My coupe purrs when I tap the fob—sleek, charcoal, fast enough to outrun bad decisions if you downshift at the right time. I should be sliding behind the wheel. Instead, Cassie is already there, buckled in, ponytail razor-sharp, one hand on the leather like she owns it (she doesn’t; I do; please remind the universe). She tilts a glance at me that says argue and lose.

I roll the cuff of my sleeve—one, two, three—feel the fabric squeak under my nail, and surrender the keys I never actually touched.

“I hate this,” I mutter, opening the passenger door anyway.

“You love this,” she corrects, smug. “Seatbelt, Firefly.”

In the mirror, the back seat looks like a museum display labeled: For Show Only. Roran measures the opening with the clinical patience of a bomb tech. My coupe is a two-door designed by a sadist who hated knees. He angles himself in, folds like a collapsing drawbridge, and ends up wedged sideways, shoulders eating both seatbelts, jaw clenched.

“Comfortable, cousin?” I ask sweetly.

“Yes,” he lies without moving his neck.

Cassie adjusts the mirrors with precise, territorial little clicks. “Alias?”

“Ronan Vale,” he says, perfectly deadpan. His accent is sanded down to international-school neutral. “From Eversea.”

I almost choke. Eversea. The human-friendly name for the Summer Court. A kingdom that exists on mortal maps only because we let it. Cassie scribbled it down at my mother’s dining table less than an hour ago while I ground my teeth into sparks. And now here he is—my allegedly normal exchange cousin—armed with a laminated lie and crammed into the back seat of my car like a weapon with a seatbelt.

I snap my own seatbelt home and mutter, “Welcome to hell, cuz.”

His jaw ticks. A muscle spasms in his cheek. Victory.

Cassie backs out smooth as a promise. The garage smells like cold stone and gasoline; under it, the wards hum in the ductwork, smug little gnats. Cassie’s citrus-bright scent cuts through it, lemon over camellia, clean and cutting. Mine answers—burnt sugar, a hint of ozone—then I force it down, neat folds, tidy drawer.

“Rules,” Cassie says, merging like a captain claiming a lane. “No names that aren’t on the alias, no fae geography unless it’s on a globe, and no stabbing.” Beat. “Even if they deserve it.”

“Understood,” Roran says. “I’ll use the blunt side.”

“Ha,” I say. “He jokes.”

“Occasionally,” he replies, which is almost a personality.

—

The student lot swarms the way it always does—phones already up, gossip sliding through the air like smoke. Cassie drives us into the center of it like she’s docking a ship. Not a wobble, not a stall. Heads whip. Fingers fly across glass.

I step out first, blazer sharp enough to cut, and it still doesn’t matter—because Roran unfolds out of the back like a myth you wish you hadn’t summoned. Glamour sands the blade but doesn’t hide the steel. The air tightens around him in a way humans can’t name but instinctively avoid.

Whispers catch like burrs: Quinveil carpooling again. That’s Fairborn’s car, right? Who’s the guy? Cousin? Definitely not.

I want to scorch the pavement clean.

“It’s MY CAR, I’m learning how to SHARE,” I announce to the nearest cluster, saccharine enough to rot enamel. “Also—he’s my cousin, Roran. Exchange student. From Eversea. Family. We’re thrilled.”

Cassie doesn’t even glance at them. “We’re late,” she says, which is her version of flipping them off. Her ponytail sways like punctuation.

Roran shadows me on the walk in, half a step behind and one to the right. Bodyguard geometry. He doesn’t speak, but the way kids veer out of our path is louder than words. The tether hums low between me and Cassie, steady as a pulse. My fire claws at my ribs—this was supposed to be my space. Human space. Lockers and banner glitter and the dumb safety of bells.

So I weaponize the cover.

I toss a grin over my shoulder, bright enough to blind. “Don’t forget, cousin—my mother, YOUR Aunt Seara, says you wet the bed until you were ten.”

He blinks once. Blank wall expression. But his left ear pinks a shade that would match a dawn cloud if he weren’t glamoured. Perfect. The whispers splinter into snickers, and the pressure around us eases a fraction.

Cassie’s knuckles ghost the back of my hand—three discreet taps: steady. The tether answers with a pleased little thrum. I breathe. One, two, three.

“Locker?” she asks, voice smooth as glass.

“Locker,” I echo, because routines are spells if you let them be.

—

The hallway between bells is a tide of sneakers and perfume. Waxed tile. Hand-sanitizer citrus fighting gym-class sweat. Fluorescents buzz overhead like bored insects. Cassie claims the locker beside mine like she’s taking territory, then leans against the metal and flips her hair with criminal precision.

“You’re scowling,” she murmurs, eyes flicking to me as I shove books into mine.

