Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

At Lumina Hall University, magic wasn’t a secret—it was on the syllabus.

It powered the vending machines. It levitated campus bikes. It shimmered from the hedges in bioluminescent petals and hummed through lampposts like soft jazz.

Magic and tech didn’t clash—they flirted .

Olivia loved that.

She stepped out of the greenhouse, her boots crunching softly against moss-lined stone. The scent of mana-soaked soil clung to her sleeves, along with the clean, spiced perfume of lavender and wormroot. Her enchanted overalls were already smeared with glimmer-soil, the only things she ever wore inside the greenhouse—well-worn combat boots, botanical gloves stuffed in one back pocket, and sleeves rolled up past her elbows to keep her skin bare for the dirt. Her hands were always clean but never covered—no rings, no bracelets, not even gloves outside of work. Just well-kept nails and a single statement necklace that shimmered silver and gold at her collarbone: the triple goddess symbol, delicate but bold, like everything else about her.

Behind her, the enchanted greenhouse gate creaked shut and exhaled—a soft, satisfied sigh like the building itself was alive.

She tugged her layered cardigan tighter around her corset top and stepped into the commons, her silhouette catching curious glances from first-years already buzzing with gossip. Olivia had that kind of presence: 5’5’’ ft of organized chaos. Wavy brown hair curled just enough to frame her freckled face when the weather had humidity. Pale skin, big eyes, sharp smirks. Her outfit today looked like what would happen if a fairy, a vampire, and a pirate walked into a closet together and agreed on fashion. Layers. Ribbons. Leather. Enchanted embroidery.

She had a reputation—not just for being popular, but for being sharp. Quick. Effortless in a way that looked curated but never fake. It wasn’t just that people liked her. It was that she had a gravitational pull—one she never asked for and didn’t quite trust. Her plants did, though. A chimevine on the greenhouse window had leaned toward her as she left. That wasn’t normal. Her mom always said the way plants responded to her—reached for her—was rare, even among botanical witches.

Olivia walked briskly across the stone path beneath the enchanted glass roof. Sunlight filtered through like soft watercolor, casting moving light across old runes etched into the floor. Some ancient, some the result of a senior prank that had become a permanent enchantment. Her smartwatch buzzed with reminders. Her group chats were lit up (muted, obviously). And someone had already charmed a floating screen above the central fountain to glitch during morning announcements.

Classic.

She still hadn’t finished her summer reading list. Two dorm plants were on the verge of sentience. She hadn’t replied to a single “Back on campus?” text. And her magic tumbler—engraved with her dad’s sigils for luck and clarity—was still lukewarm from breakfast tea, a blend he made to curb anxiety and sharpen the senses.

All that and it was barely 9AM

Earlier that morning, her mom had called.

      “Why are you tense? It’s the first day of senior year!”

Easy for her to say. Moms didn’t get senior-year pressure or the fact that Olivia had socially overextended herself into a burnout casserole. The thing is, for the love of the goddesses above, she can’t keep her mouth shut, honestly, one day someone is gonna be pissed enough to slap the brutal honesty out of her but you know how it is. Not to mention the usual existential dread that came with being a magical botanics major who maybe, possibly, might be a little too good at pretending she had her life together.

She didn’t mean to monologue to herself like a spiraling podcast host. It just happened. Maybe it was undiagnosed ADHD —she should get that checked— . Or her lack of magic control —she should get that checked—. Or the “fake it ‘til you make it” coping strategy that worked—until it didn’t.

Still. Not sharing a dorm this year? Huge win. She was out of lies to explain why she spent most nights alone in the off-limits side of the school’s greenhouse. Not that it was illegal. Just… frowned upon. Probably.

Her thoughts scattered when she heard it.

“He definitely got taller this year.”

“Not taller. Just tan. That tan is working for him.”

Yep, nothing like school gossip. Someone mentioned Orion in passing behind her—too loudly not to be intentional. Olivia didn’t flinch, but the name still caught like a hook in her ribs. It was always him, somehow. Not that she was thinking about him. Except maybe a little. Orion, with fire in his hands and that smile like a dare. They used to be friends. Not now, obviously. Now he was a walking cautionary tale of what too much elemental power and a perfect jawline could do to a person. Now he was nonchalant and complicated and extremely good at pretending she didn’t exist unless it was convenient. She kept her expression neutral and her pace brisk.

The fountain shimmered as she passed it.

She didn’t look.

Okay, she looked.

It was shimmering. Whatever. It did that sometimes.

“There’s a rumor,” someone once whispered in Spell Ethics, “that the fountain only sparkles when you’re about to fall in love.”

She didn’t believe it, obviously. She was a botanics major, not a victim of magical gossip. Still, her eyes flicked to the water. Still shimmering. Cool. Totally fine. Not symbolic at all.

Her phone buzzed. One notification. One message.

Blue tag. Spellecast.

Her stomach dropped.

She already knew.

Oliver.

‘Oh god’. Of course it was him, she had to force her expression to neutralize, well, at least she’s got the tiniest bit of self control. Oliver, laughing to the camera, had magic synced to a beat drop and his hoodie half-off like he didn’t know what he was doing (he definitely knew), layered with one of those internet-perfect smiles that never quite made it to his eyes if you were like, kinda obsessively paying attention, which she was not , obviously. She didn’t mean to watch it three times. Or save it. If you think about it, the use of enchantments applied to music is such an interesting topic for a graduating thesis. Maybe she could pitch it for some of her friends. 

She barely made it three steps into her first class when it happened. A blur of voices, perfume, and urgency tackled her from the left—Rose and Tulip, twins in attitude if not genetics, each clutching one of her arms like she was being arrested for crimes against being uninformed.

