ribs, ready for another evacuation alarm, another raid, another scramble toward an exit that might already be blocked.

But the sound was clean and melodic, not shrill; it rang through stone halls and down stairwells, calling students to breakfast instead of bigots to arms. You lay there and listened to it echo, your breath slowing by degrees.

Brighter morning light spilled around the edges of the curtains. You sat up, stiff from sleeping in your clothes, and swung your feet to the floor. The carpet was warm beneath your bare soles. Outside the door came the muffled thud of footsteps, the rise and fall of voices, laughter, complaints about early mornings, the hum of life you had almost forgotten how to hear.

You dressed as best you could—straightening your jacket, smoothing your shirt, doing what you could with fingers that still shook slightly. The mirror above the small dresser showed a face you scarcely recognized: eyes shadowed, mouth tight, hair mussed from restless sleep. You splashed water on your face from the small sink in the corner, the chill snapping you further into the present.

By the time you stepped into the hallway, the corridor had mostly emptied, only a stray late staff member jogging past you with a muttered apology. You watched them disappear around the corner, throat tightening at the sheer normalcy of it.

You walked toward the main stairwell, fingers brushing along the cool stone wall as if to reassure yourself it was real. Every sight you passed tugged at memories from the other timeline—some with perfect overlap, some different in tiny, disorienting ways. A tapestry hung straight here that had been torn there. A suit of armor that should’ve been missing an arm stood whole and polished. A windowpane intact instead of spiderwebbed with cracks.

The cafeteria was already buzzing when you slipped in along the side. Long tables stretched beneath high, arched windows, students clustered in their respective cliques and clades. Bright hair, fanged smiles, pointed ears, scaled skin—the riot of outcast diversity you’d grown up hearing about but had only seen in faded photos by the time you were old enough to understand.

You stood just inside the doorway for a second longer than polite, taking it in. The sound. The smell of coffee and toast and something faintly metallic that must have been blood for the vampire table. The rustle of newspapers, the clink of cutlery, the soft crackle of the fireplace.

Your chest ached.

Then you felt eyes on you.

You turned and found Larissa at one of the staff tables on the raised dais, her gaze already fixed on you. From this distance, she looked perfectly composed—back straight, shoulders square, hands wrapped around a porcelain mug. But you’d spent enough time reading the margins of reports about her to notice the subtler signs: the tilt of her head, the slight tightening at the corners of her eyes, the way one finger tapped once, twice, against the side of her mug before going still.

She inclined her head toward you in acknowledgment. It wasn’t quite a beckon, but it wasn’t dismissal either.

You made your way to the side table presumably meant for staff and visitors, acutely aware of the curiosity following your progress. Whispers rose and fell, small and harmless compared to the vicious rumors you’d once heard hissed over campfires about the “last survivors of Nevermore.”

When you glanced back toward the dais, Larissa’s attention was still fixed in your direction. Not openly staring, but tracking. Assessing. As though she had yet to determine whether you were a complication or a solution.

You forced yourself to reach for a cup of coffee, fingers curling around the ceramic to give them something solid to hold. The bitter scent rose, familiar and grounding. You took a slow sip, letting the heat burn your tongue just enough to anchor you.

You had not come here to be part of this world. Not really. You were a disruption, a fracture line in the timeline, a single determined refusal lodged in the throat of fate.

However, as Larissa dipped her head to speak to a teacher beside her, profile sharp against the tall windows, you felt it again—that quiet, terrifying tug inside your chest. The one that said you could belong here, if you let yourself. You could stand in morning light instead of dreary ash. You could exist in a world where her laugh was something you might hear with your own ears, instead of imagining it from secondhand descriptions and faded ink.

You pushed the thought away. There would be time enough for impossibilities later—if you succeeded.

For now, there was only this: the weight of her gaze every few minutes, the knowledge that when breakfast ended, she would call you back to her office. That she would ask questions you weren’t ready to answer. That you would have to lie again, carefully, strategically, until the moment came when you couldn’t.

The Weathervane was unusually calm for the late afternoon rush. It smelled of coffee, burnt sugar, and rain-soaked wool.

It wasn’t actually raining.

That, Larissa thought, was simply Jericho’s natural state of being. Damp in spirit, if not always in weather. The town had a way of clinging to unpleasant atmospheres long after the cause had vanished, like a house where someone had died and no one had thought to open a window.

She stood just inside the café entrance, gloved hands folded neatly around the strap of her handbag, and resisted the urge to turn around. Her reflection in the entrance windowpane betrayed the truth: she’d dressed with more care than she intended.

It was ridiculous, of course. Larissa Weems did not flee coffee shops. She presided over board meetings, disciplinary hearings, parent conferences, and the occasional supernatural incident involving blood, feathers, or unauthorized necromancy. She had once negotiated with a werewolf father during a full moon and managed to keep both her composure and all of her limbs.

Surely she could endure one planning meeting. With you. At six o’clock. In public.

Larissa’s gaze swept the café with practiced discretion. A few townspeople occupied the tables near the front, their conversations low and ordinary in a way that made them feel suspicious. Two teenagers hunched over milkshakes in the corner, passing a phone back and forth with the solemnity of people viewing evidence at a crime scene. Behind the counter, a barista with violet hair and an expression of profound spiritual exhaustion wiped down the espresso machine as though it had personally wronged them.

Then Larissa saw you.

You had chosen a small table near the window, far enough from the counter to avoid the worst of the noise, close enough to the exit that no one could accuse you of lacking tactical awareness. You were already seated, one ankle crossed over the other, a mug in front of you, your jacket draped over the back of the chair.

You looked comfortable.

There was that same ease again, that quiet, infuriating way you occupied space as though no one had ever taught you to apologize for it. You glanced up as the bell above the door gave its brittle little chime, and when your eyes found hers, your mouth curved into a smile.

Not too broad. Not presumptuous. Just warm enough to make her notice.

Larissa approached the table with the measured grace of a woman walking toward a gallows she had arranged herself.

“Larissa,” you greeted.

Her name again. It still felt inconvenient.

“You’re early,” she said, removing her gloves finger by finger.

“So are you.”

“I prefer punctuality.”

“And I prefer a good table.”

Her gaze flicked toward the window, then back to you. “A strategic choice.”

“Quiet enough to talk. Visible enough not to look suspicious.” You lifted your mug and joked. “And close enough to the exit in case the conversation goes horribly.”

Larissa arched a brow. “Do you often plan your escapes before coffee?”

“Only when meeting beautiful women with access to restricted archives.”

She paused. For only a moment. Then she slid into the chair opposite you, dignity intact through sheer force of will.

“How efficient of you,” she said coolly. “Flattery and ulterior motives in the same sentence.”

“I like to respect people’s time.”

“An admirable quality, if that is in fact what you are doing.”

You smiled into your mug.

Larissa set her handbag beside her chair and looked toward the counter. The barista, perhaps sensing the approach of authority, straightened immediately.

“I’ll get yours,” you said, beginning to rise.

“That is unnecessary.”

“I know.” You stood anyway.

Larissa watched you cross to the counter, and then immediately regretted watching. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the act. You ordered coffee. You exchanged a few quiet words with the barista. You leaned against the counter with one hand, relaxed but attentive. Entirely ordinary.

And yet Larissa’s attention remained fixed on you with the same grim persistence she usually reserved for faculty budget discrepancies.

It was the arrangement, she reminded herself.

Observation was necessary. If you were to appear familiar with one another, she had to know your mannerisms. Your habits. The way you moved through a room. The rhythm of your speech. Whether you were the sort of person who flirted with everyone or merely with people whose professional boundaries you intended to ruin.

You returned with her coffee before she could reach any useful conclusion.

“Black,” you said, setting the cup before her. “No sugar.”

Larissa looked at it, then at you.

“You remembered.”

“You mentioned it yesterday.”

“I didn’t realize you were listening so closely.”

“I mean, I was asking you for access to one of the most restricted spaces in Nevermore. Listening seemed wise.”

A reasonable answer. Entirely too reasonable.

“Thank you,” Larissa said.

Your smile softened. “You’re welcome.”

She reached for the cup, grateful for something to do with her hands. The coffee was hot enough to sting faintly through the porcelain. Good. Pain, however minor, had a clarifying effect.

For a moment, the two of you sat in companionable quiet. Outside, Jericho moved in its dreary little way. Across the street, the antique shop’s window display featured a collection of porcelain dolls arranged in what appeared to be a murder tribunal.

Larissa had always found Jericho tiresome. Nevermore was strange by nature, but Jericho was strange by denial.

You followed her gaze and grimaced faintly. “You know, those dolls weren’t all facing the same direction when I arrived.”

Larissa glanced back at you. “Are you attempting to unsettle me?”

“No. Just sharing.”

“How generous.”

“I thought honesty might help with the narrative consistency.”

Larissa’s mouth betrayed her before she could stop it, curving faintly at one corner.

“Very well,” she said, setting down her cup. “If we are to discuss this arrangement, we should begin with expectations.”

You folded your hands around your mug. “That sounds terrifyingly official.”

“It is a fake relationship, not a bank holiday. Some structure is necessary.”

“Of course.”

“First,” Larissa said, “we will not use the phrase fake relationship.”

You blinked. “Even in private?”

“Especially in private. It sounds juvenile.”

“What would you prefer?”

“Arrangement remains suitable.”

“Larissa, if someone asks how long we’ve been together and I say, ‘Oh, this arrangement has been going on for several weeks,’ I’m not sure it’ll help our case.”

She gave you a look.

You looked back, entirely too pleased with yourself.

“Fine,” she said. “Relationship, if necessary.”

“Romance?” You suggested.

“Absolutely not.”

“Entanglement?”

“Only if your goal is to sound like a scandal column written by a man with gout.”

You laughed, and Larissa had to look down at her coffee.

That sound again. Uncontrolled. Unrehearsed. Irritatingly easy to want again.

“Relationship it is,” you said. “How long have we been seeing each other?”

Larissa had prepared for this question. She had prepared for several questions, in fact, in a mental list arranged by likelihood and potential discomfort.

“Several months,” she said. “Long enough to justify my inviting you, not so long that anyone would expect extensive public knowledge.”

You nodded. “How did we meet?”

“At a town council function.”

“That works. We did technically meet there.”

“Precisely.”

“Though I think you ignored me for most of it.”

“I was speaking with the mayor.”

“You looked miserable.”

“I was speaking with the mayor.”

You nodded, “Fair.”

Larissa took a sip of coffee to hide the smile threatening her composure.

“It would be plausible,” she continued, “that we became acquainted after that. You had research interests connected to Nevermore history. I had reason to consult with someone familiar with Jericho’s private records.”

“And from there, mutual respect became attraction?”

Her fingers stilled against the cup.

You said it lightly. Not mockingly. But the word sat between you with a certain weight.

Attraction. Some people said such things as if they had no edges…

“That would be the implication,” Larissa said.

“The implication,” you repeated.

“Yes.”

“Are we affectionate?”

Larissa’s gaze sharpened. “In what sense?”

“In the sense that if someone watches us interact for more than thirty seconds, they should believe we like each other.”

“I am capable of appearing fond.”

“I have no doubt.”

“I am less certain about you.”

You placed a hand over your chest again, wounded in a way that was becoming theatrically familiar. “I’m deeply likable.”

“You are tolerable under specific circumstances.”

“That’s basically a love confession coming from you.”

Larissa gave you a look so flat it might have been used to press flowers.

You smiled. “Fine,” you said. “We like each other. Publicly.”

“Publicly,” Larissa agreed.

“And privately?”

Her eyes lifted to yours. The question had been too quiet to remain entirely teasing.

Privately.

A ridiculous word. A treacherous one. It suggested closed doors, lowered voices, gloves removed one finger at a time. Things Larissa had not given herself permission to consider, and certainly not across from you in a café that smelled faintly of cinnamon and municipal despair.

“Privately,” she said after a moment, “we maintain the terms of our agreement.”

You studied her, then nodded. You did not push. Larissa found that more disarming than if you had.

“Physical affection?” you asked instead.

She had known that question would come. “I think,” Larissa said carefully, “we should avoid anything unnecessary.”

“Define unnecessary.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m being practical. If we’re going to convince people, we should know what we’re comfortable with.”

Comfortable. An almost laughable word.

Larissa Weems had spent much of her life appearing comfortable in situations designed to make her feel otherwise. She had learned how to stand still while being examined, praised, dismissed, envied, underestimated. Comfort rarely entered into it.

“An arm offered while walking is acceptable,” she said.

You nodded.

“A hand at my back, provided it is not excessive.”

“What counts as excessive?”

“You will know.”

“I admire your faith in me.”

“Do not.”

You smiled into your coffee at that.

Larissa continued, determined not to be derailed by the entirely unnecessary curve of your mouth. “Brief touches, if the situation requires it. Nothing that would invite speculation beyond what we intend.”

“Larissa, the entire point is to invite speculation.”

“Controlled speculation.”

“Oh, of course. My mistake.” You almost rolled your eyes.

“And no kissing,” she added.

The words landed rather abruptly. Your expression did not change much, but she saw the flicker of surprise.

“Noted,” you said.

Larissa’s fingers tightened around her cup.

It was reasonable. Sensible. A clear boundary. There was no reason to feel as though she had revealed something intimate by setting it.

“No kissing,” you repeated, gentler this time. “Unless you change your mind.”

“I will not.”

“All right.”

No teasing. No challenge. Just acceptance. It should have relieved her. It did, somewhat. It also left her with the irritating impression that you had heard the part she had omitted.

Larissa turned her attention to the folder she had brought with her and withdrew a small notebook. Boundaries were necessary. Unfortunately, they were not sufficient.

A lie, if it was going to survive public scrutiny, needed details.

“For this to be believable,” she said carefully, “people will expect that we already have a certain familiarity. That we know one another beyond formalities.”

Your eyes dropped to the notebook, delighted. “Did you make an agenda?”

“Naturally.”

“For our fake dating planning meeting?”

“Our relationship planning meeting,” Larissa corrected, with an expression that dared you to comment.

You did anyway. “I’m charmed.”

“You are premature.”

“That too.”

Larissa looked up sharply. You took a long, innocent sip of coffee.

A lesser woman might have laughed. Larissa was not a lesser woman. She pressed the tip of her pen to the page with perhaps more force than strictly necessary.

“Occupation,” she said.

“You know that already.”

“I know what you do professionally. I do not know how you explain it at parties.”

“Badly, usually.”

“Then practice.”

You leaned back in your chair, considering. “Independent researcher. Occasional consultant. Professional nuisance when institutions hide things in locked rooms and expect no one to ask why.”

“Charming.”

“You asked.”

“I did.”

“What about you?”

Larissa looked at you.

You smiled. “How do you explain your job at parties?”

“I am the principal of Nevermore Academy.”

“That’s not explaining. That’s a warning label.”

“You are not wrong.”

Your smile widened.

Larissa wrote professional nuisance beneath your name, then stared at it for half a second longer than necessary.

“Hobbies?” she asked.

“Is this for you or for the alumni?”

“Both.”

“Efficient.”

“You say that as though it surprises you.”

“No. I’m starting to think efficiency might be your love language.”

“My what?”

“Never mind.”

Larissa chose, generously, not to pursue that.

You stirred your coffee, though it didn’t need stirring. “I like museums. Any kind, really. Art, history, oddities… I like the quiet. The stillness. Feels like everyone’s agreed, just for that hour, to let things be.”

Larissa’s pen moved.

“Ballet.”

Her pen paused.

You noticed.

“Surprising?”

“No,” she said quickly.

You looked unconvinced.

Larissa cleared her throat. “Perhaps mildly.”

Mildly was a charitable lie. Your ease, the faint roughness to your voice, the scent of leather and pine that followed you—none of it suggested delicate pointe shoes or orchestral crescendos.

“I contain multitudes,” you said in a singsong voice.

“How poetic.”

“One of the first things I was obsessed with as a kid,” you said, leaning forward, elbows brushing the edge of the table. “My brother used to take me to performances when he could afford cheap seats. Guess it stuck.”

Larissa smiled softly, as if she was stuck in a memory. “I used to sneak into the local theater back home to watch rehearsals. Never had the courage to admit how much I loved it.”

You raised a brow. “You? Not have courage?”

“Regarding matters of personal expression,” she corrected, “yes.” A sigh escaped her. “Perfection was expected. And ballet felt… indulgent.”

“Indulgent can be good,” you murmured.

She looked down.

“I also like a good beer,” you added, gentler now, as if sensing she needed the subject turned slightly away from herself. “Which usually ruins the effect.”

“Does it?”

“Depends on the exhibit. Some of them practically require one afterward.”

Larissa made the mistake of imagining you in some dimly lit gallery, head tilted before a painting, speaking quietly about brushwork or history or whatever it was you saw when you looked at beautiful things. Then she imagined you in a bar afterward, relaxed and laughing with a bottle in your hand, utterly untroubled by contradiction.

It annoyed her, how easily the image came.

Then her gaze caught on the leather jacket draped over your chair, and another image intruded: you arriving at Nevermore astride a motorcycle, entirely too comfortable with the attention it drew.

“You ride a motorcycle,” she said.

Your brows lifted. “I didn’t mention that.”

“You arrived on one yesterday morning.”

“You noticed?”

“I notice most things.”

“I’m beginning to understand that.”

Larissa wrote motorcycle, then immediately wondered why it looked more intimate in her handwriting than it had any right to.

“Is that a deal-breaker for a fake girlfriend?” you teased.

She felt heat prick her cheeks. “I—certainly not. It’s merely… unexpected.”

“That tends to be the reaction.” Your smile softened as your fingers brushed the rim of your mug. “It belonged to my father originally. I fixed it up after he stopped using it.”

Larissa glanced up.

You shrugged, as if the detail had escaped by accident and now needed to be made smaller. “It’s loud, inconvenient, and makes people assume things about me that are only half true.”

“That sounds like most forms of transportation chosen for emotional reasons.”

You laughed softly. “You’re not wrong.”

“And family?” Larissa asked curiously.

The question was more delicate.

Your expression softened. “I have a brother. He has a daughter. My niece.”

Larissa wrote niece, though the word felt inadequate for whatever had just happened to your face.

“I watch her sometimes,” you continued. “When he needs help. Or when she decides I’m more fun.”

“And are you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Larissa’s brow rose.

“My brother works long shifts, so I help out when I can,” you said. “She’s four. Very opinionated. Deeply suspicious of vegetables.”

Larissa’s brow rose.

“I let her get ice cream before dinner once,” you added. “Now I’m beloved and morally compromised.”

“A dangerous combination.”

“She thinks so,” you said, smiling helplessly into your cup.

Larissa could picture it too easily, as well. You with a child beside you, conspiratorial and amused. You kneeling to zip a small coat, or pretending not to notice sticky fingers, or allowing yourself to be tugged toward something ridiculous because a child had demanded it with complete confidence.

There was an ache in the image she did not care to examine.

“What’s her name?” Larissa asked before she could stop herself.

“Mara.”

Her expression warmed before she could arrange it into something more useful, more guarded.

“Mara,” Larissa repeated, and wrote it down carefully. 

You watched her do it.

“You don’t have to remember all this.”

“If we are to appear close, I should remember what matters to you.”

The words were practical. Mostly.

You looked away first, and Larissa counted that as a private victory.

“What about you?” you asked, sitting back in the booth.

Larissa’s pen stopped moving. “What about me?”

“Hobbies. Family. Things alumni might expect me to know.”

“My professional history is public enough.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

A silence settled between you, not uncomfortable exactly, but heavy in the way old doors were heavy. The kind that required both hands to open.

Larissa looked down at the notebook. Her own page remained largely blank.

Principal of Nevermore. Former student. Shapeshifter. Immaculate posture. Avoids vulnerability as if it were a contagious disease.

Not especially helpful in these circumstances.

“I enjoy music,” she finally said.

“That’s safe.”

“It’s true.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

Larissa looked at you. You looked back.

The café hummed around you. Cups clinked. The espresso machine hissed. Someone near the counter laughed too loudly and then seemed embarrassed by the sound.

Larissa turned her pen once between her fingers.

“I paint,” she admitted.

The admission left her so quietly that, for a moment, she almost convinced herself she had not said it aloud.

But you heard her. Your expression changed—not dramatically, not enough to make her regret it immediately. You simply became stiller. More careful.

“You paint?”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

Larissa’s shoulders tightened. “No one knows that,” she said.

It was not an answer. You seemed to understand that.

“Then I won’t tell anyone.”

She should have moved on. She should have written down some bland, acceptable detail instead—watercolors, landscapes, amateur interest. Something harmless.

But the truth, once loosened, had a perverse desire to continue to unravel.

“I don’t show anyone,” Larissa said. “I have no interest in being compared. Or praised insincerely. Or told that something private has merit only because someone else has decided it does.”

Your voice softened. “And you’re afraid it won’t be perfect?”

She swallowed. “Because it doesn’t need to be. It’s the only thing in my life that doesn’t require excellence. No Board evaluations. No faculty judgments. No comparisons to my predecessor.” Her gaze drifted to the window. “Just color and canvas. I don’t have to be the headmistress. I can simply be.”

You watched her as if she had handed you something breakable and trusted you, inexplicably, not to close your fist around it.

Larissa resented the gentleness in it. Worse, some small, neglected part of her recognized it as kindness.

“That makes sense,” you said.

She almost laughed. It did not make sense. Not to most people. Most people believed beauty needed an audience. That talent needed witness. That private things were wasted if they remained private.

Larissa had spent her life being witnessed. Examined. Interpreted. Reduced to a set of visible facts: tall, elegant, controlled, successful. Painting was the one thing that did not ask her to be impressive. The one thing she could do without consequence. The one place where perfection was not demanded at the door like a ticket.

“It’s the only time,” she said, then stopped.

Your voice was careful. “The only time what?”

Larissa looked out the window again. The porcelain dolls across the street had shifted… again.

Wonderful. Even the town’s unsettling décor had better timing than she did.

“It is the only time I do not have to be perfect,” she said at last.

The words settled between you. You didn’t make a joke, didn’t laugh.

Larissa’s throat tightened. She regretted it now. Not the truth, exactly, but the nakedness of it. The way it sat there on the café table between your coffee cups, fragile and horribly alive.

Then you said, “Whatever you make doesn’t have to justify itself to anyone.”

She looked back at you.

Your expression was calm. Certain. “It can just exist,” you said. “And still be beautiful.”

Larissa forgot, briefly, how to breathe. It was a foolish response to a simple kindness. She knew that. She was not seventeen anymore, no matter what this reunion seemed determined to resurrect.

And yet. Something inside her went very still.

“That is a generous sentiment,” she said.

“It’s not generosity if it’s true.”

There it was again. That ease she had not yet decided whether to admire or resent.

Larissa looked down at her notebook and found that her hand had not moved for several minutes. She wrote one word beneath her own name.

Painting.

The letters looked strangely exposed. This was the problem with pretending at intimacy. Occasionally, one stumbled into the real thing.

You reached for your cup. “Feels like we’re off to a good start.”

“Does it?” she asked, hating the softness in her voice.

You gave a small, warm smile. “Yeah. It feels like we’re going to be convincing.”

Her pulse gave one traitorous little answer.

“Now,” she said, voice smoother than she felt, “before this becomes too sentimental, we should discuss the reunion attendees.”

You leaned back, accepting the retreat with infuriating grace. “Of course. The ghosts.”

“Former classmates,” Larissa corrected.

“You described them as people pretending to remember you fondly.”

“In that case, ghosts may be kinder.”

“Oof. That bad?”

Larissa’s mouth thinned. “Not all of them.”

“But some.”

“Some people are most comfortable when others remain exactly where they left them.”

You watched her carefully. “And where did they leave you?”

Larissa considered not answering. Then she surprised herself.

“At the edge of things.”

Your face shifted. Not pity. She would have ended the conversation if it were pity. Recognition, perhaps.

“I see,” you said.

“Yes,” Larissa replied. “I rather feared you might.”

Outside, the streetlamp flickered once, then steadied. A car rolled slowly past the café, tires hissing against pavement that had no reason to be wet.

Larissa opened the folder and pulled out a neatly folded sheet.

“I have compiled a list of individuals likely to be in attendance.”

“You made a dossier?”

“A guest list.”

“With emotional threat assessments?” you teased.

“Don’t be absurd.”

You reached for the paper.

Larissa held it just out of reach for one additional second, mostly because you looked amused and she was, apparently, becoming petty in your presence.

Then she handed it over.

You scanned the list. “Morticia Addams?”

Larissa’s facial expression did not move. But something in the air changed.

You looked up. “Ah,” you said.

“There is no ah.”

“That was definitely an ah.”

“It was not.”

“You have an ah face.”

“I assure you, I do not.”

“You do when someone named Morticia appears on a list.”

Larissa reached for her coffee. It was lukewarm now. Tragic.

“Morticia Frump, at the time,” she said. “Now Addams. We were roommates.”

Your eyes flickered with interest. “Roommates?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And she is expected to attend with her husband.”

You checked the list. “Gomez Addams.”

“Yes.”

You looked up at Larissa again. “Do I need to know something about Morticia?”

“No.”

“Larissa.”

Her name, gentle and chiding, should not have worked. She decided that it hadn’t. Then she answered anyway.

“Morticia was beloved,” Larissa said. “Beautiful. Effortless. Brilliant in ways that made people forgive her for never seeming to try.”

You didn’t interrupt. Larissa wished you would. It might have allowed her to stop.

“She had a way of making the grotesque look graceful,” she continued. “Of making danger seem romantic. People were drawn to her. They still are.”

“And you?”

Larissa smiled faintly. It was not a happy expression. “I was useful.”

Your gaze sharpened.

“She wasn’t cruel,” Larissa said, because it mattered. Because the truth was worse for lacking a villain. “Not intentionally. Morticia could be very kind. But kindness does not always prevent someone from casting a shadow.”

You looked at the guest list again. “And you spent a lot of time in that shadow.”

Larissa’s fingers tightened around her cup. “Yes.”

There. The truth, stripped of all useful decoration.

You set the paper down with care.

