***I was going to save PoV chapters for others besides Mira for much later in the game other than rare occassions but people asked for them and this is one I had already mostly had written so I'll share it with you*

The air on the bus is too thick. Too chemical. Too crowded with the scent of reheated egg sandwiches and boys who don’t know what deodorant is. Even my own perfume—frosted citrus, white camellia, chilled vanilla musk—cuts clean for a breath before the bus-heat swallows it. I’ve already regretted signing up for this field trip three times and we haven’t even left the goddamn parking lot.

Of course, she’s already on board.

Mira Quinveil—legs crossed in that calculated way she does everything, like she’s daring the world to flinch first. Elbows draped over the back of the seat. Lashes long, sharp, effortless.

She looks like sin bottled in mortal skin.

And I hate her for it.

No—not hate. Hate would be simple.

I walk past two empty rows, ignoring the way Jace Withers perks up like a golden retriever every time I so much as exist in his general vicinity. Someone whispers my name. I tune it out.

There’s only one open seat that matters.

She sees me coming. Tilts her chin. Doesn’t move her legs. Her eyes—green, too sharp, too knowing—drag over me like a match across stone. If I were anyone else, I’d combust on the spot.

“Really?” I say.

Mira just smiles. “Didn’t realize we were assigning seats today.”

“Oh, we are.” I flick my fingers. “Move.”

She doesn’t. Of course she doesn’t.

Instead, she uncrosses her legs only to cross them again the other way, deliberately flashing the edge of a thigh under her too-short uniform skirt. I’m not looking. I’m not.

“You’re welcome to sit,” she purrs. “But I bite.”

My mouth twitches before I can stop it. “If I wanted rabies, I’d pet a raccoon.”

I slide in beside her, yanking my blazer tight. Polyester seat grabs at my stockings; the wool of my blazer rasps against her sleeve. Her knee brushes mine. She doesn’t move. Neither do I.

The seat’s vinyl is slick-warm against my thigh; static snaps when our skirts shift. Our thighs pressed together like it means nothing. Up close, she smells like stargazer lily and toasted marshmallow, threaded with salt-air sweetness and the faintest flare of citrus. Warmth pressing against the cool polish of my own perfume.

And I hate that I want to lean closer.

Hate that my body doesn’t care about pride, or grudges, or years of rivalry.

Hate that she feels… right.

My throat locks tight. No. Absolutely not. Mira Quinveil isn’t right. She’s wrong. She’s fire and teeth and secrets wrapped in a smile sharp enough to cut. She’s the girl who called me a cheer-bot. Who out-argued me in freshman debate. Who makes me want to scream every time she rolls her eyes like I’m beneath her.

I don’t want her.

I can’t want her.

So why do I feel like gravity just shifted and tied me to her skin?

I force my eyes to the window, jaw tight. But I still notice everything. The rise and fall of her chest. The tiny freckle beneath her jawline. The curl of hair brushing her cheek.

I wonder what it would feel like to press my lips there.

And then I snap the thought in half like it’s poison.

Silence stretches. She starts fidgeting—tap, tap, tap on her thigh, then rolling her cuff, then grinding her thumb against the seat seam like pressure alone can keep her together. Without looking, I nudge my pinky against hers—small, steady—then press my knee a breath firmer into hers. The tapping stutters. The cuff stills. The thumb eases.

I see you, Mira. I see you.

Five minutes in, exhaustion drags me down. Elliot coughed all night. Mom cried when she thought I couldn’t hear. My perfume has thinned to a ghost; only the vanilla lingers, faint armor I can’t keep buckled. The bus hum turns into white noise.

I close my eyes. Heat pools where our knees meet; the air tastes faintly of toasted sugar and storm-wet air, Mira’s stargazer-spice threaded with a salt-snap of ocean breeze. Sweet, sharp, impossible to ignore. I lean a fraction closer, just enough to breathe her in.

And I drift.

—

A pothole jolts me awake. My cheek’s too warm.

I’ve leaned into her. Onto her shoulder. Onto Mira.

My lashes flutter open—slow, groggy, disoriented.