“You need to be sat down for this one, sis,” Rose said, dead serious, leading her to a seat like she was walking her to an execution.

Rose was impossible to ignore. Over six feet tall, all angles and eyeliner, with half a pixie haircut and enough combat boot energy to declare war. Glitter-cut eyeliner sliced sharp across her lids, her leather jacket slung over one shoulder. She was intimidating to strangers and a walking chaos fairy to her friends.

Tulip was her opposite and somehow her echo—short, soft-featured, pale, and so androgynous they defied the laws of gender. Their blonde hair was streaked with pastel blue today, their earrings mismatched and both shimmering. The tips of their nails, naturally, were also blue.

Tulip nodded, wild-eyed. “You’re definitely gonna shit your pants.”

Cairo, already seated and sipping a coffee that smelled like fancy coffee beans and oat milk, looked up with a smirk. “I said we should’ve waited ‘til she saw him in the hallway. Shock factor. Peak comedy. You robbed me.”

Cairo—freckled forehead, razor wit, and jaw always loose with sarcasm—was stretched across his seat like he ruled the school. Which he kind of did. People either wanted to be him, kiss him, or get roasted by him. He was the group’s public relations department and emergency legal team all rolled into one.

“What are you—” Olivia didn’t finish, because Tulip was already shoving a phone in her face.

It was a photo. A very high-quality, suspiciously well-framed photo. Oliver. Stepping through the front doors of Castellan Hall —aka the dorm where the rich kids, scholarship unicorns, and legacy-name descendants lived, aka your dorm—  

“No…”

His denim jacket was slightly oversized, his smile too nice, his duffel bag hanging off one shoulder like a model in a drink ad. She gasped. Actually gasped. A few people turned, screw them. She furiously grabbed the phone and let her bag fall to the floor unceremoniously, probably shouldn’t have done that, her glass water bottle is in there. 

“What the fuck ?!” Her voice cracked. “Tell me it’s not true. Tell me this is photoshopped. Tell me—” she looked alarmed at her friends trying desperately hoping this was a joke, a sick joke, maybe Cairo’s idea.

“Told you she was gonna faint,” Rose said smugly. “She’s pale already. Look at her—ghoul vibes.”

“Better from us than her literally bumping into him in the hallway and freezing in place like a cursed NPC,” Tulip muttered, swiping the screen back into lock mode. She went to grab the phone back but they slapped her hand away. She pouted.

Cairo sipped his coffee again. “Which would’ve been hilarious if we’d done this my way.”

Olivia dropped into her seat like her legs gave out. “He’s here? Like in this university? Like for real? Like he’s gonna be here for a whole year ? In the music club right next to my greenhouse ? Like living-living on campus ?”

“She’s broken, we’re not gonna have a class representative this year because we broke her, and I’m def not gonna postulate” Tulip said.

“Not just on campus,” Rose grinned. “Your dorm wing.”

“You’re lying .”

“She’s not,” Cairo said. “We triple-checked. They uploaded the room assignments on the HallNet. His room is across from yours… three levels down, but technically close.”

“I’m gonna die,” Olivia said, covering her face with her hands. 

“Die hot,” Tulip added helpfully. “That’s the dream.

Olivia was still muttering into her palms—something about mandrake leaves and medically induced comas—when the classroom doors flung open like a sitcom entrance.

“Hey, sorry we’re super late,” Sunny called, breezing in with a smile like sunlight and a voice full of good intentions, not even out of breath, tossing her bag onto the desk beside Olivia like it owed her rent. “This bitch right here forgot to set an alarm and we didn’t notice until Aaron  came banging at our door because we weren’t answering our phones, what’s up with her?” she asked, eyeing Olivia.

She threw her bag onto the desk beside Olivia like it owed her rent. Her brown-blonde hair swayed with the motion, honey-colored and effortlessly perfect. Sunny was warmth incarnate. Best friend since birth. Kind to a fault. Wrapped in a bee-embroidered cardigan because of course she was. Bees were her thing—she loved pollinators more than she loved people, and she loved people a lot.

Behind her, Moony all sharp cheekbones and cold, pretty menace. Blue eyes like frostbite. The quiet twin. The intimidating one. Moon slinked in behind her, iced coffee in hand. Her eyes as blue as ever just rolled at her sister’s comment, “There’s two people in the room, like both parts can place an alarm you know?” She gave a vague greeting to the rest of us and immediately went to sit with Aaron—who greeted everyone warmly and just sat down. “Why do I feel tension and not the cool kind?”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine,” Cairo called lazily. “We already had our morning existential crisis. Join us.”

“We’re showing Olivia the photo,” Tulip said, all business now. “The photo. ”

“Oh?” Sunny leaned in. “What photo?”

Rose handed her the phone like it was sacred. “Brace yourself.”

Sunny stared for exactly two seconds. “Oh… oh-oh.”

Olivia let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a scream. “You knew, didn’t you?” she said accusingly, pointing at the twins.

“We literally just found out!” Rose protested. “We’re being nice!”

“You’re being nosy ,” Olivia muttered, dragging her hands down her face like she could erase her identity and become a low-level hedge witch in the forest.

“Don't, you’ll ruin your makeup and we can’t have you looking like that right now” Sunny said, grabbing her arms softly. Olivia gave her the biggest puppy eyes. 

Moon finally looked up from her iced coffee. “Wait… is that the guy ?”

Olivia shot her a look.

“Y’know. The one with the music magic. The… very online one?”

Another groan.

“You’re gonna have to be more specific,” Cairo added dryly. “It’s a campus full of annoying men.”