“I should probably know what people might assume about us,” you said.

Larissa’s eyes lifted.

“And about you and Morticia,” you clarified.

Her expression cooled by a practiced degree. “There is nothing to assume.”

“That doesn’t usually stop people.”

No, Larissa thought. It did not.

“There may have been speculation,” she said carefully.

“Was it accurate?”

Her pulse gave one hard, offended beat.

You didn’t look mockingly. Only directly.

Larissa could have lied. Easily. She had lied about smaller things to more important people.

Instead, she said, “Not in any way that matters now.”

You absorbed that. Then nodded. “All right.”

No demand. No triumphant little smile. No invasive curiosity. Just all right.

Larissa was beginning to suspect that your restraint would prove more inconvenient than your curiosity.

“She may ask about you,” Larissa said.

“Morticia?”

“Others as well. But yes.”

“What should I say?”

“That you find me impressive, of course.”

You smiled. “That part won’t be difficult.”

Larissa looked at you over the rim of her cup. “You are very determined to make this evening tiresome.”

“Only for your cardiovascular health.”

“How considerate.”

“I try.”

She should not have enjoyed this. She truly shouldn’t have.

“And if someone asks why I’m with you?” you continued.

Larissa’s chin lifted slightly. “Because you have excellent taste.”

You laughed again, and this time Larissa allowed herself the smallest smile in return.

“Good answer,” you said.

“It has the advantage of being plausible.”

“Very humble.”

“Humility is overrated.”

“That might be the first thing you’ve said tonight that I completely believe.”

Larissa’s smile lingered.

Then, because Jericho had a vindictive sense of timing, something went wrong.

The lights flickered. Not dramatically. Not enough to cause alarm. Just a brief dimming, as if the café had blinked.

The conversations around you continued. The barista cursed softly at the espresso machine. Outside, the streetlamp flickered again.

Larissa’s smile vanished.

You noticed immediately. “What is it?”

She did not answer at once.

Across from you, on the wall above the counter, a round clock ticked steadily toward six forty-three. Then the second hand stopped.

The room did not.

A spoon clinked against ceramic. Someone coughed. The espresso machine hissed. Your fingers tightened around your mug.

The clock remained frozen.

Larissa slowly turned her head toward the window. A man in a gray coat stood outside beneath the streetlamp, cigarette lifted halfway to his mouth. Unmoving.

No. Not unmoving.

Paused.

The flame from his lighter hung small and bright in the air, a tiny orange wound against the darkening street.

“Larissa,” you said quietly.

She looked back at you. The smile had gone from your face.

For one second, neither of you moved. Then the clock resumed.

The man outside finished lighting his cigarette. The streetlamp steadied. The café continued on, oblivious and ordinary, which in Jericho was usually the first sign of something being deeply wrong.

Larissa rose from her chair. “Come with me.”

You stood at once, reaching for your jacket. “That was one of the anomalies.”

“Yes.”

“So the Hourglass—”

“Not here,” she said sharply.

You fell silent. Not from being intimidated or chastened. Never that.

But because you understood.

Larissa left money on the table for both coffees and gathered her handbag, every motion controlled, precise, far calmer than she felt. She could sense your presence beside her as the two of you moved toward the door.

The bell above it chimed when she stepped outside.

The evening air was cold enough to bite. Jericho’s main street stretched in both directions, damp and dim and deceptively still. The man in the gray coat was walking away now, smoke trailing behind him.

Larissa turned toward you.

“This changes things,” you said.

“It confirms that your concerns have merit,” she agreed.

“That’s one way to put it.”

“It also means your access to the archives will begin tomorrow.”

Your brows lifted. “That soon?”

“Under my supervision,” she said. “Do not look pleased.”

“I’m trying not to.”

“You are failing.”

The corner of your mouth twitched, but the humor faded quickly as you glanced back through the café window at the clock.

“Did anyone else notice?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“That’s worse, isn’t it?”

Larissa did not answer. Because yes. It was worse.

A temporal disturbance observed by multiple witnesses would have created panic, but it also would have created proof. This had been quiet. Selective. Precise. The kind of wrongness that slipped through the cracks and left reasonable people doubting themselves.

The kind of wrongness Nevermore tended to bury until it began digging back.

“I should go through my notes tonight,” you said. “There might be a pattern with location or timing.”

“No.”

You looked at her.

Larissa realized, belatedly, that the word had come too quickly.

“No?” you repeated.

“It would be unwise for you to pursue this alone.”

“I’ve been pursuing it alone for weeks.”

“And now you’re not.”

The statement hung between you.

The streetlamp buzzed faintly overhead.

Your expression softened, just a little. “Is that part of the archive agreement or the dating arrangement?”

Larissa’s jaw tightened. “Both,” she said.

You seemed to like that answer more than she intended.

“Then what do you suggest?”

“Return home. Make no additional inquiries tonight. Bring your notes to Nevermore tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Is this you worrying about me?”

“This is me managing risk.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You thought it loudly.”

You smiled then, small and real, and for one strange moment Larissa forgot which problem she was meant to be solving first: the stopped clock, the impossible artifact, the looming reunion, or you.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” you said.

“And tomorrow evening,” she reminded you. “We have not finished preparing for the reunion.”

“You still want to continue with that?”

The question surprised her. Perhaps it shouldn’t have.

Larissa looked at you, at the concern tucked carefully beneath your curiosity, at the steadiness of you in the dim light.

“Yes,” she said.

Your gaze searched hers. “Even with all of this happening?”

“Especially with all of this happening.”

A faint smile touched your mouth. “That sounds ominous.”

“This is Jericho. Everything sounds ominous if one is paying attention.”

“Fair point.” You stepped back, then hesitated.

Larissa saw the question before you asked it.

“Would it be too much,” you said carefully, “if I touched your arm before I go?”

Her breath caught.

Unfortunately, you were becoming rather skilled at noticing the things she preferred to keep brief.

“For practice,” you added, though your voice was softer than before.

Larissa should have refused. It would have been simple. Sensible. Entirely within the boundaries she had drawn less than an hour ago. Instead, she inclined her head once.

You moved slowly enough that she could have stepped away.

She did not.

Your hand settled lightly against her forearm, just above the wrist. A brief touch. Warm through the fabric of her sleeve. Nothing theatrical. Nothing excessive. Her pulse, apparently, didn’t care for the distinction.

“Goodnight, Larissa,” you said.

“Goodnight,” she replied.

You released her and walked toward the motorcycle parked near the curb. Larissa watched as you pulled on your helmet, swung one leg over the bike, and glanced back at her before starting the engine.

The sound cut through the quiet street, low and rough and entirely at odds with the careful elegance of the evening. Then you were gone, taillight disappearing into the fog-softened dark.

Larissa remained beneath the streetlamp longer than necessary.

Across the street, in the antique shop window, the porcelain dolls had turned to face her. Every single one.

Larissa stared at them. “Subtle,” she murmured.

Then she turned sharply and walked toward her car, heels clicking against the pavement with the brisk certainty of a woman who had no intention of being intimidated by cursed dolls, temporal anomalies, or the lingering warmth of your hand on her sleeve.

By the time she reached the edge of town, she had already begun revising the next day’s schedule.

Nine o’clock. Archive access.

Six o’clock. Continued reunion preparation.

And somewhere between those two appointments, Larissa would have to determine which required closer supervision: an artifact capable of fracturing time, or the fact that she was looking forward to seeing you again.

—

Every action has its equal and opposite reaction–a ball exerts downward force, the ground exerts upwards force and the ball bounces; your foot pushes on the ground, the ground pushes back and you walk; she kisses you, you kiss her and…then what?

It’s been the same thing for years.

They kiss you, you kiss them.

They take off your clothes, you take off theirs.

They finish…you don’t, and you go home and finish yourself off with your vibrator and a glass of wine.

So, when Larissa asks you out after years of working with each other and almost a whole school year of flirting and yearning looks, you’re almost dreading it–because you know it’ll end the same way. You’ll get three months into the relationship, you’ll be laying in bed, the mood will feel right at first, and then you’ll end up making them finish and you’ll receive what you can’t even call aftercare.

Man or woman, it didn’t matter–the result was always the same.

But somehow, you convince yourself that Larissa will be different. And you pray that your gut is telling the truth. 

You’ve been on plenty of dates in your life, but your first date with Larissa was possibly the best one you’ve been on. You’ve always loved the fair and going with Larissa made it even better. 

A gasp from Larissa startled you and you turned your head to find her staring at one of the ring toss booths. “What is it?” you ask.

“That stuffed bear,” she says, pointing up at the corner of the booth where a stuffed brown bear hangs from a hook by the ribbon on its neck. “I had one just like it when I was a girl. I lost it one day and I was distraught–I have no idea where it went.”

You look from her to the bear and back to her. “Do you want me to get it for you?”

She looks at you, eyebrow raised. “You want to try and win me the stuffed bear?”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Isn’t that what fair dates are all about?”

At the mention of it being a date, a light rose dusts Larissa’s cheeks and you can see her trying not to smile. “Fine–But no cheating with telekinesis!” she says pointedly.

You gasp in mock offense, hand clutching your chest. “How dare you suggest that, Principal Weems! I would never!”

You walk up to the booth attendant with a smug grin and hand him a twenty dollar bill in exchange for ten rings. Your heart races as you feel Larissa’s eyes on you and you lean forward, tossing the ring forward. It misses the bottle neck by a hair’s width and you huff before tossing another one and another one.

“Why am I so bad at this?” you whine as Larissa giggles, hand covering her mouth.

You get the fourth try and the fifth, then the sixth, but the rest you miss. You purse your lips as the attendant hands you a tiny dog plush that you’d find in a fast food kids meal. You hand it to Larissa and sigh, “Hold this.”

She watches as you hand the man another twenty and toss more rings–and miss more bottles. You’re handed another tiny plush and you hand him another twenty.

“Darling,” she says, pocketing the second tiny plush, “you don’t have to keep–”

“No, I want to,” you say, and throw the first ring. “You’re getting that bear, Larissa–I don’t care how much it costs me.”

Larissa sighs, smiling softly as she rolls her eyes and lets you continue.

This time around, you get five bottles and hand her a plush that’s a bit bigger–but it’s not good enough for you. So, you hand him another twenty and as you throw the first ring, you give into your urge.

The first ring falls perfectly around the neck of the bottle.

Then the second.

Then the third.

The fourth.

The fifth.

The attendant isn’t paying attention as he helps a group of students on the opposite end of the booth.

But Larissa is paying attention. She eyes you suspiciously and when you throw the eighth perfect ring, she leans down, lips by your ear. “What do you think you’re doing?”

A chill runs through you and you shrug, aiming the ninth ring at the next bottle. “Practice makes perfect. I have no idea what you’re insinuating.”

With an amused smile, Larissa stands up straight, watching you make the last two bottles. The attendant–confused, but not getting paid enough to care–rings a loud bell and hands you the bear.

“Y’know, you could’ve just bought it for thirty bucks,” he shrugs, and you glare at him.

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” you say, face deadpan.

You turn to face Larissa, reserving your smile for her alone as you hold out the stuffed bear. She takes it gratefully and thanks you, leaving a kiss on your cheeks and you can feel the heat rush into your face. 

“Oh, I got lipstick on your cheek,” she says, and swipes her thumb over the mark before grinning. “Your face is very warm.”

You clear your throat, trying not to smile under her smug look as you mutter, “Shut up.”

The night progresses and Larissa never once lets go of the stuffed bear. You walk around the fair with conversations being broken by students saying hi and orders at the concession stands.

Now, you walk side-by-side with snow cones and blue tongues. 

“You know, I’m not usually one for carnival rides,” Larissa begins, “but would you want to join me on the Ferris wheel to watch the fireworks?”

“The Ferris wheel?” you repeat. “That’s a bit cliche, don’t you think? But yes, I’d love to join you on the Ferris wheel.”

You have no idea how you ended up here–on the Ferris wheel, in the arms of your boss as she clutches the bear you won for her at a game of ring toss. 

“Thank you for tonight, by the way,” Larissa says quietly. “I haven’t had this much at the fair since I was a student here–and nobody’s ever spent almost a hundred dollars trying to win a silly stuffed animal for me.”

“Of course,” you smile, and you feel a chill run through you as her finger tips trail over your arm. “I felt it was my duty to make sure you got your bear back.” 

The gondola you’re in stops at the top of the wheel–how convenient. The view of Nevermore lit up in the night, the colorful fair lights, the fireworks starting in less than two minutes.

“My knight in shining armor,” Larissa muses. There's a moment of silence as you watch the fair below–students running around with their friends, the screams of laughter on rides, the dings of bells on games. Larissa turns her head to look at you, quietly admiring how the lights hit your complexion. 

Her voice is quiet, and she hopes it doesn’t shake with the anxiety she has. “Can I kiss you?”

Your eyes widen and you smile as you look at her. “You’re very straightforward, Principal Weems.”

“I don’t think there’s any point in beating around the bush,” she says. “Now, can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” you giggle. “You can kiss me.”

Every action has its equal and opposite reaction–you strike a match, the friction creates a spark and a flame; you put a flame to a fuse and the fuse lights; a firework bursts and sends stars in every direction; she kisses you, you kiss her.

You want so badly to bask in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, but every time you’re in either of your little staff cottages, you feel your stomach churn. You know you’re attracted to her–God, it’s pathetic how much you are. You touch yourself to the thought of her, the things you want her to do to you, but even two months in, all you can bring yourself to do is kiss her.

Larissa’s lips are soft against yours–the softest thing you could touch. You relish in the kisses you exchange, whether they’re stolen kisses at school or kisses shared when making dinner together, but they slowly become more heated.

More passionate.

Lasting longer.

And three months in, you’re retreating.

This isn’t the first time you’ve done it. You’ve flat out broken up with someone because of how scared you were to be intimate with her. You’re quiet and reserved now, making excuses as to why you can’t go over to Larissa’s for dinner, or why you can’t join her for a glass of wine in her office after school.

And she notices.

Larissa isn’t stupid. She’s worked with you for three years and not once have you needed a substitute or canceled plans you made with her.

Until now.

You slowly start to come back one week and she observes you carefully–you’re still quiet, like your mind is preoccupied. But then you retreat back into yourself again and she can’t help but convince herself it’s something she’s done.

Larissa doesn’t confront you, though. Instead, she asks you to come over tonight–for the first time in almost a week—and she’s relieved when you say yes.

She’s pulling you through the doorway of her house at 5pm, both of you smiling as she presses a kiss to your lips. You make dinner together, catch up on episodes of the show you’re watching, and you let her hold you as the living room slowly darkens from the December night.

“I’m gonna take our dishes to the kitchen,” you mumble, standing up as the show credits begin.

The sink water scalds your hands as you wash the dishes from dinner, but you don’t change the temperature. You’re quiet as the stream of thoughts in your head turns into a raging river, and then you’re startled, pulled out of your head by a pair of arms wrapping around you from behind.

“You shouldn’t be doing the dishes,” Larissa mutters, kissing your temple.

You brush off her words. “It’s fine, I don’t mind.”

Her lips remain close to your ear and you feel that tug in your abdomen, but you continue washing the dishes as Larissa watches you.

“You’ve been washing the same fork for two minutes,” she mumbles, and you can hear the teasing lilt in her voice as you set the fork in the drying rack. Her hands splay over your belly, running over your hips and squeezing as her lips start making their way down. 

You want to continue, but everything inside of you screams to stop. When Larissa’s lips reach your neck and her fingers brush under your shirt, you’re quick to turn the water off and remove her hands from you. 

“No!” You turn around, face hot with embarrassment as you tense and move out of her grasp. “I’m sorry,” you say quickly, avoiding her eyes. Your voice quiets and you sigh, “I’m sorry.

“It’s okay,” she reassures you gently. “Is it something I said, or did?”

“No, it’s not you,” you say. “I just don’t want–Well, I do want to–I really want to–” You feel your throat tighten as you struggle to gather your thoughts. “But I’m–scared–I think…I’m sorry.”

Larissa’s face softens and she nods lightly. “Okay…It’s alright.” She steps forward carefully. “Can I ask why you’re scared?”

You chew the skin on your lip, heat rising in your face. “I’ve never had–um–”

“Sex?” she says for you.

“No, I have,” you say. “Just not with…someone who cared. Sex has never been…fun or…pleasurable for me.” You feel shame boil in your chest, like it’s your fault somehow, and your voice reflects it. “At first I thought it was just the guys I was seeing, but then the women didn’t care enough either, so…I’ve just kind of been avoiding it altogether.”

“I see,” she says quietly. 

“I want to have sex,” you say, hands running over her forearms. “I do, really. I just don’t know when.”

“You don’t have to know when,” Larissa says, eyes warm and face soft. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” she nods, and pulls you into her embrace. “We can wait as long as you want.”

Winter break comes and goes and with it, your anxiety and fear of letting Larissa down. 

“Thank you for being understanding,” you mutter one night, laying in bed with her. 

She kisses you softly, hand squeezing your hip. “I would never ever want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

“I know,” you mumble, kissing her again. “Thank you. Most relationships got three months in and I thought I was ready, but…Needless to say, the only thing that’s made me finish is my vibrator.”

The good thing about Nevermore having on-campus housing is that technically snow days don’t affect classes.

The good thing about having Larissa Weems as principal is that she knows that’s not what snow days are about. So, the day before the Vermont sky dumps almost a foot of snow on the ground mid-February, you manage to convince her to cancel classes.

You’re walking toward her office in the middle of your planning period when the intercom crackles to life overhead.

“Good afternoon, Nevermore students and staff,” Larissa says. “Due to the forecasted snow, administration has made the decision to close campus tomorrow. Grounds crew will be on campus today and tomorrow to assist in winter weather safety, and the dining hall will remain open for all students and staff. Should you have any questions or concerns, an email will be sent out shortly with more information. Thank you for your understanding, and enjoy your snow day.”

From a distance you can hear cheers from classrooms, and when you enter Larissa’s office, you’re smiling brightly. “Glad to hear you took my suggestion.”

Larissa scoffs and smiles as you rest on the edge of her desk. “Begging is more like it.”

“I was thinking,” you say, “maybe we could get snowed in together–you can stay the night, we’ll wake up tomorrow, you’ll be stuck with me, we can make cookies, have hot chocolate, watch a rom-com.”

Larissa looks up at you from her laptop, smiling. “I would love nothing more, my darling.”

A little under a foot of snow lays on the ground outside. Bright light seeps through the windows of your cottage as you lay on the couch with Larissa, and the movie playing on the TV is forgotten through the soft kisses you exchange. 

A knock on your front door pulls you from your warm, domestic bubble, and you reluctantly leave Larissa to open it. In front of you stands three students, all bundled in snow clothes with bright faces red from the cold.

“Is this a question about the homework due on Friday?” you ask, and they giggle.

“No!” one of them laughs. “We’re going around to all the staff cottages to get a teachers versus students snowball fight! We’ve got Coach Vlad, the English department, the Math department, all of the History teachers–we might try to get Principal Weems too!”

You glance behind you at the living room where Larissa sits on the couch, bundled in blankets. “Principal Weems,” you say, clearing your throat, and she turns to face you, surprised to see the faces of three students. “Would you care to join us for a teachers versus students snowball fight?”

Larissa looks at the four of you and realizes that saying no isn’t an option, so, instead of fighting a losing battle, she sighs and agrees. You close the door as the kids run away to the next staff cottage and retreat back to the couch. 

“I cannot believe you roped me into this,” Larissa mumbles from her blankets, and lets you plant a soft kiss on her lips.

An hour later, the two of you are emerging in suitable clothes for the current weather and Larissa's face is already growing red among her bundle of scarves around her neck. There's at least fifty students on the green and faculty members are slowly joining in. Students prepare their piles of snowballs and patches of snow dusted grass pop up here and there as other students build forts to protect themselves and their teammates. When the teachers and staff realize how serious the students are about this, they begin doing the exact same thing. Forts are built quickly and you help Larissa pack snowballs. The second the first snowball is thrown, it's anarchy.

Snowballs are running out quickly and soon, you're making snowballs as you go. The students are ruthless, sparing mercy for nobody. Your pants have damp patches from snow and your face feels frozen, but you continue on—until you feel someone pull the back of you coat and shove snow down your back.

You shriek, and when you turn around, Larissa is laughing. And as if the universe is on your side, she's immediately hit in the face with a snowball. You burst out laughing as the students who did it quickly retreat, and you take pity on her, helping her wipe the snow off of her face. You pout and it's hard to hold back your laughter. "Are you okay, honey?"

Larissa huffs but there's no hiding her amusement. "Do you think I'd be able to give them detention for that?"

"Absolutely not," you say. "I'm not allowing it." Back in the house, you kick snow from your boots and leave your coats to dry. Despite the heat being on, you're shivering, and it's like Larissa reads your mind. “Why don’t I go start you a hot shower so you don’t succumb to hypothermia?” she muses, pressing a kiss to the side of your head before retreating to the en suite bathroom in your bedroom.

"If I succumb to hypothermia, it'll be your fault!" You rifle through your dresser for a pair of pajamas and follow Larissa into the bathroom where she’s carefully resting your towels on the towel warmer. You set your pajamas down on the counter and stand behind her, wrapping your arms around her waist.

“You know,” you say, kissing her shoulder, “if you want to, I wouldn’t mind if you joined me in the shower…”

Larissa’s head turns before her body completely faces you. “Are you sure?” she asks softly, hands running over your shoulders to hold your face.

You nod. “Yeah…I mean, isn’t it more environmentally conscientious to shower together?”

A laugh escapes her, “You’re right. In order to conserve water–”

“–And heat,” you interject. 

“And heat,” she adds with a grin. “I completely agree that we should shower together.”

You pull her down for a kiss and your smiles slowly fade as an uncontrollable fire takes over. Larissa’s hands slip beneath your shirt and the anxiety you’ve been plagued with for years still settles in your belly, but you force it down and push through–because, God, you want this woman more than you can put into words. 

“Is it alright if I take this off?” she asks quietly, lips brushing yours.

You nod, “Yes,” and your hands raise as she pulls your shirt over your head.

Both of you struggle to separate, but eventually, you’re slowly being walked backwards and into the shower. When the hot water hits your back, you gasp, but it turns into a quiet moan when Larissa’s tongue slips into your mouth.

You brace your hand on the tiled wall as water runs over you both. “Wait,” you say, out of breath. “Wait, we were gonna shower to–”

“Save water,” she finishes for you, pressing another kiss to your lips. “You’re right.”

You ache between your legs but somehow you manage to properly shower through giggles and kisses and awkward heights. The bathroom is filled with steam when you get out, and you’re barely able to get your towels on before your lips are together again. 

You can’t tell which one of you is more frantic, but your hands grab and pull at each other so much that your towels are slipping down. 

“Bed?” Larissa huffs in between kisses.

You nod quickly, pulling her with you toward the bed, and right as you’re about to pull her down with you, she breaks away.

Larissa’s eyes are dark as her hands hold your face steady. “Are you sure you’re ready?”

“Yes.”

Your response is breathless but confident, and she searches your face for any doubt. “Alright,” she mutters. “If you want to stop at any point, say so, and we will. You could never disappoint me.”

You nod lightly and your voice is barely a whisper, “Okay.” Her lips are on yours again, but you pull away. “Wait, can we go slowly?”

Larissa carefully tips you back on the bed and you can’t help the smile that breaks out on your face. “We can go as slowly as you want,” she mutters, and kisses you softly as she situates herself between your legs.

Your fingers tangle in her wet hair, smiling as she pecks your lips. “Thank you.”

“The slower we go…” Larissa’s hands begin undoing your towel as she leans in close. “The longer I get to keep you like this.”

She leans down, pressing kiss after kiss to your chest. “Absolutely beautiful,” she mutters against your skin, eyes dark as she looks up at you.

Larissa kisses back up your chest and over your neck, and as she kisses your lips, her hand runs over your abdomen and kneads at your hip. “What do you want first?” she asks, and a chill runs through you.

You feel your face warm and you don’t know how to respond. “I–Um…”

“Do you want me to decide for you?” she asks quietly, and you nod. 

Larissa plants a kiss on your lips and works her way down your body, letting her towel slip off her figure. Her hands are soft as she spreads your legs further and kisses the warm skin on your thigh. “Relax, breathe…good…”

Her tongue slowly runs through your folds and your breath catches, fingers grabbing at the edge of your pillow. She doesn’t quicken her pace, instead taking her time and savoring your taste and the quiet sounds she pulls from you.

You don’t know how long it’s been, but you become impatient at how slow she’s going. Your toes curl and your back arches as you try to get more, but she stops and pulls away.

“If you want something, you need to ask,” Larissa says, hands running over your thighs and hips.

You let out a huff that turns into a moan as the tip of her tongue swirls over your clit. “Fuck–More, Larissa. I want more, please.”

“Good girl.” 

Your head falls back into the pillows at the feeling of her fingers slipping inside of you. But they don't move any further than the opening. They sit there as her tongue and lips work on your clit, and the tips every slightly curl as they gently message the flesh. The feeling has you gasping as your own fingers grasp her damp hair tightly. Your legs shake and you cry out, begging her to keep going.

It hits you harder than you thought it would. Your legs clamp around Larissa's head as your orgasm takes over and you cry. Your chest heaves as you go limp, and with her fingers still inside of you, Larissa crawls up and kisses you softly. Her fingers move slowly, deeper inside of you now as her tongue brushes yours.

The sensitivity from your previous orgasm subsides quickly after Larissa's thumb makes contact with your clit. Your fingers tie into her hair as her mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting at the flesh as her fingers begin to pick up in pace. Your hips grind against her hand desperately and her lips trail back up your neck and cheek to capture your own.

"That's it," she mutters, and her free hand grips your cheeks, forcing you to look at her. "Keep going, baby. You're doing so well for me." She watches you closely as tears form in your eyes. "I can feel you getting close. Are you gonna cum for me again?"