She’s still. Breath shallow. Her cheek almost brushes mine.

And her eyes—

Not green. Not even close.

They’re deep brown and starlit, gold and silver flecks drifting like someone hid constellations behind her lashes. Her hair isn’t ginger anymore—it burns. Copper and gold catching low light, a quiet, banked flame. Her skin glows at the edges, a copper-sunset warmth just beneath the surface. And her ears—softly pointed.

Too right.

And suddenly everything clicks.

Zyrella’s venomous “half-blood” jabs. Daevan’s gaze at dinner—hungry, knowing. The wards shimmering faintly around her house, bending toward her like tidewater. Her constant distance, her secrecy, the way she always slips away when questions get too sharp.

This is it.

This is what she’s been hiding.

And gods, she’s beautiful.

Too beautiful.

The realization spears through me. Not just pretty. Not just magnetic. She’s devastating. Transcendent. The kind of beauty that unmakes excuses and leaves you raw.

I shouldn’t think this.

I don’t want to think this.

But I do.

And I want.

Want the curve of her jaw beneath my lips. Want to learn what makes her breath hitch when no one’s watching. Want her, in the kind of way I can’t even admit to myself without shattering something I’ve built brick by brick.

I whisper it before I can stop myself:

“Your eyes…”

She tenses. A blink. And it’s gone—the light, the heat, the impossible depth—snuffed like a candle, curtain falling.

My stomach drops like a trapdoor. I just saw the truth, and I want it back.

Leverage is easy. Mercy is harder. I choose harder.

I pull away, covering the sudden skip in my pulse with a yawn. “Weird dream.”

Mira doesn’t answer. But her fingers twitch—once, sharp. Stress-tell.

And I pretend I don’t see it.

The bus exhales us onto the curb in a wave of stale air and sleepy complaints. I fall into step a beat behind Mira without meaning to, our shoulders never quite touching, but her warmth still hums against my skin like I carried it off the bus. Mr. Halloway flicks open his pocket watch, counting heads like discipline is sacred, then herds us through glass doors and into chill.

The museum hits like bleach. Too clean. Too curated. Too eager to impress. Cold LEDs flatten the world, lemon polish stings the back of my throat, marble echoes every footstep like a reprimand. From hidden speakers, an audio guide chirps about “heritage and progress” in the voice of someone who’s never bled for either. Halloway eats it up. That alone makes me doubt every polished plaque we pass.

I try to focus on the exhibits, on the pristine timeline mural unfurling across the atrium wall—human civilization rising neat and triumphant after the so-called Age of Shadows. Conveniently after the magic, the myths, the monsters.

A deep part of me itches. Restless.

The mural is too smooth. Too whole. No mention of the purge years. No records burned in riots. No sudden border collapses, no councils signing in blood, no graves without names. Just a blank century brushed away like dust on a display case.

“They missed the part where half the continent went dark for eighty-seven years,” I murmur, before I can stop myself.

Mira isn’t beside me—she’s trailing at the back, half-shadow, half-smirk, pretending she’s not watching everyone. But I still say it like she can hear me. Like I want her to hear me.

Halloway turns, tight smile already in place. “The records from that era are fragmented. Conflicting accounts. Nothing worth presenting officially.”

“Right,” I say, folding my arms across my chest. “Better to pretend it didn’t happen at all.”

His throat clears. He moves on.

But I don’t.

The lemon sting burns sharper the longer I stand still. Too clean. Too false. My skin itches like it knows there’s something missing here, something scrubbed out. And under it all—salt and storm. Mira’s scent lingers, caught on my blazer sleeve where her shoulder brushed mine. Toasted sugar, sea-wind, stargazer spice. I shouldn’t notice it here, of all places, but I do. It’s the only thing in this sterile hall that feels real.

I linger at the next exhibit, letting the audio guide babble cheerfully about civic unity while my fingers trace the edge of an old council decree sealed in wax. The date is wrong. Off by three years compared to the copy I saw in Mira’s book. The one she flaunted like a dare, then snatched back before I could read too far. The one I’ve been rereading in secret, long after I should’ve let it go.