Aaron nodded solemnly. “Facts.”

“Hey, what’s up with Olivia?” someone shouted across the lecture hall as they slid into a seat, noticing the cluster of expressions frozen around her.

All of them replied in perfect deadpan harmony: “Nothing.”

“Like i said, annoying men” Cairo shifted in his seat and glared at them before focusing on his coffee and social media.

Olivia felt the weight of their stares crawling up her spine like ivy. She wasn’t sure why that stupid photo had knocked the air from her lungs—okay, she knew exactly why—but she wasn’t about to let anyone see her flustered. Not anymore. Senior year was supposed to be the year she got everything right. Smooth, focused, unbothered. And definitely not spiraling over a boy she once gave an agro-botanics presentation to in a high school gym that smelled like mop water and puberty.

She straightened up slowly, like she was made of marble instead of nerves and frayed edges, brushing a hand over her hair like it had betrayed her. The words came out cooler than she felt.

“What—afraid I’ll chicken out of being rep again this year?” she said, her tone sweet but edged like thorns. “Please. Like any of you could handle it.”

There was a sharp collective “OHHH” from the surrounding seats.

It hit like a spell misfired—surprise, a little laughter, and the necessary disruption.

Cairo let out a delighted, “There she is,” as if she’d just arrived at her own body.

But Olivia could still feel her heart beating in her throat. The expectation. The need to always be on . Pretty, smart, capable. Cool enough to be respected, soft enough to be liked. It wasn’t something she ever said out loud, but it was always humming under her skin. If she slipped, if she cracked , people would start rewriting who she was. So she didn’t let herself crack.

The classroom smelled like old paper, spell residue, and someone’s leftover iced potion. The ceiling was carved stone with slow, curling enchantments glowing overhead—runes that shimmered to indicate the day's subject track. This class—Magical Ethics and Society—was a cross-major requirement, which meant half the students didn’t want to be there, and the other half were there purely to stare at Professor Rhys.

The door clicked open and the room stilled.

Professor Rhys didn’t walk—he glided, his enchanted coat hovering inches off the ground. He looked like a former war mage who had taken a vow of espresso and emotional repression. Early forties. Crisp salt-and-pepper hair that curled slightly at the nape. Neatly trimmed beard. Sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes. He didn’t smile much, and somehow that made it worse. You didn’t get to know Professor Rhys. You just tried not to disappoint him.

Tulip sat up straighter, doing nothing to hide the subtle sparkle on their eyelids. Their blue-tipped fingers adjusted their collar like they were preparing to be auctioned off to fate.

He flicked his wand at the chalkboard, which unfolded itself like parchment midair. Ink bloomed: Unit 1 – Power, Privilege, and Magical Ethics in Institutional Systems.

“Settle in, folks. This isn't the first year anymore, your coffee better be brewed and your brains awake,” he said, voice warm but clipped. “Now. Before we begin, we’ve got the fun little matter of class representation. I know, I know. But it’s tradition. And for cross-major electives like this one, the position is crucial.”

Groans rippled through the hall. Olivia stiffened.

Rhys ignored them. “In this course, we have students from magical botany, applied arts, magical ethics, and elemental theory. I’ll need someone who’s communicative, reliable, and, ideally, already somewhat familiar with the student council process.”

All heads turned in slow synchronization toward Olivia.

Her face remained composed, but her stomach did that nervous backflip it always did when someone looked at her like she was the answer to a question she hadn’t agreed to hear.

“You know the drill. Nominations? Volunteers? Threats? Bribes?”

Olivia opened her mouth—because of course she was going to volunteer—but before she could speak, the volume in the back of the room rose just a touch too much. And that was when they walked in.

The populars . Ew, why do they call themselves that? Like literally ew.

They didn’t just walk in—they arrived . Loud laughter. Expensive glamours. Designer spell-pinned jackets. The hallway behind them still smelled like cinnamon cologne and hubris.

At the center of the group: Orion Cittadella.

Sunlight from the window hit him just wrong enough to make him look like a movie scene. Tousled blond hair, smirk set to “dangerous,” black button up rolled to his elbows with faint burn marks at the hem showing off his vast number of tattoos, and fingertips faintly aglow with heat. Even now, his magic wasn’t fully dormant. Fire clung to him like a loyal shadow.

His presence shifted the air. Not metaphorically. Literally. The stone floor warmed. A nearby candle flickered harder. The back row sighed.

Olivia didn’t flinch, but her jaw tensed.

He hadn’t changed. Still walked like the world should part for him. Still looked at a room like he’d already conquered it.

Next to him was Gloria—dark skin glowing under layered glamours, curls braided tight and shining with spell-slick oil. Her heels clicked like punctuation. Midriff bared. Lip gloss enchanted to shimmer under natural light.

And Stefan, elemental water. Blonde mermaid hair cascading down her back, loose top sliding off one shoulder like a beach goddess who got bored of the ocean and came to class on a dare.

And of course, Indiana brought up the rear. Tall. Ice-blue eyes. Brown hair always windswept from something—practice or arrogance. He looked like a Quidditch villain and talked like your older brother’s meanest friend. Blunt, athletic, handsome, and about as subtle as a fireball.

They settled into the back row with theatrical ease, a glamorized chaos tornado in group form.

Someone raised a hand lazily. Olivia didn’t even turn to look—she already knew.

“Guess it’s party season already,” Cairo muttered beside her, following her gaze with a raised brow.

“I nominate Orion Cittadella for class rep,” drawled a familiar voice, Indiana.

Of course.

“He’s got leadership. Charisma. Connections to the student event board,” the guy added.