Pressure in your abdomen builds and builds and you struggle to respond, but you manage to nod, and your voice strains, "Yes!" Larissa's lips are on yours as your legs begin tensing around her hips. You can feel it coming, feel it hurdling towards you and you break the kiss with a cry that borders on a scream. As you writhe and scramble for purchase wherever you can reach, your eyes open wide with a gasp when you feel yourself gush around her hand. You look up at her with wide eyes and it's hard to gauge her reaction. "I'm sorry! I've never done that before—"

Larissa kisses you hard. "Don't you dare apologize. That was the hottest thing I've ever seen."

Seeing Larissa Weems, who is usually so dignified and mannered, like this could send you into orbit. The messy hair, the way her cheeks are flushed, the dark look of desire in her eyes—it drives you crazy.

She holds you close as she places sweet kisses on your lips, and you laugh softly. "It's a good thing we had towels."

Larissa laughs and kisses you again as you slowly shift her onto her back. "And what do you think you're doing?" she asks with an amused look.

"Making sure you know how appreciated you are for being the only person to ever make me cum," you say, and a soft gasp escapes her when your lips attach to her neck.

Larissa's back arches off the bed when your mouth reaches her breasts. "Good girl," she mumbles, and her hand smooths over your hair as you suck and bite at her nipples. As you work your way down, goosebumps form beneath your touch and her fingers tighten in your hair. When your tongue licks through her folds, she gasps, and when your lips wrap around her clit and suck, the gasp melts into a moan that you'd kill to hear again and again.

The praise she gives you as you lap and suck at her clit is almost enough to make you finish for a third time hands-free. Larissa looks down at you, pupils blown wide with lust. "You look so fucking good between my legs," she breathes, and her back arches when you grin and suck hard. "Fingers—I need—your fingers. The way I—!" You slip your fingers inside of her the same way she did for you and she gasps loudly. "Just like that! Fuck! Good girl—keep going!"

Larissa cumming in your mouth is reward enough. To see her so inhibitionless, to hear her moans, to feel the soft skin of her thighs, to taste her, to smell her—you're addicted already.

As she catches her breath, you crawl back up, leaving small kisses up her torso and breasts and neck. She kisses you hard and you shiver at the feeling of her nails digging into the back of your neck. Gently, she guides you back onto your side where you resume the exchanging of soft kisses with your legs entwined and your hands roaming.

When you pull away, you can see every line, every wrinkle, and every scar on her face. "You're so pretty," you mutter with a sleepy smile.

Larissa kisses you again. The look in her eyes when she breaks the kiss is soft. Her hand grazes your cheek before brushing stray hairs out of your face with a smile. "Thank you for trusting me."

You take her hand in yours and press kisses over every inch of it. "And thank you for giving me two amazing orgasms back-to-back. And if I'm being honest, I almost had a third one when eating you out." You smile as she laughs, linking your hand with hers as you pull her in for a kiss. "But seriously, thank you for being patient. Nobody's ever made me feel wanted like that."

Larissa can feel her own heart break, but she smiles softly as she kisses you and maneuvers you onto your back. "Well, when you love someone, you wait for them."

Her words make your chest flutter. "You love me?"

"I love you—madly," she says, lips soft against yours. "You're worth waiting for, and I want you in any way you'll give yourself to me. Now…" Her hand slowly trails down your torso. "You mentioned almost having a third orgasm before I so rudely interrupted you with my own." Her fingers run through your folds and she grins as your eyes flutter and your hands grasp at her shoulders. "And the last thing I want to do is leave the woman I love unsatisfied after being such a good girl for me."

Your classroom is quiet as your students complete their physics test. One by one, they finish and place the paper on your desk, and eventually, the class breaks into quiet chitchat during their free time.

As you grade the previous period's tests, you feel eyes on you. Students smile as they glance at you suspiciously and you narrow your eyes at them. "What is it?"

Immediately, in the center of the classroom, one of your students blurts out with a bright smile, "Are you and Principal Weems dating?"

Amused, you roll your eyes and set your pen down with a sigh. "Yes."

The class breaks out into chaos.

"I knew it!"

"I told you so! Principal Weems was literally at her house!"

"Tristan, you owe me ten bucks!"

One of them does what you can only describe as a happy dance in her seat. "How long have you been together?"

"Since the Harvest Festival," you say, and that sets off another wave of chaos.

"I knew it! I knew it!"

"You thought I was seeing shit when I told you that I saw Principal Weems kiss her on the cheek!"

"Do you love her?" one of your students asks with a hopeful smile.

Studio A smells of rosin, sweat, and old wood polished so many times it has developed a shine like still water. The mirrors along the far wall catch every movement with exhausting honesty. Girls are already stretching at the barre when you enter, their warm-up knits hanging from narrow shoulders, pointe shoes discarded in pale satin heaps beside dance bags.

No one speaks much before Larissa arrives.

You are three minutes late.

Not late enough for another instructor to notice, perhaps, but Larissa notices everything. You have learned this the way dancers learn most things, through repetition and humiliation.

The studio door opens behind you just as you tie your hair back, and the room stills with almost embarrassing immediacy. Conversations taper off. Spines straighten. Someone hurriedly removes their phone from the barre and tucks it away.

Larissa steps inside carrying the cold with her.

Snowmelt glimmers faintly at the hem of her black wool coat. One leather-gloved hand rests atop the silver head of her cane, though she hardly seems to need it. She moves with the same sharp composure she brings to everything else, as though even pain has been instructed to behave properly in her presence.

She surveys the room once. A practiced sweep. Inventory rather than greeting.

Then her eyes settle on you, moving from your face to your half tied bun.

“You were late.”

The words are not loud. They do not need to be. Larissa speaks the way surgeons cut. Neatly, without wasted force.

Heat climbs immediately into your face. “I’m sorry, Miss Weems.”

“You apologize as though it alters time.”

Around you, no one looks directly at either of you. The dancers at this academy have perfected the art of witnessing someone else’s destruction discreetly.

Larissa removes her gloves finger by finger and lays them atop the piano. “Don’t be late again.”

“Yes, Miss Weems.”

The pianist receives Larissa’s coat with the solemnity of someone accepting ceremonial robes, and then rehearsal begins.

“Barre.”

The room obeys at once.

That is the frightening thing about Larissa. Not that she is cruel—though she can be—but that obedience forms naturally around her, instinctive as breath. She does not command the room so much as arrange it around herself. Even silence seems curated in her presence.

The music starts softly. Slow warm-up exercises first. Pliés and tendus repeated until the body loosens from sleep. You settle your hand against the barre and try to ignore the lingering embarrassment beneath your skin, though embarrassment under Larissa’s gaze has a tendency to become physical. Your shoulders tighten. Your breathing shortens. Every movement begins to feel observed.

Perhaps because it is.

Larissa walks between the dancers while the pianist plays, correcting posture with economical precision. A lifted chin here. A pressed shoulder there. Her criticism is rarely theatrical. She doesn’t shout unless absolutely necessary. The disappointment in her voice is usually punishment enough.

“You look lazy,” she tells one dancer flatly. “I assume this is accidental.”

The girl flushes crimson and straightens immediately.

Larissa moves on.

You feel her approaching before you see her reflection in the mirror. Your body always notices first. Some humiliating instinct. Your spine lengthens unconsciously, your stomach tightens beneath your leotard.

“Shoulders.”

The word lands directly behind you.

You correct instantly.

“No,” Larissa says, and there is the faintest trace of irritation in it. “You’re stiffening, not opening.”

Her hand settles between your shoulder blades before you can try again. Warm even through the fabric. Firm enough to feel instructional rather than comforting, though your body has long since stopped understanding the distinction.

“Here.”

Pressure against your spine forces you upright. Not rigid. Supported.

Larissa’s hand remains there a moment longer than strictly necessary, and the awareness of it spreads through you like fever. She smells faintly of sandalwood and something colder beneath it, something clean and expensive that belongs in opera houses and nowhere near a studio full of sweating dancers.

“You collapse inward whenever you lose confidence,” she says quietly enough that only you can hear. “The audience will notice.”

You swallow. “I’m trying not to.”

“I know. Try harder.”

The words settle strangely inside you. Not praise. Not kindness. Worse, perhaps. Recognition.

Larissa steps away, and cold rushes back into the space she occupied. You hate the immediate feeling of loss almost as much as you hate the relief.

The exercise continues.

Outside, snow drifts softly against the windows. Inside, the room warms with effort. By the end of barre, strands of hair have escaped slick ballet buns and the mirrors are beginning to cloud faintly at the edges where bodies have brushed too close.

Larissa watches all of it.

“Swan Lake is in eight weeks,” she says during center work, clipboard balanced lightly against one arm. “At present, most of you dance as though this information has failed to concern you.”

No one speaks.

“You are technically proficient,” she continues, pacing slowly across the studio floor. “Unfortunately, technical proficiency without emotional discipline is how mediocre dancers convince themselves they deserve principal roles.”

Her gaze drifts across the room.

Lingers on you.

Moves away again.

The relief is immediate and shameful.

“Auditions for Odette will be next Friday,” Larissa says. “I suggest you begin behaving accordingly.”

The atmosphere changes at once. Competition arrives quietly but thoroughly, sliding itself beneath the skin of the room. Girls stop smiling at one another quite so easily. Corrections begin to sound personal. Every stumble becomes visible.

You can feel it happening inside yourself too, ugly and desperate. The role has rooted itself somewhere deep in your chest ever since the production was announced. Odette. White silk and tragedy. Fragility sharpened into precision.

You want it badly enough to embarrass yourself.

Perhaps you already are.

The rehearsal becomes brutal after that.

Larissa works the same turn sequence for nearly forty minutes, stopping the music every time someone falters. Again and again and again until fatigue begins unraveling technique altogether. Ankles shake. Breathing roughens. One dancer nearly slips during a landing and catches herself hard enough to bruise.

Larissa watches impassively.

“You are tired,” she says. “How devastating.”

The girl lowers her eyes.

“Again.”

No one argues.

You dance until your calves burn violently beneath your skin. Again until your toes feel blistered raw inside the pointe shoes. Again until the studio begins narrowing strangely at the edges from exhaustion.

Larissa’s attention settles on you more and more frequently as rehearsal drags on. You have never decided whether this is fortunate.

“You anticipate the turn before you trust it,” she tells you after stopping the music mid-combination. “Why?”

“I thought—”

“There is your first mistake.”

A few dancers laugh behind you.

Heat flashes across your face, but Larissa is already moving closer, her expression sharpening rather than softening at your embarrassment.

“You think too much while dancing,” she says. “I can practically see the calculations happening behind your eyes. Ballet is not mathematics.”

You nod quickly.

Larissa sighs through her nose, dissatisfied. “Again.”

You reset position.

The pianist begins once more.

This time you force yourself not to think about Larissa watching. Not about the mirrors. Not about the audience that will eventually fill velvet seats and decide, in a matter of minutes, whether you are extraordinary or forgettable.

You turn.

Land cleanly.

Continue.

The sequence finishes without error.

Silence.

Larissa studies you for one long moment. Her face gives almost nothing away, but you have become disturbingly skilled at reading the tiny shifts in her expression. The slight easing around her mouth. The near-invisible softening in her eyes when something pleases her despite herself.

“Better,” she says at last.

The single word settles into your bloodstream like alcohol.

Praise from Larissa is dangerous. Too rare not to become holy.

You spend the next twenty minutes chasing the sound of it again.

—

During the break, Isabelle collapses dramatically beside you against the mirrored wall, her tights already laddering slightly at one knee.

“I think she enjoys this,” she mutters, gulping water. “Not ballet. Human suffering specifically.”

You smile faintly, unwinding the ribbons from your ankles. “You say that every rehearsal.”

“And every rehearsal I’m right.”

Across the room, Larissa stands near the piano speaking quietly with the accompanist. Winter light spills pale across her profile from the windows behind her, turning the edges of her hair almost silver. Even exhaustion seems elegant on her.

Your gaze catches there too long.

Isabelle notices immediately. Of course she does.

“Oh, you’re doomed.”

You look away at once. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I really don’t.”

“She humiliates you publicly ten times a day and you look at her like she hung the moon over the theater district.”

You feel your stomach drop hard enough to hurt.

“Keep your voice down.”

Isabelle snorts softly. “Please. She probably noticed your crush before you did.”

“No, she didn’t.”

As if summoned by the conversation itself, Larissa looks up.

Her eyes meet yours across the room with terrifying immediacy. Not accidental. Never accidental.

You look away first.

Cowardly.

Necessary.

“Break is over,” Larissa says.

The room moves instantly.

—

Partnering rehearsal begins badly and deteriorates from there.

The White Swan pas de deux requires a kind of trust that exhaustion makes difficult. Girls miss cues. Hands slip. Timing fractures apart under pressure. Larissa’s patience thins visibly as the afternoon drags on, though her anger remains frighteningly controlled.

“You dance like frightened prey animals,” she says after one particularly clumsy sequence. “Odette is not fragile because she lacks strength. She is fragile because the world insists upon breaking her.”

No one responds.

Larissa gestures toward center floor. “You. Demonstrate.”

Of course she means you.

You step forward while the others retreat slightly toward the mirrors. Your partner takes position behind you, one hand hovering carefully near your waist.

Larissa circles once around the pair of you, gaze sweeping critically over every line of your posture.

“Chin,” she says.

You lift it.

“Higher.”

Her fingers settle briefly beneath your jaw, tilting your face upward with careful pressure. The touch is entirely practical. Professional. Yet your pulse reacts with humiliating speed anyway, stumbling unevenly beneath your ribs.

Larissa’s thumb lingers for the briefest moment before she steps away.

“There,” she says. “Odette does not beg to be loved. She expects it.”

You spend the next several seconds trying to remember how breathing works.

The music begins.

You dance.

Or attempt to.

Larissa watches with such unwavering intensity that your awareness of her becomes almost physical. You can feel her attention moving over every imperfect angle before she even speaks.

Halfway through the turn sequence, your balance falters.

“Stop.”

The music cuts abruptly.

Silence folds over the studio.

Larissa approaches slowly, her cane tapping once against the floorboards.

“You’re afraid of the turn.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she says calmly. “You anticipate failure before your body has even moved.”

Shame burns beneath your skin.

Larissa steps closer. Too close.

Her hands settle against your waist to correct your alignment, firm enough that you can feel the exact span of her fingers through the thin fabric of your leotard. Your body goes painfully still beneath the contact.

“Feel where your center actually is,” she murmurs. “You keep abandoning it.”

The warmth of her palms lingers long after she steps away.

“Again.”

This time the turn lands perfectly.

Larissa’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly. Not satisfaction exactly, but something adjacent to it.

Then she says, “Now do it consistently,” and the moment disappears.

—

By the end of rehearsal, your right foot is bleeding.

You noticed it nearly an hour ago when pain sharpened suddenly beneath your toes, warm wetness gathering inside the pointe shoe. You continued dancing anyway. Most dancers would. Ballet has a way of teaching people that the body is negotiable.

The studio empties slowly around you once Larissa dismisses the class. Girls limp toward the locker rooms carrying dance bags and exhaustion alike, complaining softly about bruised arches and strained calves.

You sit on the bench and begin massaging your thighs.

“You’re staying again?” Isabelle asks.

“I need to practice.”

“You need a priest. And medical intervention.”

You smile faintly. “I was off during the turns.”

“You were exhausted.”

Larissa noticed.

The thought arrives instantly, shamefully warm.

Isabelle studies you for a moment, concern dimming the usual amusement in her face. “She’s harder on you than everyone else.”

“That’s because she thinks I need improvement.”

“No,” Isabelle says quietly. “I think it’s because she sees more in you.”

Before you can answer, the locker room door opens.

Silence follows immediately.

Larissa steps inside. “Everyone out.”

No one argues.

Within moments, only the two of you remain.

Larissa waits until the door closes behind the last dancer before looking at you fully.

“You stayed after rehearsal yesterday.”

“Yes, Miss Weems.”

“And the night before.”

You nod.

“Why?”

The truthful answer catches painfully behind your ribs.

Because your attention feels like oxygen.

Because when you look at me, I stop feeling ordinary.

Instead you say, “I need to improve.”

Larissa watches you in silence for several long seconds. The fluorescent lights flatten the room harshly, but they do strange things to her eyes, turning them pale enough to look almost silver.

“You confuse suffering with discipline,” she says eventually.

“I don’t.”

“You do.” Her voice remains calm. “You romanticize your exhaustion. You wear it like proof of devotion.”

The accuracy of it leaves you briefly speechless.

Larissa has always possessed a terrifying ability to reach directly into the softest parts of people and press there without hesitation.

“You think destroying yourself for ballet makes you exceptional,” she continues. “It does not. It makes you interchangeable.”

The words hurt because they are true. Worse because some part of you still wants to impress her by surviving them.

Larissa sighs softly then, almost tired. “Studio.”

You obey at once.

Of course you do.

The mirrors look different at night. Less honest, perhaps. The darkness outside the windows turns them strange, reflections layered over shadow until bodies appear ghostlike at the edges.

Rain taps softly against the glass while you tighten your ribbons.

Larissa stands near the piano watching.

“You favor your left foot when tired,” she says.

You glance up too quickly. “I’m fine.”

“That was not an invitation to lie.”

Heat creeps into your face.

Larissa gestures once toward center floor. “Show me the turns.”

Your muscles ache violently now that rehearsal has ended. Fatigue settling properly into the joints and tendons. Still, you rise.

The music begins softly from the stereo.

You dance.

One turn.

Then another.

Halfway through the third, pain slices sharply through your foot and your balance wavers.

“Stop.”

You freeze immediately.

Larissa crosses the room without hurry, though something sharper has entered her expression now.

“You’re injured.”

“No.”

Her gaze drops toward the faint stain spreading through the satin of your pointe shoe.

Then back to your face.

“You are a very poor liar.”

Before you can answer, Larissa crouches before you.

The movement startles you enough that your breath catches outright.

Her hands close carefully around your ankle, professional and efficient in a way that only worsens things. She unties the ribbons slowly, fingertips brushing occasionally against your skin with absent precision.

You stare helplessly at the pale crown of her hair beneath the dim lights.

Larissa removes the shoe, the blood-speckled padding earning a quiet exhale through her nose.

“There it is.”

Humiliation floods you immediately. You feel absurdly close to apologizing.

“You continued dancing on this,” Larissa says.

“I could still dance.”

“That was not the question.”

Her hand remains lightly wrapped around your ankle, warm and steady.

Rain gathers harder against the windows.

“You are reckless,” she says quietly. “And you mistake recklessness for ambition.”

The words settle heavily between you.

Then her thumb brushes once against the inside of your ankle, thoughtless perhaps, and your entire body reacts like struck wire.

Larissa notices. Of course she notices.

Her eyes lift slowly to yours.

A pause opens between you, sharp enough to split skin.

Then she releases you and stands.

“Again,” she says.

You stare at her. “I can barely stand.”

“Yes.”

No sympathy. No softness. Only that terrible unwavering expectation.

“You want Odette,” Larissa continues. “You want greatness. Yet the moment pain becomes inconvenient, you expect permission to stop.”

“I didn’t ask to stop.”

“No,” she says softly. “You asked to be admired for continuing. You wanted me to see, to notice that you endured the pain. And you thought that I would allow you to stop.”

The words land cleanly because they are true.

Outside, rain streaks silver down the darkened windows. The studio has gone almost black beyond the overhead lights, the mirrors no longer reflecting properly. Only fragments now. A shoulder. A hand. Larissa’s pale face suspended faintly in glass.

Your foot throbs violently inside the ruined shoe.

Every muscle in your body aches.

Still, when Larissa repeats, “Again,” you straighten instinctively beneath the command, and hate the part of yourself that feels proud for obeying.

————————————————————————

Later that night, you wake with a start, heart pounding so violently it feels less like a heartbeat and more like something knocking from the inside of your ribs.

The remnants of a dream—no, a vision—cling to your senses. The greenhouse again. That menacing light pulsing in the darkness, breaking through the ruined panes. Only this time, there is something inside it. 

A figure? A presence? It’s leaning forward as if separated by an unseen barrier, pressing close enough that you feel the shape of its wanting without ever seeing its face.

The feeling of searching, reaching, returns tenfold. The urgency sinks its hooks in the space beneath your sternum and pulls. You sit up too fast, breath shallow, one hand fisted in the blanket as if bracing for an impact that never comes.

Just then, an arm slips around your waist—warm, insistent, instinctive. Larissa lies beside you in fractured moonlight, still half-asleep, her face softened by the kind of peace she so rarely lets herself keep. Her hold tightens with quiet certainty, drawing you back before panic can take root.

Even unconscious, her first instinct is to bring you closer. To ground you. To promise safety without saying a word. A wave of affection ripples through you, strong enough to momentarily drown out the echo still buzzing under your ribs.

You let yourself melt into her, forehead resting against the slope of her shoulder. The scent of her—clean linen and jasmine—wraps around you. Slowly, reluctantly, your body remembers how to be held.

Your eyelids grow heavy once more. The vision fades. You let the warmth stay. Larissa’s warmth stays.

And eventually, you fall asleep again.

—

The next morning, your head throbs dully, and behind every sound there is a faint shimmer of something else, as if the world was poorly tuned. The radiator clicks in the corner, and the noise scatters into your skull like tiny bells. Outside, students cross the grounds in uneven clusters, their voices rising and falling in overlapping waves.

Too loud. Too sharp. You wince before you could stop yourself.

Larissa’s arm tightens immediately. Larissa is awake before you. You know this because you can feel her watching you, her presence a quiet weight in the room.

“Darling?” Her voice is thick with sleep, lower than usual, the kind of sound that should have been illegal before breakfast. “What is it?”

You smile despite the discomfort. “Nothing. Just… everything is a bit much.”

She shifts at once, propping herself carefully on one elbow. The movement brings her face close to yours, her expression soft and serious in that devastating way she has when she is trying very hard not to panic. Her eyes search you, taking in the tension around your mouth, the hand still pressed against your chest, the way you are trying not to breathe too deeply.

“The sensory spillover?”

You nod. “Either that or the radiator has developed a personal vendetta against me.”

Her gaze flicks toward the offender in question. “I’ll have maintenance look at it.”

“Larissa.”

“What?”

“You cannot send a maintenance request because your almost-girlfriend was personally insulted by a radiator.” The word slips out before you could catch it.

Almost-girlfriend. Your mouth snaps shut.

Larissa goes very still.

The morning seems to hold its breath with you. For a horrible second, you wonder if you have stumbled too far too quickly, if the tenderness of last night was made safer by exhaustion and fear and the aftermath of a near-death botanical incident. Maybe daylight makes everything harsher. More complicated. More real.

Then Larissa’s lips curve.

“Almost?” she repeats, arching one brow with exquisite precision.

You stare at her. “I’m sorry, is that the word you’re taking issue with?”

“It does feel rather noncommittal.”

A laugh bursts out of you, immediately followed by a groan as your head pulses in protest. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh. I’m medically fragile.”

“Convenient.”

“I nearly got psychically fondled by a cursed greenhouse yesterday. I deserve some consideration.”

Larissa’s amusement dims slightly at that, concern moving back into place. Her fingers lift to brush a strand of hair away from your face. The touch is so gentle that it nearly undoes you.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Her arm remains around your middle, warm and certain, and the quiet between you feels different than it used to. Not empty. Not awkward. Full, somehow. Waiting.

Then a knock sounds at your door. You both freeze.

A second knock follows, brighter and more enthusiastic.

“Professor?” Enid’s voice chirps from the hallway. “Are you awake? Principal Weems said there’s a faculty meeting this morning, and also Yoko said the greenhouse looks like it lost a fight with a rabid octopus, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t dead!”

You close your eyes. Larissa closes hers too, though for a different reason entirely.

“Why,” you whisper, “is she like this?”

“I ask myself that daily.”

“Professor?” Enid calls again, louder. “I brought tea! Well, I borrowed tea. From the faculty lounge. Actually, I think it was Professor Briarwood’s, but he never labels anything, so legally—”

“I’m alive!” you call, voice cracking slightly.

“Oh, good!”

There is a pause. Then, with horrendous timing, Enid adds, “Is Principal Weems in there too?”

Larissa’s eyes open. You stare at each other. The silence is damning.

From the other side of the door comes a very small gasp.

“Oh my god,” Enid whispers, clearly not quietly enough. “Okay. Cool. Normal. Faculty business. Very professional. I’m leaving the tea outside the door and walking away like a mature adult.”

A second later, you hear frantic footsteps retreating down the hall, followed by a distant, muffled squeal.

You cover your face with both hands. “I’m resigning.”

Larissa’s mouth twitches. “Your resignation is denied.”

“You can’t deny my resignation.”

“As your employer, I absolutely can.”

“As your almost-girlfriend, I think that’s abuse of power.”

Her expression softens, amusement giving way to something warmer. “Almost again?”

You lower your hands slowly.

Larissa looks entirely too pleased with herself for someone whose hair is adorably mussed and whose reputation has just been compromised by a teenage werewolf with no volume control.

Your heart does something embarrassingly acrobatic.

“Fine,” you say, quieter. “Girlfriend, then. If that is… if you want—”

“Yes.”

The answer comes before you finish the sentence. Your breath catches.

Larissa seems briefly surprised by her own swiftness. Color touches her cheeks, delicate and lovely. Still, she does not look away. “Yes,” she repeats, more softly. “I would like that very much.”

For a moment, the hum in your chest disappears entirely.

You lean forward and kiss her.

It is meant to be quick. A gentle punctuation mark. A thank you. A good morning. But Larissa’s hand comes to the back of your neck, and her mouth softens under yours with a small exhale that ruins every responsible thought you have ever had. You melt against her, fingers curling into the sleeve of her sweater, letting the kiss stretch until your lungs remind you they have practical needs.

When you pull back, her eyes are still closed. You have the terribly self-satisfied thought that you could get used to seeing Larissa Weems undone in little ways.

Then the radiator clicks again, and you flinch.

Larissa’s eyes open immediately. 

The softness does not vanish, exactly, but it changes shape. Her gaze sharpens, tracking the discomfort you had almost managed to forget.

“Does it still feel as though something is there?” she asks.