“I’m not scowling,” I mutter. Slam. “This is my relaxed face.” Slam.

Her mouth curves. “Your relaxed face looks like a war crime.”

I tap the inside edge of the locker—three beats, metered—cool metal under hot skin. “Better than looking like you swallowed a lemon whole.”

“Citrus is my signature,” she says sweetly, and lets a brighter ribbon of lemon into the air just to be insufferable. My stomach flips traitor.

Behind us, Roran clears his throat. Not loud. Just there. Watching. Looming.

Two sophomores glance too long at Cassie’s legs as they pass. Roran shifts his stance ten degrees and somehow the oxygen thins. They scatter like pigeons from a cat.

“Really?” Cassie asks him without turning, voice iced.

“Crowded hallways,” he says mildly, which is soldier for Watch your flanks.

“Translation: territorial nonsense,” I say, slamming my locker hard enough to rattle the row.

“Water,” Cassie says, soft as strategy. “We’re going to be dehydrated.”

Roran’s gaze ticks toward the fountains down-hall. “I’ll fetch bottles.”

“Perfect,” Cassie says to his retreating back, already catching my wrist. Her fingers are cool where mine run hot; the tether brightens, thread pulled taut and sure. “North stairs.”

We cut left, slipping the stream. My blazer swishes, her ponytail snaps, the hall’s perfume soup thins. I keep my scent folded tight, neat as origami, because this building doesn’t get the truth of me. Not unless I decide to peel the paper back.

“By the way,” I call lightly as Roran gets distance, pitching my voice to carry, “family dinner Friday. Aunt Seara wants to see how tall you’ve gotten. Bring your baby blanket; she likes to monologue.”

He doesn’t break stride. “I’ll bring photos of your first haircut.”

Cassie coughs a laugh into her fist. I scowl purely on principle and feel better.

—

The door to the old north stairwell sighs shut behind us, muting the hallway to a seashell hush. Dust and lemon oil ride the air; the fluorescents here hum with a tired sulk. The concrete steps hold the morning chill.

Naomi is already there, shoulders braced against the rail—tank-top and cargo-pants energy forced into a school hoodie like it’s a costume she tolerates. Kess lounges two steps down, panther-sleek, grin like trouble found a favorite mouth.

“About time,” Kess says, eyes bright. “Your guard dog shadowed you to the junction and then got distracted by hydration. I’m impressed and annoyed.”

Naomi’s gaze lands on me, steadier than gravity. “You okay?”

I roll my cuff—one, two, three—until the fabric squeaks again. “Define,” I say, and the word comes out thinner than I want. “Report?”

I want to laugh and set something on fire at the same time. “The spa shuttered two days after,” I say. “Nothing left but a corporate apology and a website pretending it never existed.”

“Which is exactly how a front folds,” Kess mutters. “Wrong kind of polish. Too clean. Too fast.”

The stairwell hums with the building’s heartbeat. Dust, lemon oil, old concrete. Somewhere above us a bell dings the warning for class, and I resent time for being so stupid.

Cassie’s hand slides down my sleeve again—precise, grounding. Her mask doesn’t slip, but her fingers tremble once against my wrist. It’s so slight most people would miss it. I don’t.

Naomi clocks it too. “We can walk you to lunch,” she offers, a wall disguised as a girl.

“We have a wall,” I say, chin at the door. “With opinions.”

Kess snorts. “He’s pretty.”

“He’s inconvenient,” I answer, and it bleeds like truth.

Naomi’s mouth softens. “Text if anything feels off. Triple ping. Or—” she tilts her head toward Cassie’s cuff where the enchanted cord hides under glamour “—warm the bracelet if you need us.”

“We won’t,” Cassie says smoothly. “Because we won’t need to.”

“No heroics,” Naomi adds, speaking directly to my worst idea generator.

“I don’t do heroics,” I lie.

Kess’s grin says you absolutely do.

The stairwell door whispers open an inch. Roran’s silhouette fills the crack without stepping through it. “Two minutes,” he says, voice manageable. “Hallway’s thinning.”

Naomi rolls her eyes so hard it should be audible. Kess salutes the door like it might make him blink. I step into Naomi’s hug—bone and strength and the cold bite of Frostclaw scent cutting through the school’s warm stink. Kess’s kiss lands quick on my cheek, mischievous and fond.

“We’re breathing,” Naomi says, like a command.

“Working on it,” I say, and if my voice is frayed, no one tries to smooth it.

We spill back into the corridor. Roran takes point for a few steps, then edges sideways to his appropriate bodyguard geometry—half a pace back, one to the right. He doesn’t ask what we were doing. He doesn’t need to. The air around us already hums with the answer.