Someone from the middle row chuckled. Another chimed in, “And the party committee.”

A few chuckles. A few knowing glances. A few eye-rolls.

Orion raised his hands like he hadn’t orchestrated the whole thing. “If the class wants me to serve,” he said, tone lazy but calculated, “I’d be honored.”

Olivia’s spine straightened again on instinct. ‘No way in seven hells’ . She didn’t need this to become a popularity contest. Especially not with him . Not because of jealousy—she didn’t even like him like that. Probably. Maybe.

No, this was about principle.

She raised her hand before she could stop herself, thankfully someone beat her to it. 

“I nominate Olivia,” Moony said coolly, her voice slicing through the tension like a scalpel.

A few heads turned. A few brows rose. Olivia blinked.

Moony, who rarely spoke unless it was important. Moony, who had spent most of the morning sipping her iced brew and side-eyeing the rest of the chaos. Moony had just... casually thrown her under the administrative bus.

Olivia turned, and Moony shrugged, eyes unreadable, and spoke to her but loud enough so her voice would carry across the room. “You already did it last year. You’re good at it. And you know how to deal with people.”

“She means you know how to scare them into cooperation,” Tulip stage-whispered.

“I’ll second that,” said Aaron, raising a hand. “The nomination. Not the intimidation.”

“She’s the obvious choice,” Rose added.

“And we want our party permits approved,” Cairo winked.

Rhys smiled slightly, as if he enjoyed this more than he should. “A classic battle of charm versus competence,” he murmured. “Alright. Olivia and Orion. We’ll vote in five minutes. Use your phones—yes, the school app actually does something now.”

As the students started pulling out devices and whispering among themselves, Olivia glanced at her friends. Rose gave her a thumbs-up. Tulip leaned over with a mischievous grin. “Go get him, witch.”

But Olivia wasn’t thinking about Orion anymore. Or Oliver, for that matter.

She was thinking about how tired she was of being seen one way by the campus and another by the people who mattered.

If she was going to be class rep this year, it wasn’t going to be because she was the safe choice. Or because people liked her vibe. It was going to be because she wanted it. 

Because she earned it.

And maybe—just maybe—because she was more than just pretty, or kind, or nice.

She was powerful. And it was time to remind everyone.

Voting closed with a soft chime, followed by a glowing projection above the board.

WINNER: OLIVIA CALLOWAY – by 2 votes.

A cheer rippled through the room.

Cairo whooped. Rose clapped. Moony gave a very dignified nod like she’d planned the whole thing in advance.

Olivia didn’t smile. Not yet. She wasn’t sure she could trust her mouth not to tremble.

She turned just slightly. Orion was leaning back, arms crossed, expression unreadable. When he caught her eye, he gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod and a wink.

Which meant Orion had voted for her. Her stomach twisted. That bastard .

Her brain short-circuited on that for the rest of class. She kept glancing at him, trying to catch his expression, but he didn’t look her way again. Didn’t acknowledge her at all, in fact.

Whatever. She won. 

Of course he’d throw her off like that. Or maybe he respected her more than he let on. Either way, it meant something. She just didn’t know what.

Class dispersed in waves, people splitting off into their next lectures, coffees, or campus gossip. Olivia gathered her things with methodical precision, her fingers still buzzing from the win. Her friends stayed close, Cairo slinging an arm over her shoulder like she’d just won prom queen.

“You owe me celebratory pastries,” he said.

“I second that,” said Rose. “With honey.”

“Extra frosting,” added Moony quietly.

She rolled her eyes but felt the tension start to bleed from her spine.

“Congrats, babe,” Tulip murmured, bumping her shoulder. “Now go flex that rep power on some freshmen.”

After class, Olivia didn’t go back to her dorm.

She headed straight for the greenhouse.

The entrance stood tucked behind a hedge wall near the west quad, nearly invisible unless you knew where to look. Students passed it every day without noticing. Olivia never missed it.

The iron gate opened with a hiss of warm air, the enchantment sensing her presence before she touched it. She stepped inside and shut it quickly behind her, letting the silence wrap around her like a second skin.

This wasn’t just a greenhouse.

It was a sanctuary.

A glass cathedral of tangled magic and old growth. The vaulted ceiling arched high above like a ribcage, dripping with flowering vines and spell-threaded moss. Light poured in through filtered glass—sun-tinted, moon-soaked—depending on the hour, the season, or the mood of the structure itself.

She breathed in deep. Dirt. Jasmine. Mana.

The central space was wide, cold, and slightly humid, filled with rows of tables, elevated garden beds, vine cradles, seedling pods, and magical instruments blinking faintly with active enchantments. This was the student commons section—open to all botany majors, and the unofficial turf of sleepless overachievers.

Olivia’s section—her table—sat half-sunk in wild growth. Her enchanted vines had gotten pushy again, curling possessively around the table legs, one of them swatting the pot of someone else’s soul basil as if offended by its proximity.

She whispered an apology and gently untangled the stems, coaxing them back toward their corner with practiced ease. The leaves responded instantly, shifting toward her touch like eager cats.

This was the strange thing about her.

Plants wanted to be near her. Even magical ones with bite warnings on their tags. Vines leaned toward her shoulder. Petals brushed her knuckles. Roots stirred when she walked by. Her mother called it a gift. Her professors called it an anomaly. She called it a blessing she didn’t fully understand.

Past the commons, four classrooms branched out—each tailored to a plant type: light-hungry, aquatic, carnivorous, and biome specials. Beyond them were two restricted areas, locked behind spell-forged doors etched with warding glyphs.