You consider lying. You want to. Not because you think she cannot handle the truth, but because you hate the way fear sharpens her features. You hate being the cause of it.

Still, after everything, hiding feels like a poor way to begin.

“A little,” you admit. “Not as strong as last night. It’s more like… residue. A bad note still ringing after everyone has stopped playing.”

Larissa’s jaw tightens. “We’ll speak with Douglas again before the faculty meeting.”

“We?”

“Yes,” she says, as if the word is obvious. “We.”

You try not to savor it too visibly. She must notice anyway, because her thumb moves once across your cheek, a small and tender betrayal of her composure. “You are not handling this alone.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” you say softly.

Her eyes hold yours, and something unspoken passes between you. Not quite a promise. Not quite a confession. Something steadier than both.

Only then does the memory of the night return in full.

You stiffen.

Larissa notices instantly. “What is it?”

“I—I had a dream,” you say. “Or maybe a vision. I’m not sure.”

Her eyes snap fully to yours. “A vision?” Her tone is controlled but thin, stretched with worry. “Of what?”

You swallow and sit up beside her, the sheets pooling at your waist. “The greenhouse. But… there was something inside the light this time. Like a shape. It felt like it was… calling out. Searching again. Stronger, I guess.”

Larissa inhales sharply, and the sound seems to echo in the stillness of your small room.

“I see,” she murmurs, though her body has gone unmistakably rigid.

You gently touch her hand. “Larissa… I’m okay. I just wanted you to know.”

Her gaze softens only slightly before she exhales a long, controlled breath. “Thank you. And I will endeavor to remain calm—truly—but I am not fond of the idea of anything attempting to imprint upon you, especially not in sleep.”

The phrasing sends a shiver through you. Protective. Territorial. Afraid.

She clears her throat and pushes a hand through her hair. “Regardless, this confirms what I feared. We cannot treat this as an isolated incident.”

The vulnerability she allowed last night retreats behind a carefully rebuilt wall of professionalism. But you know her better now—you feel the subtle tremor beneath the mortar.

“Tea,” she decides, glancing toward the door. “Then infirmary. Then meeting.”

You sigh. “And here I was hoping for more kissing.”

Her gaze flicks to your mouth. “Behave, and I’ll consider it.”

You groan and let yourself fall back onto the pillow.

Larissa rises with far more grace than anyone should possess after sleeping in someone else’s bed, smoothing her hair into place with a few practiced motions. It doesn’t fully obey. A few loose waves remain stubbornly at her temples, softening her in a way that makes you want to pull her back down and keep her there.

Instead, you watch as she collects the tea from outside your door with her usual authority, as if there is nothing at all unusual about the headmistress of Nevermore Academy retrieving contraband tea from the corridor after spending the night in the music professor’s quarters.

When she returns, she hands you the mug first.

You look down at it. A sticky note is plastered crookedly to the side in pink ink.

SORRY IF I INTERRUPTED SOMETHING!!!! Also not sorry because this is very exciting. Drink tea. Don’t die. — Enid

Larissa reads it over your shoulder. “Good Lord,” she murmurs.

You laugh until your head hurts again.

Within the hour, Larissa ushers you to Nurse Douglas and the emergency meeting with trusted faculty members.

—

Nurse Douglas does not look surprised to see you.

This is annoying.

He is in the infirmary sorting small glass bottles into a cabinet when you and Larissa arrive. The second the door opens, he glances at you, then at Larissa, then down at the careful way her hand hovers near the small of your back without quite touching.

His eyebrows lift. “Eventful night?”

“Professional follow-up,” Larissa replies.

You choke on air.

Douglas looks at you. “Uh-huh.”

Larissa’s hand finally lands on your back, perhaps in warning, perhaps in support. You cannot tell which. Both feel equally thrilling.

“I’m experiencing heightened sensitivity,” you say quickly, desperate to regain control of the conversation before the nurse can make another observation. “Sounds are sharper. The imprint is still there, but faint.”

Douglas’s expression sobers at once. “Any visions?”

“No.” The answer comes too fast.

Larissa notices. Of course she notices. Douglas notices too. You hate observant people.

“Not exactly visions,” you amend. “More like… impressions.”

Larissa steps closer. “What impressions?”

You look at the tiled floor. There is a small crack near the leg of the examination table, thin as a hair. You focus on it for a second too long.

“When I woke up, before everything else got too loud, I thought I heard something underneath it all. Not words. A rhythm. Almost like something knocking from very far away.”

Douglas exchanges a look with Larissa.

You lift your head. “I hate when people exchange looks about me.”

“It may simply be residual resonance,” Douglas says, reaching for the same pearly crystal he used the night before. “Your abilities interact with vibration and matter. If that energy tried to imprint on you, it makes sense that your system would interpret it through sound.”

“And the knocking?”

He holds the crystal near your sternum. For several seconds, nothing happens.

Then it flickers. Not violently this time. Not the angry hornet buzz from before. Instead, the runes pulse faintly in uneven intervals.

Three quick flashes.

A pause.

Two slower ones.

A longer pause.

Three again.

Larissa’s face goes very still.

Douglas frowns. “That’s new.”

You stare at the crystal. “Is it… communicating?”

“I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion.”

“That is exactly the kind of thing someone says when they think it might be communicating.”

Larissa’s voice cuts in, low and controlled. “Could the pattern be involuntary? A magical aftershock?”

“Possibly,” Douglas says, though he does not sound convinced. “But it’s too regular for ordinary residue.”

The air around you seems to thin.

Three. Two. Three.

You feel the rhythm now, not as sound but as pressure. Like fingers tapping against the inside of a locked door. Your stomach turns.

“It feels like it’s trying to find the right frequency,” you whisper.

Larissa’s hand closes around yours.

Douglas lowers the crystal immediately. The pulsing stops.

“Then we don’t encourage it,” he says. “No power use. No resonance work. No attempts to listen closer. If something is knocking, Professor, you do not open the door.”

You want to make a joke. Something about hospitality. Something about how Nevermore has very strict guest policies. But Larissa’s fingers are tight around yours, and for once the humor lodges in your throat.

“What do we do?” you ask instead.

Douglas hesitates.

Larissa’s posture shifts, sharpening. “Nurse Douglas.”

He sighs. “You document everything. Sounds, dreams, patterns, physical symptoms. We compare it to whatever remnants we can safely collect from the greenhouse. And we ask someone with more knowledge of botanical spellwork than I have.”

“Professor Briarwood,” Larissa says.

Douglas makes a face.

You blink. “Isn’t he the botany professor?”

“He is,” Larissa replies in a tone that suggests this is not necessarily a reassurance.

Douglas hands you a small notebook from a drawer. “Write everything down. Even if it seems insignificant.”

You turn it over in your hands. The cover is plain black, the pages cream-colored and thick. It looks absurdly serious. Like a diary for haunted academics.

Larissa takes it from you, opens to the first page, and writes something in her elegant script before handing it back.

You look down.

No strange magical knocking without supervision.

Underneath, she has signed her initials.

You press your lips together to avoid smiling too broadly. “Are you prescribing me rules now?”

“Yes.”

“Is that allowed?”

“I’m the headmistress.”

“You keep saying that like it ends every argument.”

“It often does.”

You want to argue. Truly. On principle.

Instead, you tuck the notebook carefully into your cardigan pocket and let her lead you toward the faculty meeting.

—

By the time you arrive in the conference room by Larissa’s office, the mood has shifted. The warm intimacy of your bedroom is gone, replaced by Nevermore’s familiar atmosphere of measured tension.

The room has the uneasy energy of a dinner party where everyone knows the host has hidden a body but no one wants to mention the smell.

The room is filled with a select few whose discretion she trusts implicitly. Professors sit around the long oak table in various states of concern, exhaustion, and poorly concealed curiosity.

Professor Briarwood has actual leaves stuck in his beard, which suggests he has already been poking around the greenhouse despite Larissa’s instructions. Ms. Alvarez from Divination is wrapped in a shawl patterned with constellations, her eyes half-lidded in that unnerving way that makes it impossible to tell whether she is sleepy or communing with forces beyond comprehension. Professor Parris from History keeps tapping his pen against the table until you consider using your powers to somehow explode it.

You don’t.

Larissa stands tall at the head of the table, now in a cream blouse and knee length skirt. Her posture is impeccable despite the exhaustion still clinging to her frame.

When you enter, her gaze flicks to you briefly—checking, affirming, softening for the barest heartbeat before returning to its steely focus. It warms you more than it should.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” she begins, voice steady. Every conversation dies instantly.

It is one of Larissa’s more unfair talents, commanding a room without raising her voice. The faculty straighten as if pulled by invisible strings. Even Briarwood stops picking twigs from his sleeve.

“As many of you witnessed last night, we contained an emergent magical phenomenon in the eastern greenhouse grounds. The situation, however, is not resolved. Until further notice, no student is permitted within fifty yards of the greenhouse. Faculty access is restricted to those I explicitly authorize.”

Briarwood raises a hand.

“No,” Larissa says. At that, he lowers it.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Larissa continues. “We need to determine whether the event was an isolated magical eruption, a delayed consequence of Joseph Crackstone’s resurrection, or something deliberately introduced onto school grounds.”

At that, murmurs threaten to ripple among the table.

You feel it before you see it—the subtle change in posture, the tightening of shoulders, the faint spike of fear moving through the space. Nevermore is accustomed to danger in the same way old houses are accustomed to drafts. Still, Thornhill’s betrayal leaves marks. You can hear them now in the silence between breaths.

Ms. Alvarez’s eyes open fully. “It was deliberate.”

Everyone turns toward her.

Larissa’s expression does not change, but you see her fingers tighten around the edge of the table. “Explain.”

The divination professor smooths one hand over her shawl. “I went near the perimeter this morning. Not inside,” she adds quickly when Larissa’s gaze sharpens. “Near. There’s a residue around the eastern wall. Not the greenhouse’s magic. Not the school’s. Something placed.”

Briarwood frowns. “A seed?”

“An invitation,” Alvarez says.

The word moves through the room like cold water.

Your chest hums.

Three. Two. Three.

You press a hand to your sternum.

Larissa’s eyes snap to you.

You shake your head slightly, trying to reassure her, but the pressure has returned. Faint. Insistent. As if something has heard its name spoken in a crowded room.

“What kind of invitation?” Mr. Parris asks.

Alvarez looks toward the windows, where the ruined greenhouse stands somewhere beyond the walls. “A door left cracked open. Something on the other side noticed.”

Your mouth goes dry.

Briarwood pushes his chair back with a scrape. You flinch at the noise.

Larissa notices that too.

“I need to see the remains,” he says. “If something was introduced, the root structure will tell us.”

“You will examine samples brought to you,” Larissa replies. “You will not enter the greenhouse unsupervised.”

“With respect, Headmistress, plants do not prefer committee work.”

“With respect, Professor, neither do I, and yet here we are.”

A few faculty members wisely look down at their papers.

You love her a truly unreasonable amount.

Briarwood huffs but relents.

Larissa turns to you then, and the shift in her expression is subtle enough that no one else would recognize it. Professional concern softens at the edges into something intimate. “Professor, you were closest to the source when it collapsed. Can you describe what you felt before it was severed?”

You sit a little straighter.

The room’s attention swings toward you. You hate that part. Being observed makes the hum feel louder, like whatever residue lives beneath your sternum enjoys an audience.

“It wasn’t just anger,” you say slowly. “At first I thought the plants were panicking. Like they were being forced to grow past what they could handle. But when we got closer to the mass, it felt more… focused.”

“Focused on what?” Parris asks.

You look at Larissa.

She gives you the smallest nod.

You exhale. “Me, eventually. Or my abilities. I’m not sure. It reacted when I tried to harmonize the vibrations around it. Like it recognized the method.”

Briarwood’s frown deepens. “Recognized?”

“I know how that sounds.”

“No,” he says, more serious now. “That is precisely the problem.”

Larissa’s gaze moves to him. “Elaborate.”

Briarwood leans forward, the leaves in his beard trembling with the motion. “Some botanical curses are not self-sustaining. They require a carrier, a sympathetic force. A song, a spoken phrase, blood, grief, memory. If this mass responded specifically to resonance work, it may not have been attacking randomly. It may have been waiting for something compatible.”

The room blurs slightly at the edges.

Compatible.

You swallow. “That’s a horrible word.”

“I agree,” Larissa says, voice hard.

Nurse Douglas steps forward with his crystal in hand. “My examination supports that,” he explains, nodding toward you. “Their abilities repelled most of the interference, but not all of it. Something attempted to connect to their resonance frequency. Remnants linger.”

Another professor, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, leans forward. “Which means the spellwork wasn’t seeking life. It was seeking… amplification.”

Amplifying what, though?

Alvarez tilts her head, studying you in a way that makes your skin prickle. “Have you experienced dreams?”

You hesitate.

A cold wave travels down your spine. Larissa’s hand twitches where it rests on the table. She does not reach for you. Not here. But you feel the desire in the air between you.

Larissa’s voice cools. “Last night, it tried again to connect. Through a dream-state visitation.”

Alvarez’s expression suggests she does not believe the distinction matters.

Your irritation flares. “Just say it if you know something.”

Larissa murmurs your name, quiet but cautioning.

Alvarez’s face softens, to your surprise. “I don’t know. That is what worries me.” She folds her hands on the table. “But when I stood near the greenhouse, I heard a woman crying.”

The room goes absolutely still as faculty members stiffen.

You look down at your hands. Your heartbeat thuds once.

Then again.

Larissa’s voice drops. “A woman?”

Alvarez nods. “Behind glass. Or beneath soil. It’s difficult to explain. The impression was obscured.”

A strange coldness spreads through you.

Behind glass.

Beneath soil.

Your mind flashes with an image that does not belong to you: green light pulsing through dirty panes, a hand pressed against the other side, nails broken, palm streaked with soil.

You gasp.

Larissa abandons professionalism in an instant.

She is beside you before anyone else can speak, one hand on your shoulder, the other at your wrist. “What happened?”

You blink up at her, the faculty room snapping back into place too sharply. “I saw—” You stop, trying to catch the image before it vanishes. “A hand. Glass. Someone trying to get through.”

Alvarez whispers something under her breath.

Larissa turns on her. “If you have something useful to say, say it clearly.”

The other woman does not seem offended. “That was not a vision from the past.”

Your stomach drops.

“What does that mean?” you ask.

Alvarez looks at you. “It means something may still be reaching.”

The hum in your chest pulses once.

Three. Two. Three.

This time, Larissa feels you react. Her grip tightens.

“That’s enough,” she says, nodding once. “We begin by isolating the source residue and preventing any further magical tethering. Professor Briarwood, you and Nurse Douglas will analyze the samples under warded conditions. Ms. Alvarez, I want a written account of every impression you received. Mr. Parris, review all records connected to Thornhill’s tenure, the greenhouse, and any procurement logs from the last academic year. Someone brought something onto my campus, and I intend to know who.”

The temperature in the room seems to shift.

There she is. The headmistress. The woman who can take fear and turn it into orders sharp enough to cut through panic.

Then her gaze lowers to you, and the steel softens.

“You,” she says more quietly, though everyone still hears, “are coming with me.”

You raise a brow, grateful for the familiar shape of teasing even under the circumstances. “Am I being dismissed from the meeting?”

“Yes.”

“Feels targeted.”

“It is.”

You stand because your legs are shaking and you suspect she already knows. The faculty watch with varying levels of concern and interest. You avoid all of their eyes.

As Larissa guides you toward the door, Briarwood speaks again.

“Headmistress?”

She pauses without turning.

“If this is what I think it is, the greenhouse may not be the source. It may be the nursery.”

The word lands heavily.

Larissa looks back.

Briarwood’s face is grave beneath the absurdity of his beard. “Something was grown there. But that does not mean it began there.”

Larissa holds your gaze a beat longer than necessary, something fierce and wordless passing between you. Something protective. Something afraid of almost losing you again.

—

Larissa does not speak until you are in her office.

The moment the door closes behind you, she turns the lock.

The sound is small. Final.

You lean back against the door, all at once aware of the space you are in. Her office feels different now. Not unfamiliar—you know its bookshelves, its polished desk, the media player you once touched with wonder while trying not to think about her mouth. You know the fireplace, the rug, the heavy curtains, the faint scent of paper and tea and her.

But standing here after everything, after waking in her arms, after watching her command a room while some unknown magical force taps at your chest like a patient predator, you feel the strange overlap of worlds. Professional and personal. Safety and danger. Want and fear.

Larissa crosses to you slowly.

“Look at me,” she says.

You do.

Her composure cracks the moment your eyes meet.

“Oh, darling,” she breathes.

That is all it takes.

You step into her arms, and she gathers you against her as if she has been waiting all morning to do precisely that. Your face presses into the curve of her neck. Her hand comes to the back of your head, holding you there, fingers threading through your hair with a tenderness that makes the pressure behind your eyes unbearable.

“I’m okay,” you mumble, even as your voice shakes.

“You are a terrible liar.”

“I’m a very charming liar.”

“You are a terrifyingly self-sacrificial liar with poor self-preservation instincts.”

You huff weakly against her throat. “That feels specific.”

“It is becoming a pattern.”

Her arms tighten.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. You listen to her breathing, slow and deliberate, and try to let your own body follow. The hum in your chest dims against her. Not gone, but muffled. As though her presence places a blanket over the dissonance.

“I saw her hand,” you whisper.

Larissa goes still. “Her?”

You close your eyes. “I don’t know why I said that.”

But you do know.

Or some part of you does.

The hand in the vision was slender. Pale. Dirt under the nails. Familiar? No. Not familiar exactly. But charged with significance, the way certain notes in a song announce themselves before you understand the melody.

Larissa draws back enough to see your face. “Did you recognize anything else?”

“Green light. Glass. Soil. It felt like someone was trapped, but…” You frown, trying to untangle sensation from meaning. “No. Not trapped. Contained.”

Larissa’s expression shifts.

“What?”

She hesitates.

“Larissa.”

Her gaze moves briefly toward the windows. Beyond them, Nevermore carries on in strange normalcy—students crossing paths, gargoyles watching from stone perches, the ruined greenhouse hidden from view but not from thought.

“When Laurel Gates infiltrated this school, she had access to the greenhouse,” Larissa says carefully. “She used her position as botany teacher to move freely, to store materials, to cultivate poisons. We searched her rooms and the obvious storage spaces after Crackstone was defeated.”

“But not everything.”

“We believed we had enough.” The admission costs her something. You can hear it. “Wednesday’s evidence, Thornhill’s disappearance, the aftermath of the attack… there were priorities. Injured students. Parents demanding answers. Police interference. My own recovery.” Her mouth tightens. “It is possible we missed something.”

You reach for her hand. “You were poisoned and almost died. You don’t have to make that sound like an administrative inconvenience.”

Her eyes soften, but the guilt does not leave. “If Laurel left something behind—”

“Then she left something behind because she was manipulative and dangerous, not because you failed.”

Larissa looks at you for a long moment.

“You say that with such conviction,” she murmurs.

“Because it’s true.”

Her thumb traces over your knuckles. “I wish truth were always enough to quiet the mind.”

You know that feeling too well.

The office settles around you, quiet except for the distant murmur of the school. Then, from somewhere near Larissa’s desk, a faint crackle sounds.

Both of you turn.

Her desk radio sits beside a tidy stack of correspondence, silent and unlit.

It crackles again.

Your skin goes cold.

Larissa moves first, placing herself slightly in front of you. “That shouldn’t be receiving anything.”

“I thought Nevermore had terrible radio reception.”

“It does.”

The radio hisses. Static fills the office, low and wavering. You clap a hand over one ear at the sharpness of it, but beneath the noise is something else. A rhythm.

Three. Two. Three.

Larissa reaches toward the radio.

“Don’t touch it,” you say quickly.

She stops.

The static shifts. For one terrible second, a voice threads through.

Not clear. Not whole. Just a broken whisper folded into the interference.

“Found…”

The radio sparks.

Larissa yanks you back as the glass dial cracks straight down the center.

Silence slams into the room.

You stare at it, breathing hard.

Larissa’s face has gone pale.

“Tell me you heard that,” you whisper.

“I heard it.”

“What did it say?”

Her jaw works once.

You already know, but you need her to say it. Need proof it isn’t only inside you.

Larissa looks at you, fear and fury mingling in her eyes.

“Found,” she says.

The hum in your chest answers. Not with sound this time.

With recognition.

—

Tagging: @lilsmeaux, @suckerforcate, @rickistheman, @tundra1029, @aster-loves-gwen, @justcallmelittleone, @poorwritingandstalecoffee, @lvinhs, @one-pining-queer, @kimiinou, @bobia13, @gwendolinechristieiscute, @kay-liah-scope, @readingtheentrails, @a-queen-and-her-throne, @weemssapphic, @ctrlamira, @im-a-carnivorous-plant, @winterfireblond, @gwendolinechristiesnumberonegirl, @enchantressb, @machi-avelli, @alder-saan, @kay-liah-scope, @barbarasstar, @larissa-weems-chokehold, @egos-r-life.

The spare key is already turning in the lock when Larissa acknowledges the tiny voice in the back of her head saying she's overreacting. That voice - and every other noise assaulting her ears - is immediately silenced as she pushes the door open and catches the scent that a lifetime of working with children has made her all too familiar with.

Distress.

“(Y/n)?” She closes the door behind her. Sharp eyes scan the room. It's tidy. Lived in. There's no signs of a struggle, only an unmade couch with a blanket strewn across. She must be further inside.

Larissa follows the scent of distress. It's stronger now, and not just because she's nearing its source. No, it rose in its intensity the second she called out. Halfway to the room she tries again.

“(Y/n)? Are you alright?”

And then, she smells it. Even faint like this it sends a shock down her spine that makes her straighten. Her cautious steps quicken just the smallest bit.

‘No… It can't be.’

It takes all of her strength to pause at the door. The handle is cold in her hand, but the air is warm with the scent of sweat and fear and heat.

Heat.

“(Y/n),” Larissa's tone is as rigid as her spine, and far more wrecked. “Answer me, or I'm coming in.”

There's a noise. With her senses sharpened she can hear it clear as day. A croak. The barest hints of a whimper. A noise so strained that Larissa just barely keeps herself from breaking the door down.

A wave of pheromones floods over her. The room is drenched in it. Sweat and musk and spiced fear that permeates the room like a bad marinade. And there, in the center of the room, the source of it all, is (Y/n).

Omega.

A soft growl builds inside Larissa's throat. The fear scent is stronger now. Omega is shaking. Omega is scared. Find the threat - get rid of it so Omega can feel safe.

Larissa takes a step into the room. Just one. Because one is all it takes for the omega's face to crumble and her hands to weakly push against the bed. The scent spikes with agony and terror, joined by the sweet salt of tears. The only scent in the room. There's no one else here.

Omega is scared…of me.

In the time it takes to clear her throat Larissa visibly pulls herself together. She can only imagine what she looks like. Pupils dilated, nostrils flared, mouth pulled halfway into a snarl. An alpha barging into the nest of an omega. No wonder she's terrified.

“(Y/n)...” She takes a step forward, wincing at the scared whimper she earns. The soft “no, no, back” goes straight to her heart. She wants to listen. She really does. If there's one person she never wants to risk driving away, it's you. She wants to ignore the voice screaming at her that ‘Omega is hurting. Omega needs us. Help Omega.’ But she can't leave it like this. Bracing herself, she takes another step forward and bares her throat. Her own scent begins to fan out; soft tendrils of ‘calm, safety, friend’ tentatively poking against the hazy cloud of fear.

“It's okay. I'm not here to hurt you. Settle, settle.” The unsteady head of her friend lifts, and Larissa's heart seizes. Her eyes are narrowed and unfocused not with want, but with pain and terror. Does…does she even know what's going on? She's next to the bed now, close enough to hear the whispers, and she almost wishes she hadn't.

"No, don't want. Please. Don't. Don't want." Soft and frantic, barely audible in its repetition, spoken by one far too overwhelmed to speak but is trying anyway. Her head twists to the side. A thrash without energy. A chest that heaves faster and faster, a scratchy whine stuttering that the Alpha can hear plainly. She's spiraling.

“(Y/n), it's me. It's Larissa.”

It's not enough. She knows this. Her friend still breathes like she ran a marathon, but her eyes drift in her direction. Larissa allows herself the tiniest bit of relief as she lets her scent fan out once again. She’s careful to keep it as a gentle waft. This isn’t an unruly teenager that needed to be restrained. This is a peer - a friend. One whose fear permeates the entire room. A different kind of sniffing fills the air. Once, twice, then the Omega's face scrunches in confusion.

“L'ris-sa?”

The slurring voice makes her slump. It's raspy - so tired and so pained - but it’s her.

“Yes, dear. It’s me. I’m a friend, remember? Is it okay if I sit?” There’s a moment where the world seems to slow. Maybe it’s her, and the fact that she holds her breath while her friend looks at her without recognition. Or maybe it's that the relief that follows when (Y/n) finally nods is so grand that everything else pales in comparison. The woman's head thumps against the pillow, but it's worth it to be free of the cloud of uncertainty hanging over them. Like an oncoming storm. Larissa takes a second, both to let the omega become accustomed to the new body and to take her in. Her friend is squinting in that way she does when she's suffering. Her curls are matted with sweat. Poor thing must've forgotten her bonnet. A double layer of blankets. Is she cold? No, she runs hot. For pressure, then. A soothing noise rumbles in her throat. “Talk to me. Tell me how I can help.”

Her hand reaches out, and that's where it starts to go south.

The second she makes contact the body under her sags. (Y/n) makes a noise like she's deflating, but instead of relief the room becomes sour with <em>‘fear’</em> and <em>‘betrayal’.</em>

Oh…

Her mouth wobbles in horror. She can't possibly think… No, no, she's in pain. Her mind isn't clear. She's just scared, she- Oh, stars.

