Page 37 of Hex Appeal
I sent her a picture of Nate shoving three fries into his mouth at once. She replied with seventeen crying-laughing emojis and a GIF of a raccoon holding cotton candy.
“You know,” Nate said, nudging me gently with his elbow. “I still don’t understand half of what happened.”
I snorted. “Only half? You’re doing better than me.”
He gave a crooked grin. “Okay, maybe a quarter. I mean, I remember pieces, but the rest feels like a dream I can’t hold onto.”
I looked out at the water, sunlight flashing in my eyes. “Same. I was there, I fought him, and I still don’t really know how it worked. Or why we’re here now instead of somewhere else.”
“Does it matter?” he asked, his hand finding mine. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, slow and deliberate. “We’re here. Together. That’s what I’m holding onto.”
We stopped at a railing, leaning against the warm wood. For the first time in days, my shoulders felt like they could drop from around my ears.
Movement caught my eye.
The hot-dog squirrel sat on the railing a few feet away, nibbling what looked like a piece of funnel cake. Powdered sugar dusted its whiskers.
In the reflection of the boardwalk’s glass-front arcade behind it, the squirrel lounged in a velvet armchair, wearing its tiny suit of armour and sipping from a teacup.
I blinked. The real squirrel kept eating. The reflected one raised its cup in a silent toast.
“Friend of yours?” Nate asked, following my gaze.
“Long story,” I said. “Don’t feed him.”
The sea breeze pulled a strand of hair across my face, and he reached over, tucking it gently behind my ear. His fingers lingered, warm against my skin, and then he was leaning in — close enough that I could feel his breath against my cheek.
The kiss was unhurried, soft, and entirely ours—no sparks, no magic, no supernatural interference. But there was heat in it too, something unspoken but undeniable, the kind of kiss that made my stomach flip and my knees feel unsteady.
When we pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against mine, his breath still mingling with mine. Then, I let my head fall to his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around me, pulling me in until the steady rhythm of his heartbeat drowned out the noise of the boardwalk.
“So,” he said. “Any more magical disasters I should know about? Or was the homicidal lip gloss a one-time thing?” Nate asked with a grin and a twinkle in his eyes.
I shot him a look. “That was an experimental cosmetic. And it only tried to kill you a little bit.”
He laughed, the sound warm against the ocean breeze. “Guess I’ll have to stick around to see what you try next.”
“Careful,” I said, smiling despite myself. “I might take that as a challenge.”
“Good,” he said, and his fingers found mine, threading them together.
For a moment, all I could think was that this is what safe feels like.
Almost.
Because as we passed an antique store on the next block, I glanced into the window display. Among the silver candlesticks and dusty books, the air inside seemed to shimmer — not much, just enough to catch my breath. In the shimmer, I thought I saw silver eyes watching.
Not just eyes, the angle of the shoulders, the faint curve of a smile I didn’t trust, a shadow trying to wear someone else’s face.
The metallic taste hit my tongue, sharp and electric.
“Jess?” Nate’s voice was soft, curious. “Are you okay?”
I blinked, and the shimmer was gone.
“Yeah,” I said quickly, forcing my voice light. But even as I said it, my gaze caught on the other shop windows lining the boardwalk. They looked ordinary enough, until I realized how easily they could be doors, waiting to drag me through or let something out.
We walked on. Nate talked about sketching the flamingo mirror for art class, about fries versus funnel cake, about how the waves sounded different at night. I didn’t mention the shimmer, and he didn’t press.
Neither of us understood it.
Maybe we never would.
But his arm stayed looped around me, his hand warm against my side, and for now, that was enough.