One of those rooms held the forbidden flora—plants so dangerous, rare, or mysterious no one even said their names out loud. Rumor had it the school didn’t list them in the archives. A do-not-disturb-or-you-might-die sort of room.

The second restricted area was more… complicated.

It wasn’t a lab.

It was a home.

A low stone archway hidden behind the carnivorous section led to a smaller domed annex, one most students didn’t even know existed. Inside it: a softly glowing fountain—forgotten, rumor said, by even the headmaster—and the largest tree on school grounds. Its trunk stretched so wide Olivia couldn’t reach around it, its bark shimmered with rune-like grooves, and its branches brushed the glass roof with slow, thoughtful movement, like it was listening.

The tree was alive.

Soul-bound.

And the soul was Professor Elryn’s.

No last name. No title beyond "Elryn." She was older than magic textbooks and possibly the school itself. Some said she and the principal had been classmates. Others said she was the tree. No one knew. She lived in the greenhouse annex like it was her penthouse and taught the advanced botanical electives like a stoned forest nymph with tenure.

Elryn was tall, dryad-gorgeous, always barefoot, and spoke in a mix of ancient dialects and surfer slang. Her lectures included phrases like “photosynth-slay,” “root-rage,” and “don’t forget to feed your plant baby or it will haunt your sleep.”

She wasn’t technically Olivia’s advisor.

But she might as well be.

Olivia set her tumbler down on her workbench. Her vines perked up at the sound, eager. She touched one leaf, smiling. “Miss me?”

It curled around her wrist in response.

She started sorting through her satchel—soil samples, rune tags, an apple that had been in there long enough to become theoretical fruit—when the greenhouse door creaked open again.

The first-years gathered near the arched entrance, half of them wide-eyed and phone-ready, the other half pretending they weren’t intimidated by the glowing vines overhead.

“Quiet down, sprouts, and take a seat, before we start let me introduce you to someone” called Professor Elryn, in all of her mix of bluntness and theatrical flair. “This is Olivia. She’s our TA and, unfortunately for you, actually knows what she’s doing.”

Olivia stepped forward, clipboard in hand, hair pulled back into a soft braid. She offered a smile that didn’t feel forced for once. “Hi. I’m Olivia. If you set fire to anything, I will know. And I will cry. And then I’ll make you clean it with a toothbrush.”

A couple nervous chuckles. One kid straightened their posture like he was in military training.

She scanned the faces—some familiar, most not. Until—

Oh.

She recognize two of them, she know their names, she knows their laughs and how they move, she remembers how they acted shy but not, close but not that close, this weird mixture between friends and —don’t want to fuck up something good but can’t help be extremely attracted to you and i certainly don’t notice how you look at me when i’m trying to avoid to look at you just so you don’t notice i look at you all the time — it was painful to watch back then, it is painful to watch now, young love. But that means, fuck , that means Oliver is really here, she was kinda hoping the whole thing was a project of her very vivid imagination and delusions but no, of course not, just how, why is he here?  

Class continued uneventfully, mostly people getting familiar with the subject, and all taking a few seedlings back to their dorms, this weird version of taking care of an egg that Professor Elryn likes to do on the first class of her subject. After everyone left and you were cleaning up, she sat down on the table you were cleaning, not very Professor-like but so very Elryn. 

"Hey there kiddo. Class good?"

"I got voted rep again."

Elryn winced. "Yikes. My condolences."

Olivia laughed.

The professor clipped a leaf and straightened. "Actually, I need a favor. Small one. Well, medium-small. You know how freshmen are."

"Terrifying in packs, manageable in pairs?"

"Exactly. A couple of first-years from other majors want to do their final on magical botany intersections. It’s ages away, but they’ll need guidance—and I’m already buried in thesis reviews and committee meetings."

"You want me to babysit some clueless cross-majors?"

"Once a week. They’ll only bug you then, and it counts toward your social service hours. And let’s be real, you already live here."

Olivia tilted her head. "Tempting."

"Plus, you can fold their projects into your thesis timeline—testing their dumb theories might even help your own."

That part actually made sense. Olivia blew out a breath. "Fine. But if they make me explain the difference between mana absorption and chloromagics one more time, I’m charging."

Elryn grinned. "Deal. First one’s scheduled for next Thursday. I’ll make sure they have access.”

Thursday rolled around, and Olivia was deep in replanting a section of enchanted sun-vines when the knock came.

She didn’t look up. "Hey! I’m in the back! Be right there—just let me get this straight. You’re the music-plant guy, right? Hi, I’m Olivia."

She stepped around the vine bed, hands still gloved and smudged with soil.

And froze.

Because standing there, looking all kinds of awkward and sunlit at the same time, was Oliver.

Hair soft and rebelliously wavy today. Silver earrings catching the greenhouse light. Lip ring glinting. His signature black nail polish—chipped just enough to make it feel personal. Oversized jacket cinched at the waist, baggy slacks, layered necklaces, and skin pale against the deep forest-green of his shirt.

He stepped into the light like he belonged in a song—just the part before the beat drops.

And those eyes. Dark blue-grey. Stormy. Kind.

He froze when he saw her.

She didn’t move.

"Oh," she said, because her brain had shorted.

“Hey,” he said, smiling. God. Those teeth. “You’re Olivia, right?”

She blinked. “Uh—yeah?”

“I’m Oliver.” As if she didn’t already know. As if she hadn’t rewatched all of his remix clips more than once. 

“I—I know,” she said. Then immediately hated herself.

And just like that, the entire greenhouse felt warmer. Not because of the climate charm. Not because of the lighting.

Because of him.

He laughed—short and shy. A little awkward. He touched one of his earrings, a tic she’d noticed in his videos. “Sorry for just barging in. Professor Elryn gave me access. I’m in the first-year botany-music crossover, or like you said: the music-plant guy.”