She's on her side before she knows it. She's close to the edge of the bed, her keys are digging into her side, but she can't bring herself to care. Alpha brings Omega into her arms. One hand rests on the small of her back, the other runs up and down between her shoulders. Larissa tucks the hiccuping omega under her chin, her nose against the alpha's collarbone, hushing her gently and frantically. “It's okay. You're alright. I'm not going to do anything.”

“Please.” The whine is pitchy and weak, and it only serves to make Larissa's heart break all over again. “Please-”

“Settle.” The alpha rumbles low and deep. There's a whimper at her chest - a small shudder racking the body in her hold - but the omega, thankfully, falls still. “You're safe. I won't take advantage of you, darling. Would never hurt you. Never.” She tilts her head back, bearing her throat, giving the omega full access to her scent gland - giving her the chance to bite and maim if she so wished. And she can't deny that her heart swells when the omega noses at her neck. Larissa lets her have all of it; her worry, her love, her clarity. She's not the hot-headed monster the woman is fearing. ‘I am not an interloper. I am your friend. You know me.'

They stay like that for a while. Long enough for her friend's breathing to even out. Long enough for Larissa's alpha to cease its frantic pacing. It doesn't retreat, oh no. It sits there in the back of her mind on its haunches, watching their friend-ally-packmate. Larissa welcomes it. Years of practice and refinement allowed her to use her alpha senses without becoming overwhelmed during the process. It's what made her such a successful headmaster. She was no stranger to forcing heated alphas into submission with her scent alone, or walking a new omega through presenting. But, judging by the prepared bottles of liquid iv and painkillers on the nightstand, she knows that this is not that.

“Alpha…?”

A soft exhale of relief. Larissa hums, running her hand down (Y/n)’s spine and smiling when she relaxes - truly relaxes - under her touch. “There we are. Alpha's here... Are we okay now?”

The woman nods. There is no explanation. There is no apology for keeping this a secret. Neither is necessary.

“Good… I'm going to pull away now. Is that alright?”

Hesitance. It would make her smile if she wasn't so worried. The omega doesn't want to leave her arms. ‘Comfort? Or maybe she was just hiding.’ (Y/n) had a dreadful habit of it; retreating and dealing with her troubles herself rather than reaching out for help. A conversation for later. What she asks instead is, “What do you need?”

(Y/n) heaves a breath. She expects resistance. Deflection, downplaying. All fundamental characteristics of her beloved friend. Too late she remembers her lack of voice, but it doesn't matter. What happens next is nothing short of miraculous. The stubborn woman- exhausted, reaching, trusting - brings her hand up, hovering her wrist by Larissa's shoulder. Larissa takes it in hand, her fingertips resting along the bones. She doesn't ask if she's sure. (Y/n) wouldn't offer if she wasn't. Feeling deeply honored, she turns her head to scent.

Exhaustion. Low blood sugar. Pain lacing every nerve.

“Hurts-”

“I can tell.” Her voice is direct but not unkind. She lowers the wrist down back between their chests, her thumb smoothing over the scent glance once before letting go. “When did you last take your medication?”

“In th’ morning.”

She doesn't need to glance at the clock to know that it's time for another dose. She does so anyway to lessen the sting of pulling away. “Alright. Let me get you something to eat. I know you're not hungry, but your body needs nourishment. Afterwards you can get cleaned up and rest.”

Her hand lingers the longest. The contact settles them both. Alpha, for daring to leave Omega by herself. Omega, for her first source of comfort to be gone even just for a few minutes. So it's no surprise that a frantic hand shoots out the second she stands. Larissa turns back immediately, a gentle clicking sounding in her throat. The grip around her wrist softens with the soothing sound. It takes a moment for her friend to speak, but when she does it makes Larissa's heart ache.

“Mad?”

“No, dear. I'm not mad.” ‘Not about this.’ Yet another conversation for later. But not now. Not when (Y/n)’s lip is wobbling and her eyes can't drift up past her waist. “Here,” she begins as she gently takes her wrist back and shrugs her arms out of her coat. “Rest. I'll be right back.” One final pat, and she isn't even turned all the way around before the omega pulls the coat laid over her closer to her nose.

It's when she's watching the frozen soup starter swirl around in the pot that she allows herself to absorb it all. Her friend is an Omega. The fact that she managed to hide it all these years is nothing short of impressive. Her blockers were strong enough to nullify her scent completely.

Larissa's lashes flutter. That scent… Underneath all that pain and musk had been the tantalizing smell of soft spice and something sweet. Honey and mango, something just soft enough to sink her teeth into. And Stars had she wanted to. She had wanted to kiss that offered wrist, feel it give beneath her teeth, and offer her own in return. But… there was something else that her alpha had been painfully aware of. All omegas needed a nest. It was essential for their physical and mental health. Even alphas benefitted from them. But (Y/n) didn't have even the suggestion of one. No pillows, nothing to hug, not even a simple scent cloth from a pack member. And where was her pack? She knew that her friend wasn't close to her family but…

Larissa hangs her head with a sigh. So many conversations they needed to have. But they could wait. Now that the soup was hot and there was fresh fruit to cut, she found herself impatient to get back to the omega.

The moon hung high above a desolate Nevermore Academy, its once vibrant halls reduced to silence. It cast pale, silvery light over the skeletal husk of what had once been a sanctuary for the outcasts of the world. A ghostly glow draped over shattered spires and sagging stones like a shroud.

You stumbled through the wreckage, your boots crunching on shattered glass and splintered wood. Dust plumed with every step, clinging to your clothes and stinging your throat. In your arms was a journal, its leather cover weathered and scarred, filled to bursting with hastily scribbled equations, arcane symbols, and desperate notes written by trembling, sleepless hands.

Time was running out.

Wednesday Addams had defeated Crackstone, but the victory had been short-lived. Tyler Galpin and Laurel Gates, thought to be neutralized, had emerged from the shadows with a vengeance. Their methods were subtler, more insidious. A biological agent introduced into the water supply targeting Outcasts. There were also whispers through government channels, unmarked vans at midnight, names erased from public records before their bodies were even cold. 

Over the next few years, they orchestrated a campaign of terror that decimated the outcast population across North America. It started slowly, simple disease and death. That is… until camps, purges, and massacres became whispered realities and then public spectacles. Outcasts were hunted, their unique gifts turned into liabilities in a world that now sought to extinguish them. Nevermore, the heart of the outcast community, had fallen early, its inhabitants scattered or killed. The banners were ripped, statues shattered, classrooms crusted with soot and dried blood. You had survived by sheer luck and the unwillingness to give up hope.

You were one of the few survivors—a lone archivist and scholar who had pieced together the timeline of destruction. In the eerie quiet of the Nevermore ruins, you combed through relics of the past, fingers numb and ink-stained. The journal in your hands was the culmination of years of study, fragments of prophecies, and stolen documents from Laurel’s operations. The conclusion was unmistakable: the future unraveled the moment Larissa Weems died.

You clutched the journal tightly, knuckles aching white. Larissa had been more than the headmistress of Nevermore. She was its keystone, the figure who had held the outcast community together in their darkest hour. Her death—well, murder—had been the domino that tipped the scales. Without her, the community splintered, and Tyler and Laurel exploited the cracks like rot seeping into old foundations.

“No more,” you whispered, the words more of a plea than a declaration. Your breath misted in the cold air, fragile as prayer. You flipped to the final page of the journal, where a time spell was scrawled in trembling ink. It was a patchwork of various arcane practices: alchemy, necromancy, and the dark arts of temporal manipulation. It wasn’t perfect, but it was your only option… the future’s only option.

The spell required a focus, something deeply tied to the moment in time you wished to reach. Slowly, you pulled a small, tarnished locket from your pocket. It was Larissa’s, recovered from the ruins years ago, crusted with time and memory. The metal was cold against your palm, heavy like the weight of fate. You held it tightly, closed your eyes, and began to chant.

The air around you shimmered, the ruins blurring and twisting as the spell took hold. The scent of dust faded, replaced by the faint smell of lavender and polished wood. The oppressive silence gave way to the distant murmur of voices—warmth, life, breath. You felt the ground tilt beneath you as though falling out of the world, before everything went black.

—

You woke with a gasp, your head pounding as though you had been struck by a hammer. Your stomach wretched slightly as you wobbled, waiting for your body to acclimate to your new surroundings. Your ears rang, vision swimming like water rippling beneath broken glass. The first thing you noticed was the warmth. The cold, desolate air of the future had been replaced by a comforting heat. Early morning sunlight streamed through tall windows, casting golden patterns across a lush, patterned carpet. Dust motes drifted lazily, gilded like tiny embers in a hearthlight. You sat up slowly, your eyes adjusting to the brightness.

You were in an office—no, her office. The gothic elegance of Principal Larissa Weems’ workspace was unmistakable. The grand bookcases lined with leather-bound volumes, the meticulously arranged wooden desk, and the faint scent of her perfume—lavender and something richer, almost spicy—all confirmed it. Every detail prickled at your senses: the polished brass lamp, the velvet drape of the curtains, the cooling embers of a late night fire in the office’s fireplace. You barely had a moment to process this before the sound of heels clicking against the floor filled the air, sharp and rhythmic.

“Care to explain why you’re in my office at this ungodly hour?”

The voice was cool, authoritative, and sharp enough to cut glass. Your breath hitched as you turned to face her. Larissa Weems stood in the doorway, arms crossed and one perfectly arched brow raised in suspicion. She was alive, vibrant, and every bit as commanding as you remembered from the stories—more so, seeing her now bathed in living light rather than the memory of a portrait framed by ruin. The tailored navy suit she wore only added to the air of unassailable power she exuded, hugging the lines of her posture with regal precision.

“Principal Weems,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. You scrambled to your feet, your movements clumsy in the face of her scrutiny, your boots dragged against the carpet’s dense fibers. “I… I can explain.”

“I should hope so,” Larissa replied, stepping further into the room. Her piercing blue eyes scanned you, taking in your disheveled appearance. Like the tear in your jacket sleeve, the smudge of soot on your cheek, the dried salt of old tears at your collar. “Breaking into my office is hardly the way to make a good first impression.”

Your heart thundered in your chest, each beat echoing as if she could hear it. You hadn’t planned this far ahead, honestly. The spell had worked, yes, but now you were face-to-face with the woman you had come to save. How could you possibly explain the gravity of this mission without sounding insane?

You swallowed hard, willing your pulse to steady. The familiar urge to confess everything—to spill the years of blood, ash, and ruin at her feet—rose fast, and you found yourself pressing your hands together behind your back as if that alone could hold your truths inside. Your fingers dug into your palms until the sting grounded you in this world instead of the one you’d fled.

No. Not yet.

You hadn’t come this far to frighten her into disbelief, or worse, suspicion.

“I’m not… I didn’t mean to break in.” Your voice sounded distant, like you were hearing it through the ruins again. “I arrived earlier than expected, and the office door was open. I thought I should wait here rather than wander the halls.”

Her gaze sharpened at the edges. You could almost feel her assessment like a cold fingertip tracing the line of your jaw, calculating what you weren’t saying far more than what you were.

“Arrived?” she echoed, her voice dipped in silk and steel. “And who might you be, exactly?”

You straightened your shoulders, instinctively meeting her poise with formality. The air between you felt charged, humming with tension.

“I’m the new administrative aide. A temporary appointment. I was assigned to support with archiving and correspondence—Miss Thornhill signed off on it. I can show you the paperwork…”

A half-truth, but one that slid cleanly past your tongue. In another world—one that never burned—you probably would have become exactly that: a quiet scholar buried in records, forgotten footnotes, and living history. If fate hadn’t carved everything into ruin, your face might have fit easily into the background of her office then.

Larissa blinked once, long and controlled. Something in your delivery gave her pause, as if she sensed the way your words trembled at their core.

“I don’t recall approving any such position,” she murmured. Her tone didn’t harden, but her curiosity narrowed like a lens focusing to a pinprick. “Nor receiving notice from Thornhill regarding a new hire.”

Your stomach knotted. Already, the fracture lines in the timeline might be showing.

She moved past you, circling her desk with a predator’s grace, fingers ghosting over the leather blotter as though searching for some physical confirmation of your claim. The morning sunlight picked out silver in her hair, turning it pale as frost. The scent of lavender and spice stirred with her movement—comforting, almost painfully familiar from the future you’d crawled out of like a wounded animal.

“And yet,” she continued, “you stand here. In my locked office.”

You winced. “The door… wasn’t locked.”

At that, she paused. Just briefly. A ripple of confusion passed over her features—there and gone like a shadow crossing a sundial.

“I distinctly remember locking it before heading to the faculty residences,” she said slowly. “I don’t make a habit of mistakes.”

You did not need reminding. You had built an entire theory of salvation on the brutal precision of Larissa Weems—on her foresight, her vigilance, her ability to see through pretense.

And some part of you—the fractured, exhausted part that still smelled gunpowder and smoke whenever you blinked—wondered whether your spell had done more than transport you. Whether it had warped the past just enough to make space for your presence, bending small certainties out of place.

She finally turned to face you again. Not angry. Not alarmed.

Just searching.

“If you are indeed the aide Marilyn approved, I’ll verify it later this morning. For now, however…” Her chin lifted slightly, eyes narrowing again in appraisal. They glinted like deep ocean through a pane of ice. “I would like to hear why you look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

It wasn’t an accusation.

It was empathy disguised as scrutiny, a quiet, pointed concern wearing the mask of discipline.

You almost broke then—almost let the grief spill. The image of Nevermore’s shattered clock tower flashed behind your eyes, iron gears exposed to the elements. Then rows of empty beds and silent classrooms. Then the terrible weight of unburied bodies under a sallow autumn sky, the air swollen with the scent of decay and rain.

Larissa would die soon in this timeline. You knew the hour, the location, the urgency in her expression when a scent of Wolfsbane would tell her too late who she’d let in. You felt the knowledge like a blade tucked between your ribs.

You forced your breath smooth.

“I apologize,” you murmured, voice rough at the edges. “It’s been… a long journey. I’m still adjusting.”

She studied you for a few seconds longer than professionalism justified, her gaze sweeping over you like a measured touch.

And there it was—her instinct.

Some unspoken recognition that the sorrow radiating off you was too sharp, too old, too deep for someone merely ‘traveling’ or exhausted. It clung to you like smoke, like a stain that could not be washed away.

Larissa Weems was not a woman easily deceived.

But she was a woman capable of restraint, and you could almost feel the moment she decided not to pry. Not yet, anyway. She would collect data, observe patterns, measure the edges of you before pressing harder.

That was her brilliance. She was ice water calm, paired with an uncanny ability to sense the fractures in people.

“Very well,” she said at last, as though granting you a fragile mercy. “We’ll discuss your position in a few hours. Until then, I expect you to do two things.”

You blinked. “Of course.”

“One,” she raised a finger, elegant and stern, “try to look less like you’ve stepped out of a nightmare. Nevermore may be eccentric, but we are still a prestigious school. Appearances matter.”

Despite the tightness closing around your ribs, something about her tone made your lips twitch. A weary, nearly imperceptible smile pulled at her own—gone as quickly as it arrived.

“And two?” you asked.

Her eyes held yours, unreadable yet steady.

“You may remain here, but you do not roam these halls alone. If you need anything, you come directly to me. Is that understood?”

Understood?

Your mind reeled at the memory of a different version of these halls, where the wind had howled through empty doorframes like grief incarnate, dragging dried leaves down corridors where laughter once lived.

“Yes, Principal Weems,” you whispered dutifully.

She gave a small nod, satisfied enough to release you—for now. “Good. Morning classes come quickly. As does paperwork, I’m afraid.”

She moved to retrieve a ledger, but paused when she noticed the locket on the desk—Larissa’s locket—placed where your body had materialized. The sunlight glanced off its curve, catching on the engraved filigree.

For an instant, the room seemed to stop breathing.

Her expression changed just slightly. The tilt of her head sharpened, her gaze flicking between the antique jewelry and your face. Something flickered—recognition, curiosity, perhaps the faint stirrings of a memory she did not yet possess.

She did not know it yet, but some part of her recognized the shape of herself reflected in it.

And you could feel the future gathering like thunder behind your ribs, pressure building, inevitable and electric.

“Where did you get this?” Larissa asked, voice a shade softer, but infinitely more dangerous. The question slid through the air like a drawn blade.

Not suspicion. Something more intimate. A breath held. A truth sensed before spoken.

You opened your mouth, knowing any answer you gave would be a lie. Or a truth she wasn’t ready to hear.

Either way, the first thread between you felt tugged taut—something fragile, electric, and terrifyingly fated.

You hadn’t come here to know her and linger in her presence. Only to save her life.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the tall windows of Nevermore Academy, casting golden streaks on the polished wood floors. Larissa Weems sat at her desk, her slender fingers gliding over a stack of papers with a practiced ease that had long ago become second nature. Her office, grand and imposing, was filled with relics from the school’s storied past—portraits of former headmasters, thick tomes with spines cracked from centuries of use, and her own neatly arranged awards and commendations.

Yet, for all its grandeur, the room felt unusually small today. Constricting.

The embossed invitation in her hand caught the light, its silver letters shimmering against the black cardstock.

Nevermore Academy — 30th Class Reunion

Larissa stared at it as though it were a portent, its edges sharp with memory. The invitation itself was elegant. Tasteful. Entirely harmless to anyone who did not know better. But old wounds had a way of dressing themselves in pretty things.

Her mouth tightened as images rose unbidden—fragments of laughter echoing down corridors, polished shoes on ballroom floors, the soft humiliation of being admired from a distance but never truly wanted up close. There were bits of insecurity and half-forgotten stings drifting to the surface like debris on a restless tide.

She had been the tallest girl in her class. The poised one. The clever one. The one teachers trusted and peers respected when it suited them while her classmates flitted through their teenage years with reckless abandon. She had learned very young how to make elegance look effortless, how to hold her chin high enough that no one noticed when she wanted to disappear.

But she had also been the girl standing quietly at the edge of the dance floor, pretending not to mind when no one asked.

Admired, perhaps. Respected, certainly.

Chosen? Rarely.

Never first. Always almost. The lingering sting of that truth made her stomach tighten, even now.

Larissa exhaled slowly through her nose and set the invitation down with deliberate care, as if too much force might betray her. It was absurd, really. She was no longer that girl. Her life had taken a different turn since then—an impressive one, by any reasonable measure. Principal of Nevermore Academy. Celebrated alumna. A formidable woman entrusted with shaping the minds and futures of generations of outcasts.

She had built a legacy here. Poured herself into the school as if dedication might alchemize longing into purpose.

And perhaps it had. Mostly.

But for all her accomplishments, there remained a hollow space in her chest that ached whenever she thought about walking into that reunion alone. Not because she needed anyone. Larissa Weems had long ago learned the art of self-sufficiency. Need was an indulgence she could rarely afford.

No, it was not loneliness that troubled her. It was the fear of being seen. Not as the principal. Not as the polished, untouchable woman she had so carefully constructed.

But as the girl she had once been. The girl everyone had looked past. Besides the fear of old insecurities surfacing, it was the quiet realization that she had never really left.

With a sigh, her gaze drifted from the invitation to the slip of paper beside it, where she had written your name in neat, careful script.

That was the other matter occupying her thoughts.

You had come to her office earlier that morning with a request bold enough to be irritating and well-researched enough to be difficult to dismiss. Access to Nevermore’s restricted archives was not something Larissa granted lightly, least of all to someone who did not belong to the academy. The collection contained histories that were dangerous in the wrong hands, relics better left undisturbed, and records so old that even their dust felt accusatory.

But you had not asked with the entitled impatience of a curious amateur. You had come prepared.

You spoke of a series of anomalies in Jericho—brief lapses in time, strange repetitions of events too precise to be coincidence, eyewitness accounts that contradicted themselves in ways no ordinary hysteria could explain. You had traced the disturbances back through town records, private collections, half-burned diaries, and finally, impossibly, to a name Larissa had not heard spoken aloud since her own student days.

The Obsidian Hourglass.

A Nevermore legend. Or, at least, that was what most believed it to be.

An artifact supposedly capable of manipulating time in small but dangerous fractures. It had been dismissed by generations of students as a gothic little myth, the sort of thing whispered about during midnight dares and embellished by bored teenagers looking to frighten one another.

But Larissa knew better than most that legends at Nevermore rarely came from nowhere. And you, apparently, had reached the same conclusion.

You wanted access to the restricted archive records connected to the Hourglass. Not the student-facing accounts or the sanitized histories tucked neatly into public catalogues, but the sealed documents. The ones hidden behind wards, faculty permissions, and several layers of institutional discretion.

Larissa should have refused you outright. She nearly had.

But there had been something about the way you sat across from her desk, composed but not arrogant, careful but not afraid. Something about your unguarded confidence. The ease with which you met her gaze. You had spoken to her not as a gatekeeper to be flattered, nor as an obstacle to be maneuvered around, but as an equal.

That alone had been disarming. Larissa was not accustomed to being disarmed, and you lingered in her mind long after you left.

—

The sound of brisk footsteps in the corridor outside drew her attention. A moment later, there was a knock at the door.

She straightened. “Come in.”

The door opened, and there you stood.

For one irritating, treacherous second, Larissa forgot the practiced expression she had intended to wear.

You looked much as you had that previous morning—composed, curious, with that same quiet magnetism that made the air seem to shift around you. It made her painfully aware of how tightly she had been gripping her fountain pen. There was an ease about you that Larissa found almost indecent. As though the world had tried to make you smaller once or twice and failed to leave a lasting impression.

“Principal Weems,” you greeted, offering a polite smile. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all,” she replied smoothly, her voice betraying none of the nerves twisting low in her stomach. “Please, come in.”

You stepped inside, and the faint scent of leather and pine accompanied you. Larissa gestured toward the chair opposite her desk. As you sat, your eyes moved briefly around the room—not prying, but observant. Taking in the portraits, the shelves, the careful order of her space. There was curiosity in your expression.

And, unless Larissa was mistaken, admiration.

She folded her hands neatly atop the desk. “I’ve been giving some thought to your request.”

Your posture shifted, attention sharpening. “And?”

“And,” she said, allowing the word to settle between you, “it is unconventional. Potentially dangerous. Almost certainly inadvisable.”

Your brow arched slightly while a faint smile tugged at your mouth. “That sounds like the beginning of a no.”

“It would be,” Larissa replied, “if the circumstances surrounding your research were less concerning.”

Your amusement faded slightly. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

Larissa reached for one of the folders on her desk and opened it, revealing the notes she had compiled since your first meeting. Reports of clocks stopping simultaneously across three blocks of Jericho. A student insisting she had lived the same conversation twice. A shopkeeper swearing that an hour vanished between one breath and the next. Nothing dramatic enough to stir panic. Nothing obvious enough to demand intervention.

But patterns rarely announced themselves politely.

“You believe these anomalies are connected to the Obsidian Hourglass,” Larissa said.

“I think they might be,” you replied. “I’m not claiming certainty. Not yet. That’s why I need the archive.”

“The restricted archive.”

“Yes.”

“Which exists precisely because certain knowledge should not be handled casually.”

“I’m not casual about this.”

“No,” Larissa said, studying you. “I don’t believe you are.”

The admission seemed to surprise you. Your expression softened by a degree, and Larissa disliked the way some small, unguarded part of her responded to it.

She closed the folder.

“Even so, allowing an outsider access to sealed Nevermore records is not a favor I grant lightly.”

“I understand.” You leaned back slightly, though your gaze remained steady on hers. “I wouldn’t ask if I had another way forward.”

Larissa believed you. That was the problem. Belief was a dangerous thing. It opened doors that caution preferred locked.

Her eyes drifted, despite herself, to the black invitation resting near the edge of her desk.

You followed her gaze. For a brief moment, neither of you spoke.

Larissa resisted the urge to turn the invitation facedown like something indecent. Instead, she let her fingertips rest lightly against the desktop, perfectly still.

“I may be willing,” she said at last, “to consider a limited arrangement. Something I need assistance with.”

Your brow arched. “An arrangement?”

“Yes.”

The word steadied her. Arrangement sounded practical. Controlled. Administrative. It did not sound like loneliness. It did not sound like old hurt. It did not sound like the terrible, humiliating desire to walk into a room full of ghosts and not have to face them alone.

You leaned forward, intrigued. “I’m listening.”

Larissa held your gaze. “In three weeks, Nevermore is hosting its thirtieth reunion for the class of 1996.”

“The invitation,” you said.

“Quite.”

“And you need...?”

She hesitated. Only for a second. Only long enough to despise herself for it.

“As principal, I am expected to attend,” Larissa continued, her tone measured. “As an alumna, I am expected to participate. Smile. Reminisce. Endure several hours of pleasantries with people who have varying degrees of interest in pretending they remember me fondly.”

Your expression shifted, something almost sympathetic passing through your eyes.

Larissa’s spine straightened. She had not asked for sympathy. “I require a date,” she said crisply.

Silence.

Your lips parted slightly.

Larissa met your gaze with all the poise she possessed, her blue eyes unflinching though she could feel the faintest warmth rising beneath the high collar of her blouse.

“A date,” you repeated.

“Preferably one charming enough to endure small talk, clever enough not to be intimidated by Nevermore alumni, and discreet enough to understand that the arrangement is mutually beneficial.”

The corner of your mouth lifted.

There it was again—that almost-smile that suggested you had found the one loose thread in her composure and were considering whether to pull.

Larissa braced herself for laughter, for dismissal, for the kind of polite, casual rejection that had haunted her in her youth.

“Principal Weems,” you said, voice light but not unkind, “are you asking me to fake date you?”

Her lips twitched, caught somewhere between a smirk and a scowl. “I believe the more accurate term is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“Of course,” you said gravely. “Very professional.”

“Entirely.”

“And in exchange?”

Larissa allowed herself to breathe.

“In exchange, I will grant you supervised access to the restricted archive materials concerning the Obsidian Hourglass. Limited access,” she clarified. “Nothing leaves the archive. Nothing is copied without my approval. And if I determine at any point that the research poses a threat to this school or its students, the arrangement ends.”

Your teasing expression sobered.

“That’s fair.”

“I have not finished.” Larissa’s eyes sparkled with quiet challenge. 