I shouldn’t still be thinking about her. About that book. About the way she’s always aloof, always hiding behind smirks and sarcasm and distance. But I am.

And now—now that I’ve seen those eyes, that hair, that impossible slip of something more—every wrong date, every missing name, every venomous Zyrella insult and knowing Daevan look slams into me like proof. The cracks were always there. I just didn’t want to admit it.

But I can’t stop seeing them now.

The group shuffles forward, Halloway’s voice droning, and I veer off just far enough to keep him in sight. Not enough to draw attention. My pulse drums in my throat. My hands smell faintly of lemon polish and paper dust. But beneath it, stronger—Mira’s storm-warmth clings like static. And I know, deep down, I’m not done chasing the cracks.

A side door sits half-cracked: SUPPLEMENTAL HOLDINGS — AUTHORIZED STAFF ONLY. I palm it and slip through.

The restricted archive hums with stillness—a nasal buzz from old electronics, the faint bite of ozone under dust. Paper and polish thread the air, sour-slick over marble. It smells like secrets that don’t want to be touched.

The door whispers again. I don’t have to turn to know it’s her.

Mira slides in, quiet as breath, like the shadows themselves hold the door for her.

I drift between carts and cabinets; she ghosts the opposite aisle. Nimble hands, even breath, movements too precise to be first-time theft. Like she’s done this before. I don’t say her name. I just watch.

Her fingers skim a placard, find a lip I never would’ve noticed, and free something—folded parchment edged in faint metallic threads. The strap of her satchel creaks as she opens it. No flinch. No fumble. The parchment vanishes into the bag like the space was always waiting for it.

When she straightens, our eyes catch.

I arch a brow. “That part of the tour?”

Mira blinks once, slow. “Didn’t see your name on the approved entry list either, Fairborn.”

“Touché.”

We hold it a beat too long. My pulse stutters. She looks smug, like always, but I heard it—the tiniest snag in her breath when the flap shut. Saw the hesitation she tried to bury.

So she’s not untouchable. She’s hiding more than just sharp comebacks and impossible eyes.

Trust is a blade. I hand her the hilt.

She slips past me, shoulder grazing mine. The contact is molten, grounding and destabilizing at once. My stomach flips. My ears ring with the room’s hum. And I don’t stop her.

The class spills out into the late light, chatter thinning like smoke. Heat lifts off marble. Wind threads the columns. Halloway pretends not to smoke behind a bronze war hero, pocket watch snapping open-shut.

We end up on the low retaining wall, backs to cool stone. Our elbows brush when one of us shifts too much. Mira clutches her satchel to her chest like a shield, strap drawn tight enough to leave a red mark. Her fingers tense, relax, tense. A breath catches—sharp, too sharp—and then smooths.

I see you, Mira. I see you.

I let the quiet hold for three beats, then drop my voice low. “So.”

A glance from her—sideways, guarded. Neutral mouth. Unrested eyes.

“That book you didn’t pocket back there—” I tip my chin toward her bag. “Planning on actually returning it, or just gonna let it ‘accidentally’ end up in your locker?”

She doesn’t look at me. Just tilts her chin like a dare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Liar.

I step a fraction closer on the wall, enough that my perfume—citrus, camellia, the faintest ghost of vanilla—threads between us like a truce I’ll never admit to naming. Her grip tightens. I almost lay my hand over hers—almost—but instead let the moment balance sharp on its edge.

“Of course not. My mistake.”

The silence sharpens. Leaves stir overhead. The strap eases a notch under her fingers.

I keep my eyes on the branches, not her. “Your shoulder was surprisingly comfortable,” I hear myself say, like the words slipped through a crack I didn’t seal fast enough.

She blinks. “What?”

“On the bus.” I shrug, lazy, hiding too much. “I might’ve drooled on you.”

“You didn’t,” she murmurs, throat catching dry.

“Shame.” My mouth tilts, practiced curve—the one that wins, that cuts. “Would’ve been fun to watch you combust.”