Of course he was.

"Right," she said, recovering, kinda, not really. "You’re late."

"I—Peter— one of the first years said it was at four—"

"It is. It’s four-oh-six."

He laughed, and it was soft, like he wasn’t used to being scolded.

And Olivia? Olivia was malfunctioning.

Internally, she was screaming. Externally, she might’ve looked like she’d just had a minor stroke.

Because he was just—too much. All at once. Not even doing anything except existing and being beautiful, which was worse somehow.

His eyes were clearer in person. He had that small, almost imperceptible dimple when he smiled—god, why did she know that already? And, oh no, was that a beauty mark on his cheek or a freckle or a curse placed by the universe specifically to mess with her? She was staring. She was definitely staring. She could feel it.

Say something, say something, say something.

“Sorry, yeah,...hi,” she managed, her voice twelve octaves too high. She coughed. Tried again. “Yes. Hi. I’m—Olivia. Again. Already said that. I—yeah. Um.”

Brain? Offline. I’m going to fucking die here. 

And he just kept smiling, like a sunrise wrapped in human form, easygoing and a little amused.

“I’m Oliver,” he said, again, offering a hand. “Sorry I didn’t come with the other first-years, I had a class conflict. Hope that’s okay.”

She nodded too fast. “Yeah! Yes. Totally fine. Happens. Schedules. Calendars. Time. Very real.”

What the hell was she saying?

His hand was warm when she shook it, and she could practically hear her neurons short-circuiting. Did he recognize her? He couldn’t, right? She used a pseudonym online when she commented on his videos. (Oh god, had she ever used her real account? Had she ever liked anything too obviously? Oh no, the playlist. The fan playlist. Abort.)

“Cool place,” he said, glancing around the greenhouse. “Kinda magical. In the literal way.”

She laughed too hard. “Yeah. Plants.” 

Plants? Really? ‘ kill me please just, off me, please’

“Right,” he grinned. “You said you’re Olivia. You’re, like… the senior? The plant expert?”

“Technically,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m the TA this semester. You’re stuck with me. Sorry in advance.”

“Don’t be,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m actually glad. I didn’t think anyone would want to help me with my weird project.”

Weird? No. Not weird. Intriguing. Adorable. Alarming, because now she had to spend actual time with him and pretend to be a functional human. But also... exciting?

“Well,” she said, gathering what remained of her dignity, “anyone who wants to study the emotional responses of plants to soundwaves gets bonus points in my book.”

He smiled again—bright and grateful and easy—and she felt something shift dangerously inside her chest.

This was going to be a problem.

"You really live here? Sorry that’s what that Dryad Professor said, her words" he asked, stepping deeper into the greenhouse, admiring.

"I believe you, and yeah, half-time. The plants need someone who remembers to water them."

Oliver looked around with something like wonder. His fingers hovered over a glowing bloom but didn’t touch it. "So... I have this idea. For the final. It might be dumb."

"Try me."

"I wanted to study how sound magic affects magical flora. Like... how frequency, tone, even musical intention might change plant behavior. Originally I wanted to test animals but no pets allowed on campus, and plants are the next best living thing, right?"

Olivia tilted her head. It wasn’t the worst idea she’d heard. Could definitely work and knowing his voice, his talent — and she knew— could totally work, would work, or she would die of embarrassment.

"You’ll need controls. A null field. Probably a few dozen samples. Soundproof chambers if you’re serious."

His eyes lit up.

She sighed. "I’ll help you build a framework next week. Bring Peter and the other girl he’s always ogling. You’ll need consistent observers."

"Thank you," he said, voice soft. He smiled like she’d just handed him something more than a research partner.

She turned back toward the vine bed. "Don’t thank me yet. This greenhouse doesn’t like everyone."

From behind her: "But it likes you."

And something about the way he said it made her chest feel like it was full of blooming things.

She ignored that.

For now.

Chapter Text

The sun spilled over the enchanted west lawn like honey—warm, slow, and enchanted just enough to keep the bugs out and the breeze perfect. The grass was always dry, thanks to charmwork in the soil, and the hedges hummed faintly with illusion spells that kept sound from bouncing too far. It was the perfect place to pretend midterms didn’t exist.

"I hate my life," Olivia declared, flopping onto the picnic blanket like a Victorian ghost bride. “It’s over. Bury me with my thesis notes and  my three cursed succulents.”

“You say that every Thursday,” Rose said, completely unfazed as she passed her a fruit cup. “It’s Monday.”

“Okay but emotionally? It’s Thursday.”

The group was spread across one of the school's many sun-dappled fields, where enchanted hedges kept the wind at a perfect breeze and the grass always stayed dry. It was a known hangout spot—especially around midterms when the library turned hostile and the commons became a hunger games arena for outlets.

Moony was sketching bees. Cairo was sunbathing like a cat in a crop top. Aaron and Tulip were sharing weird magically carbonated something, maybe tea. Sunny had her head in Olivia’s lap, calmly weaving a daisy chain like it was 1820 and not a week before three final project proposals were due.

It was perfect. Almost.

“Did something happen,” Moony asked without looking up, “or are you just being mentally ill for sport?”

“Little column A, little column B,” Olivia sighed, tipping her head back dramatically.

It had been a month since Oliver strolled into her greenhouse and made the ambient mana spike for reasons she was still pretending not to understand. A month of too-long glances, too-soft laughter, and plants that hummed when he spoke near them. And she had, to her credit, stopped glitching around him. Mostly. But the crush? Still thriving. Aggressively.