You sat back, visibly fighting another smile. “My apologies.”

“You will also keep all information obtained from the archives confidential unless disclosure becomes necessary to prevent harm.”

“Agreed.”

“And,” Larissa continued, lifting her chin slightly, “you will not wander the grounds unaccompanied, charm my staff into violating protocol, or attempt to circumvent any wards, locks, or faculty restrictions.”

Your hand moved to your chest in mock offense. “You wound me, Principal.”

“I rather suspect you would recover.”

That made you laugh softly. The sound was warm. Unexpectedly so. Larissa looked down at the folder, though she did not read a word on the page.

The banter was easy. Too easy. It slid between you with a naturalness she had not anticipated, and it unsettled her more than your original request ever could. Larissa had prepared herself for negotiation. For suspicion. For the tedious necessity of maintaining authority while managing risk.

She had not prepared herself for the possibility of enjoying you.

“Well,” you said after a moment, “I suppose that depends on what being your date entails.”

“Nothing untoward, I assure you.” The words left her too quickly.

Your eyes brightened. Larissa hated that she had given you that.

“I would simply require you to accompany me for the evening,” she continued, more evenly. “Engage in conversation. Maintain the impression that we are... close enough for your presence to be unremarkable.”

“How close is close enough?”

Larissa’s gaze sharpened. “I trust you possess enough social intelligence to improvise within reason.”

“That sounded almost like a compliment.”

“Do not let it go to your head.”

“I’ll try to remain humble.”

“A quality I am certain comes naturally to you.”

You grinned, and Larissa found herself irritated by how pleased she was to have caused it.

She reached for the reunion invitation and slid it toward you across the desk. Your fingers brushed the edge of the cardstock, and her attention caught—briefly, foolishly—on the shape of your hand against the black paper.

You glanced over the details. “Formal attire?” you asked.

“Naturally.”

“Dancing?”

“Likely.” Larissa confirmed.

“Former classmates with unresolved emotional baggage?”

Larissa’s expression cooled by instinct. Your teasing softened at once. It was subtle, the adjustment. Barely there. But she saw it.

“Yes,” she said. “I imagine there will be a great deal of that.”

You studied her for a moment, and Larissa had the uncomfortable sense that you were seeing more than she had intended to reveal. She had learned long ago how to make herself unreadable. Students saw authority. Parents saw polish. Staff saw competence. Alumni saw success.

You, apparently, had the audacity to see a person.

“How convincing do you need this to be?” you asked, quieter now, thoughtful.

Larissa’s throat tightened. There were several answers she could have given. Convincing enough that no one pities me. Convincing enough that no one wonders why I came alone. Convincing enough that I do not feel seventeen again.

Instead, she said, “Convincing enough that no one questions it.”

You nodded slowly. “Then we should probably discuss the details before the reunion. If we’re meant to seem close, we’ll need to know things about each other.”

Larissa arched a brow. “You seem very prepared for deception.”

“I prefer the term narrative consistency.”

Despite herself, Larissa smiled. A small thing. A dangerous thing.

“Indeed,” she said. “Then perhaps we should meet somewhere less formal to establish the necessary... narrative consistency.”

“The Weathervane?” you suggested.

Larissa considered it. Neutral ground. Public enough to remain appropriate, private enough if one chose the right table. She could already imagine the ridiculousness of it—the two of you sitting across from each other over coffee, exchanging curated facts like actors rehearsing intimacy.

And yet, some traitorous part of her did not dislike the thought. “The Weathervane will do,” she said.

“When?”

“Tomorrow evening. Six o’clock.”

You nodded. “It’s a date, then.”

Larissa’s eyes narrowed. You looked entirely too pleased with yourself. “A planning meeting,” she corrected.

“Right. A planning meeting where I learn how to convincingly fake being your date.”

“Precisely.”

“Which is very different.”

“Drastically.”

The amusement between you lingered, delicate and bright, before settling into something quieter.

You rose from the chair, smoothing a hand over your jacket. “Then we have a deal?”

Larissa stood as well. It was unnecessary, perhaps, but she found herself unwilling to remain seated while you looked down at her—even if the difference was negligible. Her height had always been one of the few advantages she trusted without question.

“We have a preliminary agreement,” she said. “Contingent upon your continued discretion and good behavior.

“My good behavior is usually negotiable.”

“I would advise against testing the limits of my patience.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

You extended your hand. Larissa glanced at it.

There was no reason for hesitation. She had shaken countless hands in this office—parents, donors, faculty, mayors, inspectors, alumni with too much money and too little humility. A handshake was nothing. A formality. A seal on a practical arrangement.

Still, when she placed her hand in yours, the warmth of your palm seemed to startle something loose in her chest.

Your grip was firm but not forceful. Grounding. Larissa held it for precisely as long as politeness required and not a second longer.

At least, that was what she told herself.

When you released her, your smile had softened again. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Principal Weems.”

“Larissa,” she said.

The correction surprised both of you. For one suspended moment, the office went still.

Larissa recovered first, though only barely.

“If we are to appear familiar,” she said, folding her hands before her, “you may as well begin practicing.”

Your smile deepened, but you did not tease her this time. “All right,” you said. “Larissa.”

Her name in your mouth was an astonishingly inconvenient thing.

She gave a single, composed nod. “Until tomorrow.”

You inclined your head and turned toward the door. Larissa watched you go, her expression carefully arranged, her mind already racing with contingencies. Archive permissions. Ward access. Reunion schedules. Alumni lists. The foolish risk of allowing you anywhere near the sealed records.

The even more foolish risk of allowing you anywhere near her.

The door closed behind you with a soft click. For several seconds, Larissa remained standing. Then, slowly, she looked down at the reunion invitation still resting on her desk.

It had not changed. The same elegant cardstock. The same silver lettering. The same promise of an evening spent among old ghosts. But now, beside it, lay the folder containing your research notes.

The Obsidian Hourglass. Missing time. A dangerous artifact that might not be legend after all.

And you.

Larissa lowered herself back into her chair, pressing her fingertips lightly to the place where your hand had held hers.

It was a foolish thing, this arrangement. Reckless, even. She knew that.

And yet, as the late afternoon light thinned across her office floor, Larissa found herself staring not at the invitation, but at the empty space you had just occupied.

The next morning arrived with the audacity of a woman who had not spent half the night thinking about Larissa Weems.

Pale light crept through the curtains of your room, thin and gray-blue, catching on the discarded clothes you had failed to gather from the floor. Your sweater was still slumped over the back of your chair. Your shoes sat unevenly near the door, one tilted onto its side as though it, too, had given up on dignity sometime after midnight.

You blinked at the ceiling. For one blissful second, your mind was empty. Then memories returned with the subtlety of a brick through stained glass.

Larissa’s office.

Her voice, low and trembling at the edges. I’m afraid of losing control. Her fingers brushing yours at the end, deliberate enough to ruin you, restrained enough to haunt you.

You shut your eyes with a groan and dragged your comforter over your face.

No. Absolutely not. You would not start your morning like this. You were an adult. A graduate fellow. A scholar. A person with a dissertation, color-coded notes, and at least some working understanding of institutional ethics.

You were not going to be undone by the memory of a tall, silver-haired principal admitting, in a voice like cracked velvet, that she did not want you to leave and did not want you to stop flirting.

Your phone buzzed on your nightstand.

You froze. For a terrible, hopeful second, you thought it might be her.

It was not.

Mrs. Cunningham:

Good morning, dearie! Updated schedule attached. Principal Weems requests your presence in her office at 9:00 before today’s community roundtable. Breakfast will be available in the faculty lounge beforehand.

You stared at the email.

Of course.

Of course Larissa Weems would almost unravel in front of you one evening and then summon you by way of her assistant the next morning like a perfectly reasonable employer. Of course she would turn desire into scheduling. And of course there would be breakfast.

You dropped the phone against your chest and laughed once, dryly.

“Coward,” you muttered half-heartedly, though you were not entirely sure whether you meant Larissa or yourself.

The schedule opened beneath your thumb with one unforgiving tap.

9:00 — Briefing with Principal Weems

10:00 — Community Relations Roundtable, Jericho Town Hall

12:00 — Lunch with Outreach Committee

2:00 — Research consultation / archival permissions review

4:30 — Follow-up interview with Marginalia student newspaper

You stared at the day ahead of you.

Too much Larissa. Not enough Larissa. An absolutely fatal amount of Larissa.

You let the phone fall beside you again and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. The ache behind your ribs had not lessened. If anything, sleep had only refined it—turned last night’s frantic heat into something more dangerous. Something quieter. More focused.

Want was one thing. Knowing you were wanted back was another beast entirely.

You had been able to make jokes before. You could flirt, tease, press gently against the edges of her restraint because uncertainty had given you cover. Maybe you were imagining it. Maybe Larissa’s lingering looks were kindness. Maybe the warmth in her voice was charm, habit, professional polish.

But after last night? No. There was no unknowing it now.

Larissa Weems wanted you. And, apparently, she hated that almost as much as she wanted it.

The thought settled low in your stomach, both thrilling and heavy. You turned onto your side, facing the window, where the early light made the glass look silvered. Somewhere beyond the glass, Nevermore was waking: pipes groaning, students chattering through walls, old stone shifting with the cold.

And somewhere beneath all of that, Larissa was likely already awake.

Probably immaculate. Probably composed. Probably pretending she had not gone home—or wherever Larissa Weems went when the mask was finally too heavy to wear—and thought of you.

Your face heated. You sat up too quickly and nearly tangled yourself in the sheets.

“Nope,” you said aloud, swinging your feet onto the floor. “Not doing this.”

You did, in fact, spend the next forty minutes doing exactly this.

You dressed with more indecision than the occasion deserved. Every option felt like a message you weren’t sure you wanted to send. Too casual looked careless. Too polished looked intentional. Too revealing looked like a declaration of war, and you weren’t convinced Larissa would survive another one so soon.

Eventually, you settled on a dark green turtleneck tucked into high-waisted black trousers, the kind that made you look like you had your life together in a quiet academic way. You added your usual rings, a simple belt, and boots with just enough heel to make you feel steadier than you were.

You looked in the mirror.

Reasonable. Professional. Not at all like a woman who had spent the previous night clutching a pillow and trying not to think about the exact shape of Larissa’s mouth.

Good enough.

By the time you reached the faculty lounge, the scent of tea, toast, and something faintly buttery filled the hallway. A few early-rising faculty members were scattered through the room, speaking in low voices over cups and plates. You recognized one of the history instructors from a previous introduction and exchanged a polite smile.

Larissa was not there. Your disappointment was immediate and humiliating.

You poured tea you did not particularly want and chose a slice of toast because it gave your hands something to do. You were halfway through spreading jam with the seriousness of a surgeon when Mrs. Cunningham appeared beside you.

“There you are, dearie.”

You turned, nearly dropping the knife. “Oh, good morning.”

Mrs. Cunningham gave you the kind of look older women gave when they knew something and were deciding whether to weaponize it.

“Sleep well?”

You took a bite of toast to buy yourself time and immediately regretted it. Too dry. Too much chewing. Too much needing to appear normal.

“Fine,” you said eventually. “A regular amount of sleep. A… responsible amount.”

Her brows lifted. You sipped your tea.

Mrs. Cunningham hummed. “Principal Weems is already in her office. She asked that I send you down once you’d eaten.”

“How ominous.”

“She’s always ominous before nine-thirty.”

That startled a laugh out of you.

Mrs. Cunningham smiled, pleased with herself, and patted your arm. “Don’t look so worried.”

“Right,” you managed. She wandered off, leaving you to wonder if every woman at Nevermore was somehow capable of seeing directly through your skin.

You finished as much of breakfast as your nerves allowed, then made your way toward Larissa’s office.

The corridors seemed longer than usual.

Ridiculous, considering you knew the route well by now. You had walked it with curiosity, with excitement, with dread, with barely concealed arousal, with bruises hidden beneath your clothes, with questions pressing behind your teeth. Today, the hallway felt less like a path and more like a test.

Her office door was open. That struck you immediately.

Not ajar in the careless way of last night. Not inviting in the intimate, golden spill of lamplight that had made your pulse leap. Open. Properly open. Wide enough that anyone passing could glance inside.

You paused just outside.

Larissa sat behind her desk, dressed in a cream blouse and a dove-gray skirt that made her look infuriatingly untouchable. Her hair was swept into its usual flawless arrangement. Her lipstick was perfect. Her posture was perfect. Even the stack of papers at her right hand looked like it had been placed there by an anxious museum curator.

She looked up. For half a second, something crossed her face. Not composure. Not quite. Recognition, maybe. Memory? Then it was gone.

“Good morning,” she said. Her voice was smooth. Even. Polite.

You wanted to throw yourself out the nearest window.

“Morning, Principal Weems.” Her eyes flickered at the title. Briefly. Almost imperceptibly.

Interesting.

You stepped inside but did not sit until she gestured to the chair opposite her desk. The same chair. Of course. Your body remembered it before your mind could object—the precise angle from which you had watched her composure fracture, the distance you had reduced by standing, the look in her eyes when you asked what she wanted.

You sat down. The door remained open behind you. Larissa noticed you noticing.

A faint line appeared between her brows before smoothing away. “I trust Mrs. Cunningham sent you the updated schedule?”

“She did.”

“Good.” Larissa picked up a folder and opened it, though you were fairly certain she did not read the top page. “Today’s roundtable will include several town representatives, a member of the Outreach Committee, and a local reporter from VNE. The intention is to frame your fellowship as part of Nevermore’s ongoing commitment to transparency and community repair.”

“Sounds fun.”

Her gaze lifted. You smiled innocently.

“Your enthusiasm is, as always, overwhelming,” she said. There it was. The faintest glimmer. Dry. Familiar. Almost warm.

Your chest loosened despite yourself. “I contain multitudes.”

“I have noticed.”

The words landed differently than they should have.

Larissa seemed to realize it at the same time you did. Her fingers shifted against the folder. The office, despite the open door, felt suddenly smaller.

She cleared her throat. You watched the movement.

Stop it, you told yourself.

“Today will require care,” she continued.

The word care struck between you with cruel precision.

Careful.

You leaned back slightly. “That seems to be a recurring theme.”

Larissa’s eyes held yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

A student’s laughter echoed faintly from somewhere down the corridor. A door closed. Footsteps passed, visible for a moment through the open doorway, then gone.

Larissa looked away first.

“I mean,” she said carefully, “that the town is still sensitive to recent events. Outreach Day helps, but the wounds between Jericho and Nevermore are not healed simply because we schedule programs and refreshments.”

You nodded, letting the seriousness of the subject pull you back to steadier ground. “I know.”

“I believe you do.” Her voice softened before she seemed to catch herself. “However, it is important that your remarks remain focused. You are not there to apologize on behalf of Nevermore, nor to defend every outcast against every accusation ever made by normie society.”

“Tragic. That was exactly my plan.”

“Nor,” she added, ignoring you with admirable discipline, “are you there to provoke.”

You placed a hand against your chest. “I would never.”

Larissa’s mouth twitched.

The victory felt embarrassingly satisfying.

Then her gaze dropped to your hand, to the rings on your fingers, then away again. The motion was small, but it sent heat crawling up the back of your neck.

So this was how the day would go… Death by almost-looking.

“I reviewed your preliminary notes,” Larissa said, too quickly.

“My notes?”

“The excerpts you sent Mrs. Cunningham for the press packet.”

“Oh.” You blinked. “Right. Those notes.”

“They’re thoughtful.” She hesitated. “Particularly your comments on the limitations of normie scholarship regarding shapeshifters.”

Your body stilled. There it was.

You had known, eventually, the subject would become difficult before you even knew Larissa was a shapeshifter. You had pulled quotes from Foundational Concepts in Shapeshifter Cultures with increasing irritation, marking passages that framed shapeshifting as deception, punishment, instability, or divine correction. The more you read, the more the scholarship felt not merely incomplete but accusatory.

And then there was Larissa.

The woman who moved through the world as though every inch of herself had been edited for public consumption. Larissa, who was a shapeshifter in a world eager to make that word mean liar.

You chose your response carefully. “I’m still working through that section. I don’t want to overstep.”

“No,” she said, and the immediacy surprised you. “You haven’t.”

The admission hovered between you.

Larissa lowered her eyes to the papers again. “But you should be prepared for resistance. Jericho likes comfortable narratives. Shapeshifters as tricksters. Sirens as manipulators. Gorgons as threats. Vampires as predators. Each category conveniently simple enough for normies to fear without having to understand.”

There was no bitterness in her voice. That made it worse. She said it like a fact she had memorized young.

You studied her face, the line of her jaw, the immaculate calm that had settled over something old and carefully buried.

“Is that what they called you?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

Her eyes snapped to yours.

The room changed.

You regretted the question immediately—not because you didn’t want the answer, but because the answer mattered too much. Because the open door suddenly felt less like a boundary and more like an audience.

Larissa’s expression did not move for several seconds. Then, quietly, “That is not relevant to today’s briefing.”

It was a reprimand. It was also an answer.

Your throat tightened. “I’m sorry.”

She inhaled slowly, and for once the breath did not look practiced. “You needn’t be.”

“I shouldn’t have asked like that.”

“No,” she agreed. You winced.

“But,” she continued, voice quieter, “your instinct was not incorrect.”

Your eyes lifted. Larissa held your gaze for a fraction too long, then turned a page in the folder with exquisite precision. “You may find that the most enduring prejudices are the ones people dress up as observation.”

You swallowed. “That’s good,” you said softly.

Her brow arched.

“For the roundtable,” you clarified. “Not good. Obviously. Horrible. But… useful phrasing.”

A glimmer of amusement returned to her eyes. “You may use it, provided you do not attribute it to me.”

“Noted. Anonymous devastating insight.”

“Do not call it that either.”

“I’ll workshop it.”

The corner of her mouth curved. The smile was tiny. Barely there.

It still felt like being handed something precious.

Then a knock sounded against the open doorframe. Both of you turned.

Mrs. Cunningham stood there with a clipboard pressed to her chest, looking between you with the faintly amused neutrality of a woman who had never missed a thing in her life.

“The car is ready, ma’am,” she announced. “Town Hall in twenty minutes.”

Larissa stood immediately. “Thank you.”

You rose as well, gathering your folder and bag.

As Larissa moved around the desk, you both reached for the same stack of printed materials at the same time. Your fingers brushed. Bare skin this time. Not through gloves. Not accidental enough to dismiss.

A spark went through you so sharply that you almost forgot Mrs. Cunningham was standing there.

Larissa’s fingers froze against yours.

One second. Two. Then she withdrew.

“After you,” she said.

Her voice was perfectly steady. Her eyes were not.

—

Jericho Town Hall looked as though it had been built by people who believed civic responsibility should include uncomfortable chairs.

The room was paneled in dark wood and decorated with framed photographs of town founders whose eyes followed you with ancestral disapproval. Folding tables had been arranged in a loose rectangle, with pitchers of water, paper cups, name placards, and an assortment of pastries that looked dry enough to legally qualify as historical artifacts.

You took your seat beside Larissa, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor and a vendetta.

To your left sat a VNE reporter, a thin man with aggressively neat hair and the posture of someone who liked asking questions that made people sweat. Across from you were two town representatives, one Outreach Committee member, and a local business owner whose name tag read MARIAN HOLT. You wondered if she had ever smiled in her life or if Jericho had outlawed it sometime in the nineteenth century.

Larissa opened the meeting with her usual poise next to the sheriff.

You had seen her command rooms before, but it still fascinated you. She did not raise her voice. She did not over-explain. She did not plead for goodwill. She simply occupied authority so thoroughly that everyone else seemed to adjust themselves around it. It made the authority of the man next to her seem diminutive in comparison.

“Our aim,” she said, hands folded elegantly in front of her, “is not to erase the tensions between Jericho and Nevermore, but to address them with clarity and intention. The fellowship program is one part of that effort.”

Several eyes turned to you. You smiled, polite but not too bright. 

The reporter clicked his pen.

“And as the first normie graduate fellow at Nevermore,” he began, “how would you characterize your experience so far?”

Larissa’s knee was close enough beneath the table that you were aware of it without touching.

You kept your posture relaxed. “Complicated. In a good way.”

The reporter looked disappointed you had not said something dramatic.

You continued, “I think any meaningful research environment should complicate your assumptions. Nevermore does that. It’s easy for normie institutions to talk about outcasts as a subject. It’s different to be in a space where outcasts are not theoretical. They’re students, teachers, colleagues, historians, artists, teenagers trying to survive adolescence without also being treated as monsters.”

The room was quiet. Good quiet, maybe.

Larissa did not look at you, but something about her stillness changed.

The reporter leaned forward. “You use the term monsters. Do you think that language is still relevant to normie and outcast relations?”

You felt Larissa’s attention sharpen. Careful, you could almost hear her say.

You took a steadying breath. “I think monster is often a word people use when they want fear to sound like evidence.”

Across the table, Marian Holt’s mouth tightened. Beside you, Larissa’s fingers went still around her pen.

You pressed on. “A lot of my work looks at how language shapes public imagination. If a community tells the same story long enough—sirens manipulate, vampires prey, shapeshifters deceive—then individuals get flattened into symbols. And once someone is only a symbol, it becomes easier to justify mistreating them.”

The reporter’s pen moved quickly now.

One of the town representatives cleared his throat. “Surely some of those concerns come from actual incidents.”

“Of course,” you said. “Harm happens in every community. Outcasts are not exempt from accountability, and normies are not exempt from prejudice. But patterns matter. Who gets treated as an individual who made a mistake, and who gets treated as proof that their entire identity is dangerous?”

Larissa shifted beside you. Not away. Not closer. But present.

The Outreach Committee member, a woman with kind eyes and a cardigan patterned with tiny ravens, nodded slowly. “That is a useful distinction.”

You smiled at her gratefully.

The reporter turned to Larissa. “Principal Weems, do you agree with that framing?”

Larissa’s expression did not change, but you felt the air around her cool.

“As a principal,” she said, “I have learned that students rarely thrive when they are treated as representatives of someone else’s fear.”

The room stilled again. You looked down at your notes because looking at her felt too dangerous.

The meeting continued, weaving through topics of safety, integration, Outreach Day, student conduct, and Jericho’s “ongoing concerns,” which seemed to be a polite way of saying prejudices they had not yet figured out how to make sound progressive.

Larissa was brilliant. That was the problem.

She navigated hostility with grace, corrected assumptions without appearing defensive, and smiled just warmly enough to make several people forget they were being professionally dismantled. Watching her was infuriatingly attractive. Worse, it made your chest ache.

Because now you could hear what lived underneath the polish. The caution. The exhaustion. The discipline of a woman who had learned to be impeccable because anything less would be used against her.

At some point, under the table, her knee brushed yours. Barely.

You stopped mid-note. Larissa continued speaking without pause.

You glanced at her profile. Nothing.

Her knee remained there. Warmth spread through you, slow and traitorous. It could have been an accident. It probably was an accident.

Then she shifted half an inch closer.

You stared at your notebook, where your pen had made one long, useless line through the word narrative.

Careful, indeed.

—

The meeting ended with handshakes, polite smiles, and the particular exhaustion that came from being measured by people who thought curiosity and suspicion were the same thing.

Larissa was intercepted almost immediately by Marian Holt and the VNE reporter, leaving you to gather your notes near the refreshment table. You poured yourself water and considered whether one of the pastries was worth the risk.

“Hey.”

You turned.

Imogen stood a few feet away, one hand tucked into the pocket of her jacket, her expression cautious. She was not in her Weathervane apron today. Instead, she wore a black denim jacket over a striped shirt, her hair braided loosely over one shoulder.

You blinked, confusion marking your tone. “Imogen?”

“Yeah. Sorry.” She gave a nervous laugh. “My aunt is on the Outreach Committee. I helped set up chairs this morning.”

Of course she did. Jericho really was the kind of town where everyone’s aunt was on a committee.

“Oh,” you said. “Right. Hi.”

Her eyes flicked toward Larissa, who was still across the room speaking to Marian with a smile sharp enough to cut ribbon. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“I was on the schedule.”

“Right.” Imogen rocked back on her heels. “You were really good up there.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. The stuff you said about people being turned into symbols…” Her face pinched slightly. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

Something in your defensiveness softened, though not entirely. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “After Burlington. After what my friends did.” Her voice lowered. “I keep trying to tell myself I didn’t know they would go that far, but that doesn’t really matter, does it? I knew how they talked. I knew how they usually thought. I just thought…” She swallowed. “I don’t know. I thought because they were nice to me, they were nice.”

That landed harder than you expected. You looked down at the water cup in your hands, watching the surface tremble slightly.

“That’s a difficult thing to realize,” you said.

“Yeah.” Imogen gave a humorless laugh. “Not as difficult as getting dragged outside and punched because someone thought you were a vampire.”

Your ribs seemed to remember before you did. You breathed slowly.

“I’m not trying to make you forgive me,” she added quickly. “I know I keep showing up and making it weird.”

“You do have a talent for timing.”

A small, relieved smile crossed her face. “I deserve that.”

You looked toward Larissa before you could help it.

A mistake.

She was watching you.

Not openly. Not rudely. But her attention had cut across the room and settled on you with the same cool precision she used to silence rowdy students and arrogant town officials.

Her gaze flicked to Imogen, then back to you. Possessiveness looked devastating on her. You hated that you noticed.

Imogen followed your glance, then exhaled. “She really doesn’t like me.”

You almost laughed. “Principal Weems is protective of Nevermore.”

“Sure,” Imogen said, not sounding convinced. “And dragons are protective of gold.”

Your head snapped toward her.

Imogen held up both hands. “Sorry. Sorry. None of my business.”

“It isn’t.”

“I know.”

The silence that followed was awkward, but not hostile.

Imogen shifted. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry. And I’m trying to be better. Not because I want anything from you. Just… because I should have been better already.”

You studied her for a long moment.

There were still things in you that did not trust her. Things that remembered waiting alone outside a nightclub with a dying phone and a bruise blooming under your clothes. Things that remembered how easily desire had made you reckless.

But she looked younger today. Not in age, exactly. In certainty.