Her satchel hitches when she exhales.

And the world narrows again—to sun on stone, to the brush of our elbows, to the way her warmth presses through her perfume: stargazer spice, marshmallow sugar, salt-wind rain. It clings to me now, threaded into the clean lines of my own citrus and camellia until I can’t tell where she ends and I begin.

Report is easy. Understand is harder.

And gods help me—I don’t want to report her.

I want to understand her.

Mira boards the bus without waiting for a reply. I follow a moment later, heart thudding traitorously against my ribs.

The bus is too warm.

Or maybe I’m too warm.

Or maybe it’s Mira Quinveil—and I slide in beside her without asking. Like it’s mine now. Like she’s mine now. Her arm brushes mine, and the air tightens, storm-front heavy.

Everyone else is half-asleep or scrolling. The overhead lights are dim, the road humming like a lullaby. I should be able to close my eyes. I should be able to breathe.

But she’s sitting there in that stupid blazer with the top buttons undone, collarbones flashing like they’re in on some private joke. Her impossible hair spills over her shoulder—alive in the low light, catching sparks like fire banked under moon. It shouldn’t be legal to look that good after a day of walking, arguing, and maybe—definitely—lifting an artifact from a locked archive.

I try not to look at her. I really do.

But she’s so goddamn present. The way she lounges like she belongs everywhere at once—palaces, alleyways, my seat. Her legs cross, long and strong, her skirt riding higher than I have any business noticing. Her fingers—elegant, restless—start tapping a three-beat against her thigh. Tap, tap—

I hook my pinky around hers. Small. Steady.

The tapping stutters. Then stops.

She catches me staring and quirks an eyebrow.

“You’re going to give yourself a stroke,” she murmurs.

“You’re going to give me a migraine,” I mutter back.

Too late. She smirks—the kind of smirk that belongs in war zones or on wanted posters.

Her foot starts bouncing, heel skimming the rubber mat. I shift closer, press my knee against hers—firm, anchoring. The bounce fades. My perfume holds sharp—citrus, camellia, the cool bite of vanilla—but hers presses through anyway: toasted marshmallow, spice-sweet stargazer bloom, salt air, rain after storm. Heat over cool, her scent climbing into mine like it refuses to be denied.

And gods, I hate how much I want it.

Hate that every breath tastes like her.

Hate that my body betrays me for a girl I’m supposed to despise.

I’m not sure when it starts.

Maybe when Mira stops biting back.

When her shoulders ease, just enough to let something slip.

When the silence feels less like a wall and more like a held breath.

Maybe it’s when I start to wish the ride were longer.

She hasn’t looked at me in ten minutes, and that should bother me. I’m used to commanding attention—heads turning, tension snapping like a whip when I walk into a room. Mira doesn’t give me that. She doesn’t need to.

She just is.

And I hate her for it.

Hate her for being magnetic without trying.

Hate her for making me notice every brush of fabric, every bump in the road shifting us closer, every inch of heat bleeding into me.

I’m angry at how much I notice her.

I’m furious at the part of me that wants to.

The rest of the bus is oblivious—snoring, scrolling, checked out. Even Halloway hasn’t looked up in twenty minutes. I should be thinking about Elliot. About exams. About Regionals.

But instead, I’m watching her hands.

They rest loosely in her lap. One finger taps, then stops. The other drifts to her cuff—roll, unroll.

And before I can stop myself, I reach. One fingertip along the seam, light as breath.

The roll stills.

Her breath stills too—just for a heartbeat.

I see you, Mira. I see you.

And I hate that I mean it.

I blink hard, rip my gaze away, and glue myself to the window. Neon smears. Alley shadows. Fog crawling the sidewalks like it’s hiding something alive.

But the truth is, it’s not the city that feels dangerous.

It’s her.

And that’s when it happens.

It’s not flashy. No burst of light. No dramatic gasp. Just—

a shift.

A pressure change.

A quiet, irreversible betrayal of reality that lands directly on my skin.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her hair.

And it’s wrong.

Not autumn-ginger. Not dyed-red. Not even close.