Also thriving: everyone else’s expectations.

“I haven’t slept in like three days,” Olivia mumbled, tugging a leaf off her fruit cup. “And Tteokbokki tried to bite me this morning.”

“Your cactus has been feral since the beginning of this semester,” said Cairo lazily, “which is probably your fault.”

Before Olivia could retort, a voice—too smooth to be innocent—cut through the calm.

The peace of their little moment shattered like a bad glamour spell.

“Hey, strangers!” came a voice too chipper to be innocent.

Olivia squinted up at the approaching figures. And internally groaned. Externally as well.

Orion.

Of course .

He strolled up like a boyband villain flanked by Gloria—air elemental, always perfectly braided and permanently filtered—and Stefan, half-mermaid glam goddess and walking brand deal for magical sunscreen. Behind them, Indiana, all height and bite, smirked like someone who always said the worst possible thing… and somehow got applauded for it.

The group looked too good to be good.

Olivia sat up straighter, Sunny adjusting beside her with an annoyed little hum.

“Well well,” Cairo said, shielding his eyes with his hand like a sun visor. “If it isn’t the cast of Euphoria: Avatar Edition .”

“Hi, everyone,” Orion said smoothly, somehow making it sound both polite and predatory.

“Hi,” the others chorused back, with varying degrees of distrust.

“I don’t trust this,” Rose whispered.

“Def sus,” Tulip agreed.

Orion crouched near Olivia, hands draped over his knees like they were casually friends now. “You look radiant today, Rep.”

‘Not today, Satan’

“Spit it out, Orion,” Olivia said, not even blinking. “What do you want?”

Gloria blinked, startled. Indiana snorted. Orion just grinned—he liked it when she didn’t play nice.

“We want access to the conference room Friday night,” he said. “Just for a little event. Petition’s signed and submitted. But we figured, you know, if you put in a good word, it’ll go through faster.”

“You mean if I put in a good word, no one will double check the guest list or the fire charms or the alcohol,” Olivia replied sweetly.

Indiana laughed. “She’s quick.”

“She always is, that’s why we like her” Orion said, hand to heart. “But really. You’re powerful, Olivia. Beautiful. Smart. Responsible.”

“You’re pushing it,” Olivia said, but there was a flicker of amusement at the corners of her mouth.

He leaned in. You’re too close. “I’m just saying… your support would mean a lot.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ll think about it.”

He kissed her cheek. Quick. Hot. Magical residue lingering like citrus and combustion. Then he stood and sauntered off with his entourage in tow, like a rockstar leaving a stage he didn’t have to earn.

Olivia stared after him, just long enough to hate herself a little.

No And it shouldn’t have gotten to her.

And yet.

She couldn’t stop the question from surfacing—

‘Do I like him?’

Or was it just that Orion looked like he stepped out of a forbidden romance novel—tall, golden, tattooed, his fingers always faintly glowing like a secret spell waiting to burn you?

She hated that it still got to her.

As soon as they were out of earshot, everyone exploded at once.

“That was a hit squad,” Moony said calmly.

“Too coordinated,” Aaron agreed. “Did you see the enchanting spells on their sleeves?”

“Enchanted sleeves are code for deception,” Cairo nodded.

Rose crossed her arms. “I do not trust him. Bad vibes. That smile had fake charm written all over it.”

“And yet his cheekbones are real,” Cairo lamented. “A tragic case of evil hotness.”

Olivia rubbed her face. “I’m surrounded by fools.”

“Hot fools,” said Aaron.

“Do not encourage them.”

“Anyway,” said Tulip. “What are you gonna do?”

Olivia laid back down, staring at the cloudless sky. “I’m gonna pretend I don’t care. And then I’ll obsess about it for three hours in the greenhouse.”

“Healthy,” Sunny chirped, patting her knee. 

The room smelled like roasted espresso, spell-ink, and expensive paper.

Thank the goddess it wasn’t being held in the main lecture hall—Professor Elwyn's office was small, enchanted for sound privacy, and most importantly, came stocked with the good coffee. Olivia had already poured herself a cup the second she arrived. No one needed to know she’d added a shot of focus syrup. Or two.

She took her seat with practiced grace, back straight, expression unreadable. Just another responsible senior rep, totally not internally unraveling over hormonal tension, social trauma, and the unrelenting weight of being Everyone’s Favorite Overachiever™.

Across the table sat Reginald, the other senior class rep. He was so quiet Olivia sometimes forgot he was real. Math major. Brilliant, probably. Polite, definitely. But conversations with him felt like trying to text a calculator.

Next to him was a second-year girl with bright pink braids and four floating pens. To her left, a third-year boy with glamorized eyes and a folder full of debate notes, and across from them, a few exhausted TAs and two professors Olivia didn’t know by name.

And then—of course—Professor Rhys walked in last, black coat trailing behind him, hair perfectly salt-and-pepper, eyes sharp like he already knew whose petitions were going to be denied.

He gave a short nod. “Let’s begin.”

The scroll in front of him unfurled with a dramatic whoosh. Ink lifted from the parchment midair and displayed the meeting's agenda in glowing calligraphy.

        Item 1: Petition Review
        Item 2: Academic Event Scheduling
        Item 3: Thesis Grant Distributions
        Item 4: Open Floor

Classic. Bureaucracy with a glamour filter.

Olivia took another sip of coffee and braced herself.

Petitions ranged from mundane (“Can we get glamoured-charmed dorm uniforms for the choir?”) to deranged (“Request to host the next poetry slam on brooms midair”). Every time someone read one out, Olivia swore she lost a week of life.