“Thank you,” you said at last. “I appreciate you saying that.”

She nodded, visibly relieved. “Okay. Good. I’ll let you get back to…” Her eyes flicked toward Larissa again. “Whatever that is.”

You gave her a flat look.

She smiled, sheepish, and backed away. “Right. Leaving now.”

You watched her go.

When you turned back, Larissa was no longer across the room. She was beside you. You startled hard enough to nearly spill your water.

“Jesus.”

“We really must stop meeting under that name,” Larissa said.

You pressed a hand to your chest. “Do they teach stealth walking in principal school?”

“Only to advanced students.”

Your pulse was already misbehaving. “How much of that did you hear?”

“Enough.” Her eyes remained on Imogen’s retreating figure.

You waited. Larissa did not speak.

“Oh, come on,” you said under your breath. “If you’re going to loom disapprovingly, at least commit to the commentary.”

Her gaze shifted to you. “I am not looming.”

“You are absolutely looming.”

“I am standing.”

“Menacingly.”

Her lips pressed together, but the amusement did not reach her eyes this time.

“She apologized,” you said, softer now. “Again.”

“I heard.”

“And I handled it.”

“I saw.”

You tilted your head. “Then why do you look like you want to ban her from every building within a five-mile radius?”

Larissa’s expression cooled. “You mistake professional concern for something far less appropriate.”

You stared at her. She stared back.

“Do I?” you asked.

A muscle feathered in her jaw.

The room was still full of people, which was the only reason you did not step closer. You wondered if she knew that. You wondered if she was relying on it.

Larissa looked away first, lowering her voice. “We should return to Nevermore. Mrs. Cunningham will expect us for the archival review.”

“Of course.”

She turned. You followed.

Outside, the cold air hit your face with a clarity you desperately needed. The sky had gone white with cloud cover, and the town square looked washed out beneath it, all brick storefronts and damp pavement. Larissa walked beside you toward the waiting car, her posture as flawless as ever.

For half the walk, neither of you spoke.

Then she said, “You did well.”

The praise struck so unexpectedly that you nearly missed a step.

“At the roundtabe,” she clarified, as though she had not just handed your heart a lit match. “You were composed. Measured. Persuasive.”

“Thank you.”

“You also quoted me.”

You looked up at her. “Anonymously.”

Her brow arched. “Devastating insight?”

“I was being generous.”

“You were being impertinent.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Maybe.”

A faint warmth passed over her face and vanished almost immediately.

There she was. There you were.

You climbed into the car with the terrible awareness that the space was too enclosed, too familiar. Not the van from Burlington, thank god, but close enough to awaken the memory of leather seats, shaking breath, the horn blaring beneath you at exactly the wrong moment.

Larissa seemed to remember too. She sat a little too still behind the wheel.

You fastened your seatbelt with exaggerated care. Her eyes cut to you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re thinking something.”

“I am often thinking something.”

“Is it about seatbelts?”

Her hands tightened on the wheel. You grinned, unable to help yourself.

“Do not,” she warned.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was not.”

“You absolutely were.”

The laugh escaped you before you could stop it, bright and startled.

Larissa’s face softened. Only for a second. But you saw it.

The drive back to Nevermore was quiet after that, but the quiet had changed. It was not the suffocating silence after the Burlington kiss. Not the tense emptiness of avoidance. This was something stranger—an awareness held carefully between you, like a glass filled too close to the rim.

At one point, Larissa turned the heat up without asking.

At another, your hand rested near the center console, and hers shifted on the gear stick close enough that your smallest fingers nearly touched.

Neither of you moved away. Neither of you moved closer.

By the time Nevermore’s gates appeared ahead, you felt like your entire body was made of withheld breath.

—

The archival permissions review was, objectively, boring.

It should have helped. It did not.

Mrs. Cunningham had arranged several boxes of documents in Larissa’s office, along with permission forms detailing which historical records you were allowed to access for dissertation purposes and which required faculty supervision. There were rules about student files, genealogical materials, medical documentation, and anything classified under “species-sensitive cultural records,” which sounded both fascinating and like a bureaucratic trap.

Larissa reviewed each category with you from behind her desk.

The door remained open. Again.

You noticed. Again.

This time, irritation slipped in beneath the want. It was one thing to be careful. It was another to be managed.

“Species-sensitive cultural records require approval from either myself or the relevant department head,” Larissa explained, marking a line with her pen. “In the case of shapeshifter histories, that approval would come through my office.”

Your eyes lifted. “Of course it would.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Is that a problem?”

“No.”

“You said that as though it were.”

“I just said, ‘of course it would.’”

“Pointedly.”

You leaned back in your chair. “Maybe I’m just wondering if I’ll be allowed to research anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

Larissa went very still. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees.

“That is not fair,” she said quietly.

You regretted the edge in your tone almost immediately, but not the question itself.

“No,” you admitted. “It probably isn’t.”

Her eyes searched yours. “My discomfort is not the issue.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” Her voice was controlled, but there was strain beneath it. “The issue is that some materials in this academy belong to communities that have been studied, distorted, and exposed by outsiders for centuries. Access is not entitlement.”

That landed. You looked down at your hands.

“You’re right,” you said after a moment. “I’m sorry.”

The air shifted.

Larissa’s shoulders softened slightly, though she did not relax.

“I know I’m not entitled to any of it,” you continued. “That’s part of what I’m trying to figure out. How to do this without repeating the same harm. How to write about communities I’m not part of without making them feel like objects under glass.”

Larissa’s expression changed, but you could not immediately name how.

You pressed on, quieter now. “And I know my position here is complicated. I know I’m useful to Nevermore because I’m a normie who can say things other people might not listen to from an outcast. I hate that. I’m also trying to use it responsibly.”

Her gaze dropped to the folder between you.

“I am aware,” she said.

Something in her tone made your throat ache. You looked at her carefully. “Are you?”

Larissa’s eyes lifted. You did not mean the question cruelly. You meant it plainly. Almost tenderly. 

For a moment, she looked tired. Not visibly, not to anyone else. But you knew enough now to recognize the almost imperceptible loosening around her eyes, the weight beneath the painted elegance.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I am.”

The office was too quiet. The open door felt suddenly obscene, as though the whole hallway had been invited to witness something fragile.

You looked away first.

Larissa set the pen down.

“I do not wish to obstruct your work,” she said. “On the contrary, I believe it matters. Perhaps more than I initially understood.”

Your chest warmed.

“But I will not allow you to harm yourself trying to prove you deserve to do it.”

That pulled your gaze back to hers.

“What?”

“You throw yourself at difficult things,” she said. “People. Questions. Rooms full of suspicion. Women who have already disappointed you.” Her eyes flickered toward the direction of Jericho, then back to you. “You call it justice or curiosity or desire, depending on the hour. But it is often the same impulse.”

Your mouth parted. That was unfair.

It was also devastatingly accurate.

“You don’t know me well enough to make that assessment,” you said, but your voice lacked conviction.

Larissa’s expression softened. “No?”

The word was quiet. Too quiet.

Heat rose between you again, but this time it was tangled with something far more difficult than want. Being seen was thrilling when it came with flirtation. Less so when it came with a mirror.

You stood abruptly, needing movement. “Maybe we should finish this later.”

Larissa’s eyes followed you. “Sit down.”

The command was soft. Your body reacted before your pride could. You hated that.

You remained standing.

Her brows lifted, not in anger but warning. “Please,” she added.

That was worse.

So, you sat.

Larissa inhaled slowly, then rose from behind the desk. She walked to the open door. For one wild second, you thought she might close it.

Instead, she rested one hand lightly against the edge and looked out into the corridor, ensuring no one was nearby. Then she turned back to you, leaving the door exactly as it was.

A boundary. A message. A punishment, maybe, though not only for you.

She came to stand in front of her desk rather than behind it, arms folded loosely at her waist. The position brought her closer. Not close enough. Too close.

“I need you to understand something,” she said.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

“What happened last night cannot become our pattern.”

Your heart kicked. You knew she was right. You hated her for saying it first.

“Which part?” you asked, because apparently self-preservation had left your body.

Her eyes flashed. “You know which part.”

“Do I?”

“Do not be deliberately obtuse.”

“I’m not,” you said, though you absolutely were. “There were several parts.”

Her cheeks colored faintly. Good.

Terrible. …Good.

Larissa looked toward the door, then back at you, voice lowering. “The part where I allowed a conversation that should have remained professional to become something else.”

“Allowed?”

Her lips pressed together. “Participated in.”

You tilted your head. “That’s closer.”

She exhaled through her nose. “This is not amusing.”

“No,” you said, softer. “It isn’t.”

The honesty shifted something between you. Larissa’s face changed.

“I meant what I said,” she admitted.

Your breath caught.

She continued before you could speak. “I am afraid of losing control. I am also afraid of what happens if I don’t.”

That was new.

You gripped the arms of your chair.

Larissa looked almost angry with herself for saying it. “You are under my care here.”

“I’m not a student.”

“You are a graduate fellow at my academy.”

“I am also an adult.”

“I am aware of that,” she said, a little too quickly. The flush at her throat betrayed her.

You almost smiled. Almost. But the rest of her expression stopped you.

“This institution is still vulnerable,” Larissa said. “Nevermore is being watched. By the Board. By Jericho. By every normie publication eager to decide whether last year’s events were an aberration or proof of something monstrous. You are part of the story they want to tell about us.”

“About you,” you said quietly.

Her jaw tightened. Not confirmation, exactly. But the smallest fracture in her expression told you that you had stepped closer to the truth than she wanted.

This was not only about your fellowship or the academy’s reputation. It was about the shape a scandal would take once normie mouths got hold of it. How quickly concern would become accusation. How easily desire would be rewritten as danger.

You could not know the exact fear moving through her, but you could feel its outline. And its outline looked a great deal like her. The older outcast woman as predator, no matter how mutual the want, no matter how human the ache beneath it.

Your anger softened into something protective. “Larissa.”

Her name did what it always did. It moved through her.

Not visibly enough for anyone else, maybe. But you saw the way her lashes lowered and lifted. The subtle catch in her breath.

“You keep asking me to be careful,” you said. “But you never say what you’re actually afraid I’ll break.”

Her eyes held yours. “My career,” she said. “Your research. Nevermore’s reputation. Take your pick.”

“And you?”

The silence was immediate. Devastating.

You stood slowly.

She did not tell you to sit this time.

The open door remained in your periphery, bright and watchful. You did not move closer than you should. You only stood there, a few feet away, close enough to see the faint unsteadiness beneath her composure and far enough that neither of you could pretend the distance wasn’t chosen.

“Am I allowed to worry about breaking you?” you asked.

Larissa’s face went very still. For a moment, you thought she might retreat completely. Send you away. Rebuild herself into polished marble and leave you standing in front of a statue.

But then her expression fractured—not much. Just enough. “You should not worry about me.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Her eyes shone strangely in the office light.

“No,” she said after a long moment. “I suppose it wasn’t.”

You waited.

She looked away. “I have spent a long time ensuring there is very little of me available to break.”

Your chest hurt. There were a dozen things you could have said. A dozen tender, reckless, impossible things.

Instead, you said, “That sounds lonely.”

Larissa’s mouth tightened as though the words had physically touched her. Then, softly, “It is efficient.”

The laugh that left you was small and sad. “That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” she said. “It isn’t.”

The space between you pulsed with everything unsaid. You wanted to cross it.

She wanted you to. You could see that now. Worse, you could see how much it cost her not to ask.

A set of footsteps passed in the corridor. Both of you looked toward the door.

The spell cracked but did not break.

Larissa drew in a careful breath and straightened. “There will be rules,” she said.

You blinked. “Rules.”

“Yes.”

“Is that your solution?”

“It is a boundary.”

“It’s a delay.”

Her eyes returned to yours. The heat in them was low and controlled and absolutely damning.

“Then let us hope,” she said, “that I am better at delays than I am at denial.”

Your mouth went dry.

Larissa seemed to realize what she had said only after saying it. Her posture stiffened, but there was no taking it back.

Good. Let her live with it. You certainly would.

“What rules?” you asked, voice quieter than you intended.

“No closed doors.”

Your gaze moved instinctively to the open office door. “Subtle.”

“I am not attempting subtlety.”

“That’s new.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you want to hear the rest?”

You held up your hands in surrender.

“No unnecessary private meetings after hours,” she continued. “No suggestive messages during official assignments.”

You winced. “That one feels targeted.”

“It is.”

“Fair.”

“No touching in public beyond what is professionally appropriate.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Professionally appropriate has been doing a lot of work lately.”

Larissa’s lips parted, then closed. A flush crept up her neck.

Your entire body celebrated the victory.

“And,” she said, regaining herself with effort, “we will both remember what is at stake.”

That sobered you. You nodded.

“I can agree to that,” you said. “But I have one rule too.”

Larissa looked wary. “Which is?”

“No pretending I imagined this.”

Her expression changed.

You pressed on before she could deflect. “You can make rules. You can keep the door open. You can call this whatever you need to call it in public. But I won’t be the only one carrying the truth while you hide behind professionalism.”

The words shook more than you wanted them to.

Larissa noticed. Of course she did.

Her voice softened. “You didn't imagine it.”

Your breath caught.

She held your gaze, and for once, she did not look away from the wanting. “You are not imagining it,” she said.

The room went silent.

Your hand twitched at your side. Hers did too. Neither of you moved.

The open door had never felt more cruel.

Then Mrs. Cunningham’s voice called from somewhere down the hallway.

“Larissa? The Marginalia girls are here early!”

Larissa closed her eyes briefly. You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you nearly laughed.

Of course.

Of course Enid Sinclair would somehow become divine intervention.

Larissa opened her eyes again, and the mask slid back into place, though not as completely as before. She smoothed her blouse, reached for the folder on her desk, and looked every inch the principal once more.

But when she passed you on her way to the door, her hand brushed yours.

Not by accident. Not long enough to break a rule. Just enough to ruin one.

Her voice was low as she moved past. “Come along.”

You turned to follow her, pulse thrumming beneath your skin.

In the hallway, Enid’s bright voice carried toward you, cheerful and oblivious. Yoko said something dry in response. Mrs. Cunningham laughed.

The world resumed around you as though nothing had happened.

But Larissa paused at the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder. Her eyes met yours. Only for a second. Then she continued down the corridor, elegant and untouchable and not nearly as composed as she wanted to be.

You followed, your folder clutched to your chest, your heart doing something reckless behind your ribs.

No closed doors, then. Fine.

You wondered how long either of you would survive the open ones.

—

Tagging: @readingtheentrails, @justcallmelittleone, @enchantressb, @jeepingay, @gwendolinechristieiscute, @leftoverenvy.

The late afternoon sun painted the walls of our daughter’s room a soft gold, a quiet moment after the storm of a toddler’s tantrum. Larissa leaned against the doorway, watching you settle Mia into her bed, the little girl’s pleas for a baby sister finally fading into sleepy murmurs.

“She’s relentless” Larissa said, her voice a low hum that vibrated through the quiet room.

You turned, meeting her gaze. “We promised we’d talk.”

“We did.” Larissa stepped closer, the space between you shrinking from feet to inches. Her fingers brushed your arm, a simple touch. A shudder rolled through you, unbidden, a soft moan escaping your lips before you could catch it. Larissa’s eyes darkened, her smile turning predatory. “See? Even the promise gets you going.”

Your skin felt electric under her palm. “It’s not the promise and you know that” you whispered, leaning into her. “It’s you. It’s always you.”

Her lips found yours then, not a question but an answer. The kiss started slow, a tender exploration of familiar territory. Then her tongue slid against yours, and the world tilted. Your hands gripped the fabric of her simple cotton t-shirt, pulling her flush against you. The kiss deepened, turning hungry, wet. You could feel the change in her already, the subtle shift of energy, the gathering focus. Larissa was thinking about it. About making another.

She broke the kiss, her breath warm against your cheek. “Let’s talk in our room.”

You followed, the walk down the hall feeling too long. Your bedroom was cool, shadows gathering in the corners. Larissa closed the door and turned to you. There was no preamble, no more discussion needed. Her body began to shift. It wasn’t a violent transformation, but a fluid reconfiguration. You watched, your heart pounding, as the familiar contours of her hips subtly altered, her stance widening. The fabric of her form fitting jeans strained, then tented, outlining a new, formidable presence.

She unbuttoned her jeans, letting them fall open. Her cock sprang free, already fully formed, thick and heavy. It wasn’t a pale imitation. It was a living part of her, flushed a deep, vibrant red, the veins prominent along its length. The head was swollen, a smooth, damp crown. It curved slightly upward, a wicked promise. A bead of clear fluid gathered at the tip.

“Fuck” you breathed, the word a reverent curse. You reached for it, your fingers tracing the hot, solid flesh. It pulsed under your touch.

Larissa’s hands went to your clothes. Your t-shirt was pulled over your head, your bra unsnapped and discarded. Her mouth descended on one of your breasts, her lips sealing around your nipple while her tongue flicked and pressed. You arched, a choked cry tearing from your throat. Her teeth grazed the sensitive peak, a gentle, teasing bite that made your whole body clench with need.

“You want this” she murmured against your skin, her voice rough. “I want you so full of me baby. You’re going to look so beautiful carrying our child again.”

“Yes” you gasped, your hands fumbling with your own pants, pushing them down along with your panties. They pooled around your ankles, a discarded barrier.

Larissa guided you back onto the bed, the sheets cool against your bare skin. She knelt between your legs, her gaze raking over you. Your cunt was already glistening, your lips parted and slick. The scent of your own arousal, thick and fertile, filled the space between you.

“Look at you” she whispered, her fingers spreading you open. “So fucking ready. So wet for me. Your body is begging for it.”

She leaned down, not to kiss you, but to taste you. Her tongue delved into your slit, a long, slow stroke from your entrance to your clit. You jerked, your hips lifting off the bed. She didn’t stop. Her tongue worked you, firm and insistent, curling inside you, flicking against your swollen clit, painting your folds with her saliva. Every pass made you moan, louder and more desperate, the sounds torn from somewhere deep in your gut.

When she rose up, her face was wet with you. Her cock hovered at your entrance, the broad head nudging against your sensitive opening. She didn’t push in. She just held it there, letting you feel the heat, the pressure, the imminent possession.

“Tell me” she commanded, her eyes locked on yours.

“Fuck me” you begged, your voice breaking. “Fill me up. Breed me, Larissa. Please.”

She smiled, a feral, loving thing. Then she pushed forward.

The penetration was slow, agonizingly deliberate. The head of her cock stretched you, a breathtaking invasion. You felt every millimeter as she sank into you, your inner muscles clutching around the invading thickness. She kept going, deeper, until her hips met yours, until she was buried completely inside your cunt. You were stretched, filled, claimed. A ragged moan poured out of you, your head thrashing back against the pillow.

She began to move.

Her thrusts started slow, a deep, grinding rhythm that made your toes curl. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each return a breathtaking relief. The angle was perfect. The curve of her cock rubbed against your front wall, pressing into that secret, swollen spot deep inside you. Your clit throbbed, neglected but screaming for attention.

“You feel so fucking good” Larissa groaned, her voice strained. She leaned over you, bracing herself on her elbows, her face inches from yours. “My cunt. My perfect, hungry cunt.”

She kissed you again, a messy, open mouthed kiss as she fucked you. Her pace increased, the slow grind turning into firm, driving thrusts. The bed began to creak softly beneath you. Your moans matched her rhythm, each inward stroke punctuated by a sharp, vocal gasp.

Your hands scrabbled at her shoulders, then her back, nails digging into her skin. You were close, a tight, hot coil winding in your core. Larissa sensed it. She shifted, pulling almost all the way out, then driving back in with a force that rocked your entire body.

“Cum for me” she whispered, her breath hot in your ear. “Cum on my cock. Let me feel you fucking milk it.”

The command, the possession in her tone, snapped the coil.

Your cunt convulsed around her, a series of violent, rhythmic clenches that gripped her cock like a vise. A flood of sensation crashed through you. Your back arched off the bed, your thighs trembled, a gush of fluid erupted from deep inside you, soaking her shaft and the sheets beneath. The contractions kept coming, wave after wave, each one dragging a raw, screaming moan from your lungs. Your vision blurred, your body shaking uncontrollably as pleasure, pure and obliterating, owned you completely.

Larissa didn’t stop. She kept fucking you through it, her thrusts becoming shorter, harder, as your spasming cunt tried to pull her deeper. You felt her cock swell further inside you, a telltale thickening.

“I’m gonna fill you” she growled, her hips slamming into yours with a final, brutal thrust. She buried herself to the root and held there.

Her orgasm was a flood. You felt the first hot jet deep inside your womb, a scalding burst. Then another. And another. It wasn’t a trickle, it was a geyser. Her cum poured into you, a seemingly endless torrent of thick, hot liquid. It flooded your depths, overfilling you, painting your insides. You felt it pooling, spreading, a profound, claiming warmth. She groaned, a long, shuddering sound of release, her body trembling against yours as she emptied herself completely inside your still clenching cunt.

She stayed there, pinned deep, as the last pulses faded. Your bodies were joined, a mess of sweat and cum and overwhelming intimacy. Her weight pressed you into the mattress, her cock still lodged within you, a solid, spent reminder of what she’d done.

“Fuck” Larissa whispered, her lips against your neck.

Every now and then she would slightly roll her hips, making you whimper.

She kissed your neck moving to pull out, before your legs locked around her.

For just a fraction of a second, the comfort gave you pause — was this some sort of dream? Had last night actually happened? You couldn’t believe you were just allowed to nuzzle into Larissa like this, without reservations or restraint, but then her hand flexed against your lower back as she stirred, fingertips brushing against the exposed strip of skin just above your waistband, and all of the tension melted away as you let her touch soothe your worries.

Before you even opened your eyes you pressed your nose deeper against Larissa’s chest, inhaling the intoxicating scent that clung to her. The top of her cleavage was soft against the tip of your nose, and it smelled faintly of jasmine, vanilla, laundry detergent, and a natural musk you’d eventually come to recognize as the scent of her sweat.

“Your nose is cold.” Larissa’s chest vibrated against your face with every word, and you burrowed deeper against her skin as she spoke, a sheepish smile spreading across your face.

“I’m sorry,” you said with a giggle, pressing an apologetic kiss to her sternum as you peeked up at her. It was impossible not to have your breath taken away by the way Larissa was looking down at you, her expression soft and sleepy, her eyes half-lidded, her lips cracked, her hair falling across her cheek. You reached up, brushing the offending strand of hair back and tucking it behind her ear. Larissa’s tongue darted out to wet her lips, her cheeks flushing as your fingers trailed along her jaw before reaching her chin, tilting it down so that you could kiss her — you could hardly believe that you could just do that now.

“How’d you sleep?” you mumbled as you pulled back from the kiss, sucking your own bottom lip into your mouth just to savor the taste of her.

Larissa hummed thoughtfully, propping her head up on her hand and regarding you, her other hand rubbing up and down your waist. “Very well, thank you.” Her voice dropped nearly a full register lower than usual, and it sent a shiver down your spine. “How did you sleep?”

“Good.” You burrowed again into her chest, as if trying to create a nest there, missing the way her lips twitched in amusement. “Really good.”

Larissa hugged you tightly against her, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. She shifted onto her back, pulling you with her, and a soft groan left her lips.

“You okay?” you asked, peeking up at her with a furrowed brow.

“Of course,” she assuaged you softly, chuckling when the crease between your brows only deepened. “The bruise, darling... My hip is a bit sore.”

“Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, am I putting pressure on it?” You tried to pull back but Larissa locked her arms around you, shaking her head with a laugh.

“It’s alright.”

“Can I see it?”

Larissa huffed, clearly not used to being fussed over, but her grip on you loosened all the same. You pulled yourself free from her grasp, pulling down the covers and hooking your finger beneath the waistband of her pajama pants — before pausing and looking inquiringly up at her. She smiled, though her cheeks turned a bit pink, and pulled the trousers and her underwear down for you, just past her hip on one side to reveal bruised skin.

“Ouch,” you whispered, tracing a feather-light fingertip along the edge of it. The bruise was still massive, the center a rich purple, though the edges had already turned a muddy shade of yellow. It was quite the brilliant contrast to the alabaster tone of her skin. “It looks very tender…”

“It is,” Larissa chuckled, watching the path of your fingertips along the outline of the bruise.

“It’s healing fast, isn’t it?” you murmured, fascinated by how quickly it was already changing color.

“The perks of being a shapeshifter…” 

You glanced up at her to see her watching you with a smirk on her face. “Really?”

“Our bodies regenerate a bit quicker than most.”

“Oh…” Being a normie, you weren’t too familiar with different types of outcasts — despite your proximity to Nevermore in recent years, you still spent a majority of your time with other normies, and your knowledge was mostly limited to the more common or obvious types of outcasts; vampires, werewolves, sirens. Before Larissa had mentioned being a shapeshifter, it hadn’t even really dawned on you that they existed, though it seemed obvious enough now. “I’m ashamed to admit I don’t really know anything about shapeshifters.”

Larissa carded her hands through your hair, smiling softly down at you. “Even many outcasts don’t know much about shapeshifters, darling, it’s alright. You can ask me anything you like, you know.”

Scratching gently but insistently against your scalp, Larissa’s fingers were slowly but surely turning your brain to mush, sending a warm, tingly feeling straight down your spine. You let out a thoughtful hum. “I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to start,” you admitted softly, and Larissa’s smile widened. 

“We have all the time in the world…”

Her words made your insides melt and you rested your cheek against the soft skin of her plush thigh, careful not to put pressure on the edge of the bruise. You sighed, your breath fluttering across her skin, and watched goosebumps rise in its wake. Fingers tightened in your hair and Larissa’s thigh flexed beneath your cheek. Glancing up at her, you could see how dark her gaze had become, pupils slightly dilated as she watched you, and you pressed your lips gently to the crease of her hip, maintaining eye contact.

“How very cheeky of you,” she husked, her voice deep and gravelly, the look on her face equal parts flustered and wanting.