It’s… lit.

A burnished wildfire tamed into a braid, every strand kissed by flame and shadow. Copper and gold and auburn woven together like sunfire spun into silk. It moves when she moves—but slower, like it refuses to fall back after catching the light.

My hand betrays me. I reach, reckless, and catch the loosened end of her braid between my fingers. I expect a burn, a bite, something to punish me for touching what I shouldn’t. Nothing. It’s just hair—silk-fine, warm, devastatingly real—and it slides across my knuckles like it already belongs there.

Then her skin.

Not pale. Not flushed. Glowing—like something beneath has stepped forward, daring me to notice.

And her eyes—

Gods. Her eyes.

I’ve seen green eyes my whole life.

Mira’s aren’t green.

They never were.

They’re deep brown, endless and starlit, flecked with gold and silver like someone bottled constellations and set them behind her lashes. Too vast. Too unreal. Too beautiful.

And I hate myself for staring.

Hate that I can’t look away.

Hate that the only thought in my head is kiss her, kiss her, kiss her—like my body doesn’t give a damn about pride or rivalry or the years I’ve spent sharpening my hate into armor.

I forget I’m supposed to hate her. Forget the cafeteria taunts. Forget Zyrella’s venomous half-blood sneer. Forget Daevan’s hungry, knowing stare at dinner. Forget the wards that bent toward her house like the air itself knew her name.

It all makes sense.

Every barb. Every secret. Every wall she built.

And all I can think is how badly I want to climb those walls and set fire to the excuses.

She shifts, murmuring something—half a breath, not even words.

Whatever armor she wears hasn’t shattered; it’s just slipped.

Collapsed like a veil too tired to hold.

She doesn’t know I see her.

I study everything.

Her ears—gently pointed, perfect as spring leaves.

Her cheekbones—cut sharp, cruel, beautiful.

Her freckles—scattered cinders glowing faintly after a storm.

Her lips—parted just enough to wreck me.

And her body—

Fuck.

Not fragile. Not delicate. A sculpture of strength and softness, shaped by something both divine and feral. Moving like gravity itself bends out of respect.

And the scent. Gods, the scent. Toasted marshmallow warmth. Stargazer bloom, spiced and intoxicating. Salt air, rain after storm. It coils around me, presses into me, laces through my own perfume until I can’t tell where she ends and I begin.

It hits like a blade to the ribs.

She’s Fae.

She’s real.

Magic is real.

I should scream. Should run. Should shove this truth back where it belongs.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Because all I can think is—

Of course she is.

Of course Mira Quinveil isn’t like the rest of us.

Of course the girl who burns when she’s furious and glows when no one’s looking is something more.

Of course the only person who’s ever made me feel alive, furious, seen—is more.

My chest aches with it. My mouth is dry. And gods help me, it takes every ounce of willpower not to lean in.

Not to kiss her.

Not to give in to the pull that’s already tearing me apart.

And I hate myself for wanting it.

Hate myself for craving her more in this moment than I’ve ever craved anything else.

Because if I kiss her now, if I admit it even once, I’ll never be able to take it back.

She turns her head then, just enough for me to catch her profile in the gold wash of the overhead lights.

And I fall.

Not like a crush, not like a diary entry.

I fall like something breaking.

Like the last brick giving way in a wall I didn’t even know was load-bearing.

And I know, with bone-deep certainty—

I’ll never see the world the same way again.

And gods help me—

I don’t want to.

She doesn’t notice me staring. Or maybe she does, and she’s pretending not to. Mira’s good at pretending. It’s her armor—her smile, her sarcasm, that perfectly timed quip she always has ready even when her hands are trembling. Even when her voice falters at the end of a sentence and she thinks no one’s paying attention.

But I pay attention.

I always do.

And now I can’t stop.

Because I just saw something I wasn’t supposed to see.

Something I can’t unsee.

And beneath all the awe and the breathless, electric unraveling of everything I thought I knew about this world—

I feel angry.

Angry at her, for hiding it.

Angry at myself, for caring this much.

For wanting her even more now that I know.