—

The cafeteria smells like grease and despair. Fluorescents buzz. Trays clatter. Laughter slices too bright. My scent spikes—burnt sugar, storm-ozone—before I fold it down, tight.

We take the window table. Cassie sits like a queen on a dais, legs crossed, tray untouched. I plant beside her, tray full of food I won’t eat. Roran anchors the aisle end, apple in front of him like a prop he hasn’t decided whether to interrogate or consume.

I spear a carrot stick like it insulted me. “Rules said soft launch. This is hard launch with a chaperone.”

“Adapt, Firefly,” Cassie says without looking, the corner of her mouth sharpened into almost-a-smile.

I drum three beats on my thigh and steal one of her fries. She lets me. Under the table, her knee bumps mine—casual to everyone else, electric to me. The tether hums bright.

A cluster of juniors drifts too close, whispering. Roran lifts his gaze, and the air thickens—as if he’s pulled just enough oxygen to make a point. They veer away without a word.

“Intimidation isn’t blending,” Cassie murmurs.

“Protection,” Roran replies.

“Overkill,” I mutter.

Cassie’s hand drops, pinky hooking mine for a heartbeat. Small. Hidden. Enough.

We make it most of the way through on that thin peace—until Bree Halden steps into our path as we leave.

Bree looks curated: hair sharper, posture polished, hazel eyes too bright. She smells like antiseptic citrus with a clinical sparkle that wants to read as clean and lands as wrong. Under it—a faint metallic fizz that prickles the back of my tongue. Not the spa’s chlorine-iron, not exactly. But adjacent enough to lift every hackle I own.

“Quinveil. Fairborn,” she says sweetly, then turns to Roran. “And… Ronan, isn’t it? You don’t have a date to Gloamhearts yet, do you?” Lashes flutter. “You should come with me.”

The world tilts. I nearly choke. Cassie blinks once, then her lips twitch like she’s strangling a laugh.

Roran just… stares. Blank as a wall. “…No.”

“Say yes,” I blurt, instantly weaponizing chaos.

Cassie’s smile breaks through like sunlight on ice. “Please do,” she purrs. “For me.”

Bree’s smile freezes a fraction. “I’m serious.”

“So are we,” I say, delighted now. “Cassie, can you imagine? Ronan Vale, Gloamhearts Prince.”

“Dancing under the banner glitter,” Cassie adds, voice razor-bright. “Unforgettable.”

Roran looks between us, utterly lost, which for some reason makes him feel more like family than any forged paperwork. “I don’t… dance,” he offers, as if that might save him.

“Oh cousin,” I coo, laying it on thick for the audience, “Aunt Seara says you’ve had lessons since you could walk.”

The sophomores behind Bree titter. Bree’s eyes narrow just enough to show the crack in her poise; she pastes the smile back on, too sharp now. “Maybe you’re just shy,” she tells Roran, then flicks her gaze to me and Cassie. “Or maybe distracted.”

Cassie leans half an inch into me, cool as frost. “Run along, Bree. We’ll save you a dance.”

The entourage peels with uncertain giggles. Bree’s hair snaps glossy as she turns. That antiseptic-citrus hangs in her wake like a sterile warning.

Cassie snorts the second she’s gone. I break first, laughter punching out of me in sharp bursts. Even Roran mutters, baffled, “What just happened.”

“You got asked to Gloamhearts,” I wheeze, leaning into Cassie’s shoulder. “And we made it worse.”

“Perfect day,” Cassie agrees, feral grin flashing.

The tether hums between us, electric with shared glee—and under it, the prickle Bree left behind keeps scratching the inside of my teeth.

—

The last bell is a mercy. Glitter from the Gloamhearts banner clings to the air as we step into the lot, daylight thin and sharp enough to cut. Cassie unlocks the coupe with a chirp. Roran eyes the back seat like it insulted his mother and folds himself in again, martyr-patient.

I drop into passenger, fire itching under my skin, and glare at the dash. “This isn’t normal.”

“Neither are you,” Cassie says calmly, sliding into the driver’s seat. She checks mirrors she already knows are fine. Her hand ghosts my knee as she shifts—quick, deliberate. The tether sings, quiet and precise.

Behind us, Roran is silent, the wall that doesn’t blink. But I can hear the faint flex of leather as he braces his knees, the careful yoke of breath he uses when he’s pretending he takes up less space than he does. A person, not just armor.

Bree’s saccharine smile clings. Naomi’s warning echoes. And the spa memory gnaws—the way I said it without meaning to, the way it shattered the haze: I can’t because you’re my wife and I fucking love you.

I close my eyes and breathe. One, two, three.

The lie holds. For now.