Her expression was quickly stirring up a hard-to-ignore heat in your own abdomen, and you smiled against her skin before giving it a gentle nip that earned you a raised eyebrow. “Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”

“Come here,” Larissa said, tugging you up by the hair until your lips met in a heated kiss that took your breath away — you straddled her, your arms wrapping around her shoulders as you held her close, your tongue brushing into her mouth and eliciting a delicious moan from her chest.

Outside in the hall, the quick pitter-patter of footsteps and slamming doors could be heard, and you couldn’t help but grin into the kiss. It was Christmas morning, after all, and your niece was nothing if not eager to see what gifts Santa had to offer her this year. “Let’s see if she knocks first,” you mumbled against Larissa’s lips, receiving a hum in return as the footsteps stopped, another door slammed, and then the footsteps resumed, coming closer.

There was indeed a knock on your bedroom door moments later, and you adjusted yourself on Larissa’s lap and pulled the blankets up to hide her half-exposed thigh. “Come in,” you called out — seconds later, the door flew open and Alice barrelled across the room and jumped onto the edge of the bed, landing on all fours and beginning to bounce eagerly on the mattress.

“Santa was here!” she exclaimed, reaching out to grab your hand and trying to tug you off the bed.

You laughed, resisting. “I know, sweetheart, we’ll be right there, okay?” Alice’s eyes widened, her head bobbing up and down. “You go first.”

And off she went, as quickly as she’d come, leaving you and Larissa alone again, though with the bedroom door wide open. You groaned softly. “Guess it’s time to get up.” 

Larissa pressed her lips to your temple. “I suppose it is… wouldn’t want to keep her waiting.”

“I doubt she’ll wait for us to start unwrapping her presents,” you mused with a chuckle, sliding off Larissa’s lap and digging around in your dresser for something to throw on, settling on a cozy sweater and jeans.

Larissa, meanwhile, began to head to the bathroom with an armful of clothes and her toiletries bag. “I’ll just be a few minutes.”

“Yeah, I’ll be in the kitchen?”

Larissa nodded, offering you a soft smile before closing the bathroom door behind her.

Meanwhile, you changed quickly and padded down the hall into the kitchen, rummaging around for mugs for hot chocolate as the rest of your family slowly and tiredly emerged from their respective bedrooms. A glance at the clock on the oven told you that it was 7:48 am — of course Alice would have you all up before 8 on Christmas morning. She was the only one in the house with any sort of energy, already in a chatty mood and almost literally bouncing off the walls in the adjacent living room as she waited for the adults to get settled. Your mother and your sister joined you in the kitchen, the former putting on a pot of coffee before heading into the living room and the latter carrying your tired nephew in her arms, greeting you with a stifled yawn.

“Is Larissa coming or is she still sleeping?” Deanna asked curiously, an almost knowing glint in her eyes that brought a flush to your cheeks.

“No, she’s coming,” you said softly, focusing on measuring out hot chocolate powder.

You could tell Deanna wanted to say more (she always did) but, at that moment, long arms encircled your waist and Larissa’s chin came to rest on top of your head.

“You were fast,” you teased, trying not to let the warm length of Larissa’s body pressed against your back distract you from the task at hand.

“I decided to leave my hair down.” Larissa’s voice vibrated against your head, an oddly soothing feeling that had you leaning back against her for more.

“You look nice with your hair down,” you commented quietly, and Larissa hummed in response, her arms squeezing you a bit tighter before letting go — you made a soft noise of protest which drew a chuckle from Larissa’s throat.

Glancing over your shoulder, you felt your jaw drop — Larissa looked incredible, the only one in the house who’d put any effort into their appearance that early in the morning. She had indeed left her hair down, silvery locks cascading over her shoulders, though she’d done her makeup (albeit a bit lighter than usual, forgoing eyeliner). Her lips were painted their usual ruby red, a gorgeous contrast to the forest green dress she wore — velvet, with a high collar and a lace trim.

“What?” Larissa asked, her cheeks turning pink and her lips twitching at the outer corners.

You shook your head, acutely aware of the heat rising in your face. “Nothing. You look incredible.” You scratched awkwardly at the back of your neck, flustered.

“You’re a bit underdressed,” your sister teased, and you frowned, flipping her off. 

“So are you,” you retorted.

Larissa suppressed a smile, clasping her hands awkwardly in front of her as her gaze darted between you and your sister as if watching a riveting tennis match.

Footsteps sounded from the living room, coming closer and closer, and Alice padded into the room, hovering in the doorway and rocking on the balls of her feet. “Mommyyy,” she whined, causing Deanna to let out a tired sigh and follow her daughter into the living room and leave you and Larissa alone in the kitchen.

Larissa took a step towards you, slowly infiltrating your personal space until you had to crane your neck back slightly to meet her gaze. A blush spread down your neck as her hands came to rest on the counter on either side of you, caging you in.

“Hi,” you whispered, your eyes darting between Larissa’s own.

She smiled softly. “Hi.” Then, in a much quieter voice, as if unused to giving such compliments: “You look beautiful.”

You could feel your heart hammer against your chest as if threatening to break free, your stomach strangely light and floaty. “Thanks,” you murmured hoarsely, hesitating for a moment before leaning up to press a kiss to the corner of Larissa’s lips — feeling them curl into a smile.

Larissa stepped back and offered you her hand. “Shall we?”

Feeling almost dizzy with desire and affection, you took her hand in your own, offering her a mug of hot chocolate with your other hand and then picking up your own mug. Hand in hand, you headed into the living room.

Your sister and her husband had outdone themselves — gifts for the kids spilled out from beneath the Christmas tree, neatly wrapped in colorful paper, adorned with ribbons and bows. Your mother pulled you in for a hug as you entered the room, nearly making you spill your hot chocolate, before turning her attention to Larissa and gushing over her beauty until she was red-faced and speechless.

Alice was finally allowed to start unwrapping presents, and she tore into the paper of each one with a feverish glee that you hadn’t experienced on Christmas since your own youth. Ben was much more calm and cautious with his gifts, the contrast between the siblings almost comical, but with all of the adult’s attention on the children, you and Larissa could exchange your own gifts in relative peace.

“You first,” you said, gently pushing a small box into Larissa’s lap. She was careful tearing into the paper, lifting it at the corners and trying not to rip it — it was an endearing sight, and you fought hard not to tease her about it. In the box were several bags of your own blend of peppermint hot chocolate that you sold at the Weathervane, lovingly hand-labelled ‘to my favorite customer.’ “As promised,” you said, watching a smile bloom on Larissa’s face.

“You’ll make it for me, I presume?” Larissa purred, batting her lashes in a way that made your knees feel like jell-o.

“Every morning,” you replied hoarsely, making Larissa laugh softly.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she teased. “It’d be quite the drive to Nevermore and back before the Weathervane opens.” 

“I don’t care,” you said quickly — then blushed profusely. Larissa’s own cheeks matched yours, and her hands tightened around the box on her lap. You cleared your throat. “Anyway, there’s something else.”

Larissa took the second gift from you, tilting her head curiously. She picked carefully at the taped edge of the paper, lifting it gently, then lifting the tissue paper from the gift — a silk scarf you’d picked up from a boutique in Burlington, sage green and cream with little golden threads woven throughout, and an intricately detailed pattern of leaves and little white flowers.

Deep blue eyes lifted to meet yours, her gaze wide and impossibly soft. She looked down at the scarf again, running her hand over it. “Thank you,” she whispered, her nostrils flaring slightly.

“Do you like it?” you whispered back anxiously, and Larissa’s hand immediately darted out to cover your own, fingers squeezing yours.

“I love it,” she reassured you softly. “It’s very beautiful.”

You squeezed her hand back, blushing. “Not half as beautiful as you.” Larissa scoffed, rolling her eyes — eyes that were slightly watery. 

“You flatter me too much. Here,” she reached behind herself on the sofa, procuring an envelope with your name on the front in the most beautiful, sloping calligraphy. “Merry Christmas.”

You took it gingerly, raising an eyebrow at Larissa, who looked suddenly anxious and very stiff, though you could tell she was trying to conceal it. Opening the envelope, you pulled out a piece of thick paper — personal stationary, with ‘Principal Larissa Weems’ and the Nevermore crest in the corner — and a smaller, rectangular piece of paper fluttered into your lap, also adorned with the Nevermore crest. 

Your brow furrowed as you picked up that paper first — then your heart skipped a beat as you saw it was a check, with a few too many zeros on it. “What…?” you whispered through the lump in your throat.

She brushed her fingers against the letter and you unfolded it, scanning it quickly. In her own elegant, slanted, looping writing, a proposal for a complete remodel of the Weathervane’s old kitchen.

“Larissa…” Your voice was hoarse, failing you. Your gaze darted between the paper in your hands and Larissa’s anxious expression. “I can’t accept this,” you whispered.

“It’s an investment,” she whispered back, her hands coming to rest on your thighs, trembling slightly. “In your future. And in the Weathervane. You’re always talking about how much work it still needs…”

“I…” Your eyes darted between her own, searching, as your pulse fluttered in your throat. “Are you sure?”

Larissa nodded once, blinking slowly.

“Larissa?”

“Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes.”

Dropping the check, your hands flew to Larissa’s cheeks, cupping them and holding her head in place as you leaned up and pressed your lips firmly to hers. Her lips parted for you, allowing you to slip your tongue between them, not caring about your family or her lipstick or anything except feeling as much of your girlfriend as possible.

Larissa’s hands squeezed your thighs, her thumbs rubbing soothing, grounding circles against the fabric of your trousers. Your cheeks began to grow damp, though it took you a moment to realize that it was because you’d begun to cry, and you quickly pulled away to apologize for getting Larissa’s face wet — only to be confronted with the absolute mess you’d made of her lipstick, red smudged up to the tip of her nose and at the sides of her mouth, making her look vaguely like the Joker. 

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” you said with a wet laugh, tugging the sleeve of your sweater over your hand and reaching up to wipe the lipstick off Larissa’s nose — but she swatted your hand away instead, cupping your cheek and going in for another, deeper kiss that knocked the breath right out of your lungs.

You laughed into the kiss, feeling lightheaded with joy when Larissa echoed your laugh, her breath warm against your mouth. “I don’t deserve you,” you whispered against her lips, disbelief still coursing through your veins along with a healthy dose of adrenaline.

“You do,” she whispered back, smiling, pulling back just enough to rest her forehead against yours. “You deserve the world.”

“Lucky I have you then, I guess…”

“Auntie Rissy,” Alice exclaimed with a tug on Larissa’s skirt, making the both of you look down at her. “Look!” She held up a new doll she’d gotten, an expectant look on her face as she waited for Larissa’s approval of the gift, one she’d previously told Larissa she was hoping to receive.

“You got her,” Larissa said warmly, brushing a hand through Alice’s hair and grinning as Alice nodded excitedly up at her. You glanced up to see Deanna watching you with a knowing smirk, holding back a thousand and one comments that would probably come out later, in private — after all, if Larissa’s lipstick was smudged across half her face, you could only imagine how your own face looked.

“Don’t,” you warned Deanna, and Larissa tilted her head, giving you a quizzical look — you shook your head, a blush rising in your cheeks. “Forget it.”

“You have a little…” Larissa lifted her thumb to the corner of your mouth to wipe off some lipstick and you laughed.

“Just a little?”

“Alright, a lot… perhaps we should go wash our faces?”

“Perhaps?” you teased with a grin. “Perhaps… later…” you murmured, pressing your lips to hers again — pleased when she responded immediately and with urgency. “Merry Christmas, Larissa,” you mumbled into the kiss.

“Merry Christmas, darling.”

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69  @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen @snakeskins-world @feefuurt

Something in your chest loosened the moment you saw Larissa sitting on the edge of your bed, donning cream-colored silk pajamas that hung off her collarbone and clung to her chest, leaving visible the weight of her breasts and the faint outline of her nipples. She was pulling pins carefully from her hair, one by one, methodically tugging each individual curl loose and placing the pins gently beside her into a small, ornate tin. One by one, her curls spilled onto her shoulders, down her back, looking silken in the dim light of the lamp on your bedside table and shining almost yellow in its warm glow, like spun gold.

Larissa looked up as you clicked the door shut and, if you hadn’t been so distracted by how otherworldly she looked sitting in the mundanity of your childhood bedroom, you might have noticed the slight hitch of her breath, or the subtle bob of her throat.

You leaned with your back against the door for a moment, drinking her in, trying to find both the right words to say, and the voice to say them in. “Do you want help?” was all that ended up coming out, in a choked sort of way that made you wish the ground beneath your feet would swallow you whole. 

Larissa inclined her head. “Please,” she said quietly, and you took the invitation to sit beside her at the edge of the bed.

Angling your body towards her, you reached up with a trembling hand and pulled at a pin on the left side of her head, loosening the curl that it clung to. “You know, I’m in awe of your hair… It must be so much work, to pin it all up like this every day.”

A ghost of a smile passed across Larissa’s lips. “I find it meditative.”

“You would.” You chuckled as you reached across her lap, dropping the pin into the little tin — it clattered as it joined its companions. As you pulled your arm back it brushed against Larissa’s chest and you felt her suck in a sharp breath. You reached up again, this time taking one of her loose curls between your fingers. It was impossibly soft, and you rubbed the pad of your thumb down the strands of hair, watching them catch the light. When you glanced up Larissa was watching you carefully, her own face cast half in shadow. 

You twisted the curl once around your finger then tucked it gently behind her ear, trailing your fingertips down the side of her neck and along the curve of her jaw. As your fingers reached her chin, Larissa’s eyes fluttered shut and her lips parted, and you could feel a subtle shudder against your side.

“Breathe,” you whispered, your own voice pathetically breathy, and Larissa let out a shaky exhale. Gripping her chin between your forefinger and thumb, you tilted it towards you with a gentle downward tug — Larissa let you maneuver her with ease, her eyes still closed and her hands gripping the edge of the bed on either side of her, her pinky brushing against your thigh. You leaned up, your gaze fixed on her lips — devoid of lipstick, a pale pink. Her tongue darted out, leaving behind a thin sheen of saliva. The action made you shudder in anticipation, and your own eyes threatened to fall shut as you felt her shallow breaths fan across your face. “May I kiss you?” you whispered hoarsely, and Larissa’s answer came in the form of her closing the distance between the two of you.

The slight edge of desperation that had marked your first kiss was absent this time. This time, when your lips met Larissa’s, it was slow and unhurried, a gentle press as your hand slid from her chin to her cheek, cupping it as you angled your head a bit more to the side. Larissa began to slowly relax, the tension dropping from her neck and shoulders as she melted into the kiss, her grip on the bed loosening, her hands finding the tops of your thighs, your free hand gripping her hip as the hand on her cheek slid further back, fingers curling behind her ear.

You pulled back just a fraction of an inch to take a breath, then kissed her again, parting your lips this time, waiting for her to do the same before teasing your tongue against her bottom lip. Her fingers twitched against your thighs and her tongue teased you back, licking at your lip just as your own tongue retreated, making a soft noise escape the back of your throat. Larissa’s breath quickened and heat began to pool low in your belly.

Without thinking you pushed yourself up onto your knees and swung one leg over Larissa’s lap — bringing your knee right down on the open tin filled with pins. You hissed, wincing as it dug sharply into your skin and tipped over, spilling the pins across the sheets and onto the floor.

“Shit,” you hissed, pulling back from the kiss. “I’m sorry.” You started to collect the pins from the bed and drop them back into their tin, your cheeks burning. Larissa let out a chuckle, catching your wrist with her hand to still your movements and guide your arm to rest on her shoulder. You met her gaze, your brow furrowing — the look in her eyes, her lowered lids and blown pupils, stole the breath right out of your lungs.

“Leave them,” she said, pushing the tin roughly to the side and placing her hands on your hips, keeping you in place against her.

“I’ve wanted to kiss you again all day,” you admitted hoarsely, stroking your thumb absently across her cheekbone.

Larissa’s fingers flexed against your hips, her lips brushed against yours, teasing and feather-light, her breath warm. “What about our agreement?” she echoed her words from the kitchen earlier, though her voice was softer, laced with something that sounded a lot like hope — it made you feel like you were simultaneously being cracked wide open and stitched back together again.

“Fuck our agreement. Be my girlfriend for real. Please.” The words spilled out of your mouth unbidden but the second you spoke them, you knew they were what you had wanted to say all along.

There was an almost desperate edge to the way that Larissa crashed her lips against yours, her fingers tightening against your hips. “I thought you’d never ask,” she mumbled into the kiss, her voice deep and laced with amusement as it vibrated into your mouth. Heat shot straight to your core, every nerve-ending in your body seemingly alight as you pressed your hips forward against Larissa’s stomach, not quite grinding but seeking full-body contact in any way you could get it. Your arms wound tighter around her neck, as if you were trying to fuse your body to hers — as if you were trying to burrow under her skin and build a home there.

“Is that a yes?” you mumbled between heated kisses, caring very little for how desperate you sounded.

Larissa let out a surprised giggle into your mouth, her lips twitching. “Yes. Yes, darling, yes.” It pleased you that she sounded just as pathetic as you did and you smiled back — the way your teeth clashed with hers only served to make you grin harder.

“Stop smiling so much,” she husked, and you could hear the smile in her voice. “It’s making it difficult to kiss you…”

A giddy laugh bubbled out of your chest, her words making it difficult not to smile even harder. You mumbled an apology into her mouth, only to be met with another laugh when the kiss turned slightly sloppy.

You pushed Larissa gently back against the mattress, guiding her down and covering her body with your own as you made out. The soft noises that began to escape her throat were downright addictive, radiating straight down your spine towards your core and making your toes curl. She was obviously very vocal, her breath coming in heavy and loud against your mouth as her hands splayed across your lower back and hips, holding you in place against her — it made your head spin. 

Searching for the bottom of her shirt, you pushed it up just enough to slip beneath it, feeling the soft skin of her stomach beneath your bare hands. You ran them up her sides and she arched into your touch, pushing her rib cage against your palms.

“How are you even real?” you mumbled into Larissa’s mouth as the tips of your thumbs brushed against the bottom of her breasts, making you both shudder in unison. You’d never felt anything quite as soft as the underside of Larissa’s breasts and you dared to run your fingertips along them, eliciting a gasp from the older woman.

“Darling, don’t tease…” she murmured breathlessly. She pulled back from the kiss ever so slightly, opening her eyes, and you met her gaze to find her pupils completely blown, her face flushed a delightful shade of pink.

Her hands flexed against your tailbone, dangerously close to your ass, and you couldn’t help but buck your hips against her, your own cheeks turning red as you huffed out a laugh. “If I’m not allowed to tease then you aren’t either.” 

Larissa gave you a shy smile, blinking coyly as she ducked her head in apology. “Sorry,” she said, sliding her hands a bit higher on your back. “Perhaps we should slow down a bit…?”

The implied question made a bolt of desire lance straight through you. Looking down at Larissa, with her darkened gaze and kiss-swollen lips and messy curls, it took every ounce of restraint in your body not to ravish her on the spot. Every bit of your own desire and arousal were mirrored back at you in the woman beneath you, the woman who was impossibly soft and pleasantly warm and unbelievably gorgeous.

With an unsteady sigh, you shook your head, though you were unable to keep the sheer want out of your expression. “Maybe…” You huffed, frustrated. “I want you so bad, I just don’t know if I want to do that… here…” you whispered hoarsely. Your thumbs traced idle patterns at the top of her ribs, just beneath her breasts, the action simultaneously grounding and torturous. 

Larissa’s understanding smile was nothing short of your undoing. She gave you a peck on the lips and shifted you both onto your sides, facing each other. “As long as I can still kiss you,” she murmured, her lips once again seeking yours. Smiling, you closed the distance, kissing her again, and again, and again. 

“I’d be very upset if you didn’t,” you murmured before brushing your tongue into her mouth with a slow, teasing stroke that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Kissing Larissa was intoxicating — you found yourself craving the feeling of her lips upon yours the second you parted, like some sort of addict. Like no amount of contact would ever be enough to satiate your need for her proximity. Your fingers tangled in her hair and your legs intertwined with her own, and you let yourself be entirely engulfed by her. 

Somewhere between serving Larissa hot chocolate every week at the Weathervane and pretending to date her for the sake of your family, you’d fallen for her so deeply that imagining a scenario where you drove her back to Nevermore after Christmas and pretended as though nothing had happened between you felt a lot like ripping your own heart out of your chest. You could hardly fathom the thought.

“I wish we’d been doing this all week,” you confessed softly between kisses, and Larissa smiled as she pulled back to look at you, her fingers curling into the back of your shirt. 

“I wish we had been, too.”

You felt your heart skip a beat, your stomach fluttering pleasantly. “Really?”

Larissa nodded, her nose brushing lightly against yours.

“I wasn’t sure… I felt…” You took a breath, your gaze drifting briefly over Larissa’s shoulder as you struggled for words. “I think I was too busy worrying if I was massively overstepping to notice if you liked me or not,” you said finally, your cheeks burning. “You do like me, right?”

Larissa let out a chuckle and you felt her hand cup your cheek, gently guiding you to meet her gaze. Mirth sparkled in her eyes as they danced between your own. “I thought that was clear when I agreed to be your girlfriend.”

“Well…” When she put it like that… “I mean, yeah, okay, but before that?”

“I liked you before that, too,” she confessed, her voice low and certain. 

“How long before?” you dared ask, holding your breath.

Larissa hesitated visibly, her long fingers tightening twitching against your cheek, her gaze flitting away from yours for a moment before she seemingly forced it back to your own. “I think I realized at your parent’s Christmas party that I wanted this to mean more than I thought it did. Though,” she swallowed thickly, “if I’m being honest, I don’t think I’d have come here at all if I didn’t already like you a little bit.”

Her confession made you feel dizzy and you closed your eyes, dropping your forehead against hers. “Oh.” You couldn’t help but let out a relieved laugh. “I feel silly for worrying so much.” 

“If it helps at all, so do I,” Larissa retorted with a smile, her lips pressing briefly against yours once again. “I’ve been dreading the moment we go back to Jericho and nothing has changed between us.”

“And here I was thinking you couldn’t wait to get away from my family and this tiny bed,” you teased, making Larissa laugh again — a sound that you were quickly becoming addicted to.

“I meant it when I said I’ve been thoroughly enjoying myself. Your family is lovely, and I would miss them terribly.”

“Ohhh, you’d miss them, would you? Do I even factor in at all?”

“Oh hush, darling, you know exactly what I mean. After I kissed you in the car I was afraid I’d never be able to show my face at the Weathervane again.” 

“As if that would deter me… I’d probably have started leaving little hearts on your to go cups.” 

Larissa’s cheeks turned pink. “Flattery will get you very far,” she said, her voice dangerously low.

You grinned. “Oh, will it? And if I tell you that you’re genuinely the most radiant woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and that I thought you were so far out of my league that I couldn’t even entertain the thought of liking you?”

You’d never seen another person turn so red so quickly before and it almost made you laugh. Larissa’s eyes widened and her grip tightened against your cheek, her palm turning almost clammy — you reached up to take her hand in your own and hold it between your chests. 

“You can’t be serious,” she murmured breathlessly, her eyes sparkling in the lamplight. She huffed. “I’m not out of anyone’s league.”

“Okay, most people would definitely disagree with that,” you argued. “Have you seen yourself?”

“Darling, please–” 

You cut Larissa off with a deep kiss, pressing your torso against her own and slotting your leg between hers, cradling her jaw gently in your hand and feeling the muscles there flex as she parted her lips to slip her tongue into your mouth. “So beautiful,” you hummed, reveling in the soft little moan Larissa let out as your tongue flicked against hers.

You could have kissed her forever, until you were both breathless and dizzy, until you were so deliriously tired that you could hardly keep your eyes open. As the hour grew later and later, the sky outside an inky black and dotted with stars, snow fell just outside your bedroom window and frosted over the windowpane. The house was silent, as though there was a bubble around your bed, keeping everything else out except the warmth of Larissa’s body and the sound of her heavy breaths and whispered words.

Larissa pulled back and rested her head against your shoulder, stifling a yawn — you nuzzled your nose against the top of her hair, her scent sending a ripple of tranquility through you. “Let’s get some sleep? We’ll have to be up early for presents anyway…” 

“I almost forgot about Christmas…” she mused with a chuckle, lifting her head to meet your gaze with a sleepy smile as you reached down to fumble with the blankets, tugging them out from beneath the both of you and making sure to tuck them carefully around her.

The room was bathed in shadow when you flicked off the lamp on the bedside table. For a moment, it was too dark to see anything — then, as your eyes adjusted, you could make out the faint outline of Larissa’s face in front of you, her hair a silvery halo backlit by the moon outside. 

And, above you, those glow in the dark stars stuck to the ceiling.

“Goodnight, Larissa,” you whispered, nuzzling as close to her as humanly possible, allowing your hand to rest on the curve of her waist.

“Goodnight,” she whispered back, her breath ghosting across your face. “Sleep well, my love.” 

Warmth bloomed in your chest, unfurling like a flower. My love. 

Taglist: @alexusonfire @pro-weems-places @kimiinou @imprincipalweemspet @h-doodles @bychrissi @giogwensversion @gela123 @friskyfisher @justcallmelittleone @scream-queenlover @a-queen-and-her-throne @anne-lister @winterfireblond @imgayforwoman69  @fictionalized-lesbian @aemilia19 @billiedeansbitch @http-sam @saltrage @renravens @opheliauniverse @niceminipotato @thevillagegay @barbarasstar @jadewolf22 @autumn-leaves-chasing-breeze @lilfartbox1 @dovesintherain @lunala-rose23 @ahauandthesun @thenazwife @m-0-mmy-l-0-ver33 @thesamesweetie @theonefairygodmother @lvinhs @rainbow-hedgehog @daydream-cement @im-a-carnivorous-plant @milfomaniac @ilovetlcc @lesbiahonest24 @wastdstime @gwens0girl @larissa-weems-chokehold @makemyworldworthliving @spacetoaim22 @m1lflov3rrr @nightingalespen @snakeskins-world @feefuurt