My arms fold tight across my chest, a flimsy barricade against the twitch in my fingers. They ache to reach out. To touch. To prove she’s real, even if it undoes me. Don’t look away, something in me begs—the ruthless cheer captain voice that’s gotten me everything I’ve ever wanted. I see you, Mira. I see you.

One breath, I’m convinced I want to destroy her.

The next, I want to know her—every secret, every contradiction, every jagged edge she’s hidden from me.

But more than anything, I want her to want me to know.

I shift slightly, faking a bag adjustment, and our shoulders seal. Warm. Solid. Too right. My pulse skips like I’ve crossed some line I can’t walk back. The image of her unveiled self won’t leave me—that version without masks, without control. She wasn’t just beautiful.

No. Not beautiful.

Transcendent.

Not because of the light, or the storybook perfection etched into every line. But because beneath all that impossible fire and starlight… she was still Mira. Sarcastic. Defiant. A little broken. Just like me.

The bus jolts over a pothole and I flinch, suddenly too aware of how long our shoulders have been touching. How long her heat has been seeping into me. How I never once thought to move.

Gods, how long have we been like this?

And why does it feel like forever?

She’s not moving. I’m not moving.

The heat between us isn’t fading—it’s building.

Like a storm pacing just beyond the skyline.

Like a secret whispered too loud.

Like inevitability.

I glance at her again. The light has dimmed. The cinders have settled. Her eyes read green in the bus glow, her hair dulled back to harmless autumn.

But I know better.

I’ve seen what’s underneath.

And I know, bone-deep, I’ll never be satisfied with the mask again.

We sit like that—silent, simmering—until the bus begins to slow.

Brakes sigh. Overhead lights flicker. Seats creak as the rest of our class stirs—zippers, gum snaps, a half-laugh somewhere. I don’t move. She doesn’t move.

The warmth along our shoulders lingers—like a promise neither of us signed, but both of us keep.

The doors wheeze open with a cough of cold air and diesel. We stand together because there’s no other honest way to stand now. Step for step, I match her down the narrow aisle—our hands not touching, but close enough that every jolt feels like it could make them decide for us.

Outside, Ravenrest is rinsed in evening. Lampglow slicks the stone steps; fog clings low, muting the courtyard’s hum. The chatter of half-awake classmates is just background static. Even Halloway’s barked warning about homework blurs into nothing. All that matters is the line we walk—beside, not behind, not ahead.

We stop halfway up the steps. The fog presses close, soft and heavy, like it’s holding its breath with me. I hear her catch one—sharp, careful, like she’s trying to pin it down before it gives her away. Her mouth parts, shaping a word that never escapes. I almost give her mine.

I lower my voice, steady even though my pulse is anything but. “I won’t ask.”

A beat. Another.

“What?” she says, and it’s the smallest I’ve ever heard her.

“Whatever that was.” I hold her gaze, refusing to blink. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

Her lips stay parted. A syllable rises—breaks—dies in her throat. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t need to. I see it in the way her shoulders loosen a fraction, in the way the death grip on her bag strap eases at last.

We stand there while the last of the class peels away—cars pulling out, doors thudding, laughter tossed like scraps into the fog. A gull screams at the river. A horn echoes. None of it touches us. The silence between us is heavy, alive, knowing both of our names.

I step back first. Not far. Just enough to prove I can.

“Goodnight, Fairborn,” she says, her voice even, but the words land like a test she’s daring me to fail.

“Goodnight,” I return—and it feels like a promise I’ve already made.

We angle off toward the student lot, parallel paths through lampwashed fog. Her key fob chirps; a little black coupe wakes sleek and feline, lights blooming like eyes. My sedan answers two rows over, obedient and bland in comparison.

We don’t look back. Which is new.

We don’t need to. Which is worse.

Her car purrs low, expensive, predatory, and slips into the night. My own door seals with a soft thunk. Hands grip the wheel. Breath, once. Twice.

Because truth doesn’t go back in its box.

And gods help me—I’m not afraid of what Mira Quinveil is.

I’m afraid of how much I already care.