The second-year girl proposed extending library hours for exam month. Everyone nodded like it was a revelation. Olivia made a note to push that one through immediately. The third-year guy argued for multi-major study clusters. Rhys asked for a three-bullet proposal and reminded him this wasn’t a debate club.

When it came to the event scheduling portion, Olivia straightened her notes, ready to fight for at least three free Fridays in the upcoming cycle. Reginald, to his credit, nodded in support. He didn’t speak much, but he approved efficient logistics like a proud little calculator.

Professor Rhys tapped his wand. “Ms. Calloway, I assume you’ve prepared options for the upcoming inter-major project showcase?”

“Two full models and a rotation map,” Olivia replied, sliding her enchanted parchment forward. “All class reps were sent the overview. I marked trouble spots in yellow.”

A pause.

Then—Rhys nodded.

“Efficient,” he said.

She would take that as the highest form of praise.

“Next item,” Rhys said, flipping through the stack of enchanted parchment with a sigh. “Special request submitted by Orion Cittadella and affiliates—conference room closure for... social event?”

“It’s a party,” said one of the student reps dryly. “They’re calling it a ‘soft launch’ for the semester.”

“Charming,” Elan muttered. “And I see the petition has enough signatures.”

Rhys raised a brow, glancing up. “Thoughts, Ms. Calloway? You’re his class rep”

Of course.

All heads turned toward Olivia.

She paused, lips parting. She could say no. She could ask for more specifics, more precautions, fireproofing charms, sound barriers . But that would trigger another hour of debate, and she had three lab reports due and two freshmen trying to grow tomatoes in the wrong season —“ You’re powerful, Olivia. Beautiful. Smart. Responsible” ‘Ughhhh’.

So instead, she said, “They’ve promised to limit guests and follow protocol. I say we approve it— on record .”

Elan raised a skeptical brow. Rhys smiled slightly, almost amused. But no one objected.

“Approved,” he said, tapping the form with his wand to seal the enchantment.

Olivia leaned back in her chair. She told herself it didn’t matter. That it was just a party. That it wasn’t about him.

And still, in the quiet between notes, she found herself texting Orion.

       Done. You owe me one .

The three dots appeared instantly.

      You’re amazing, Rep. Already counting the ways I can repay you .

Olivia stared at the screen. Regretted texting. Regretted smiling. Regretted being weak for this brand of chaos.

And yet.

She didn't reply.

Thursday

By Thursday afternoon, the entire campus buzzed like it had been spell-sugared. That specific kind of pre-party chaos where everyone pretended they weren’t waiting for night to fall and the glamours to come out.

Posters shimmered across walls, enchanted with glowing ink and sound-triggered glitter fonts:

“Back From the Dead” Semester Kickoff

This Saturday – 8PM – Conference Room 3C

Rep-approved. Professors don’t need to know.

BYO-potions. Glamours optional. V.I.P. verified by Class Rep.

She hadn’t approved that last part.

Everywhere she went, people nodded at her like she’d handed them divine permission. She got thank-you winks in hallways. Someone passed her a gold-stamped flyer with “Real One” scribbled across the bottom in enchanted ink. A freshman bowed. Actually bowed.

Cairo had texted:

        “Can’t believe you let the Wicked Coven win. You’re a slippery menace, Calloway.”

And then:

        “Still love you. But a menace.”

She didn’t disagree.

By the time she reached the quad, a group of students were rehearsing glamours for their party fits and someone was flying around on a levitation disc handing out mini bottles of enchanted body glitter.

She could feel it—the way her name was suddenly spoken like it came with a nod of approval, the way people treated her like she was a little more powerful than she’d been yesterday.

And yet, all she could think about was the text Orion had sent her. The way he’d phrased it.

Already counting the ways I can repay you .

Like it was a game. Like she’d done him a favor not because it was strategic or convenient—but because he’d asked .

And worse: part of her was afraid he was right.

Greenhouse - Thursday Afternoon

Olivia had just begun settling into her post-lab ritual—sleeves rolled, notes scrawled, dirt under her nails, and the sweet, clean hush of the greenhouse folding around her like a spell. The sun filtered in at a mellow angle now, hazy and golden, making the glass ceiling look like honeycomb. This was her time. The one place on campus where nobody expected her to smile or solve anything.

She was half-listening to a chimevine mutter as she tweaked its nutrient rune when the door opened with a low groan.

Footsteps.

Not hurried or lost, so definitely not a freshman. She wiped her hands on her apron and called out, “If you’re here to flirt with the carnivorous plants again, Sunny’s shift was yesterday.”

No answer.

She sighed, stood up, turned around—

And it was Oliver.

He stood in the doorway holding one of the neon party flyers, sunlight catching the piercings in his ear and the barely-there shimmer of his shirt. Loose slacks. Casual jacket. Hair falling like he’d run his hands through it too many times. He looked… unbothered. Effortless.

Lethal.

“Hey,” he said, voice soft and warm as a chorus. “Thought I should warn you—first campus party’s about to turn feral.”

She stared at the flyer he held like it was a live grenade. “Not you, too.”

He grinned. “Sadly, yes. Check the lineup.”

She took it. And, of course—there he was. Listed under Special Guests. Right after Indiana —Some Freshman DJ Everyone’s Panties Are Dropping For. 

Classy.

“You’re on the host list?” she said, half-accusation.

“Apparently, if you’re mildly famous and have a symmetrical face, you get conscripted.”

“That’s not conscription. That’s a recruitment strategy.”

He laughed, loose and easy. “I’m not even good at parties.”

“You’re pretty. That’s ninety percent of the job.”

He tilted his head, and for a moment she couldn’t tell if he was about to flirt or apologize.

He laughed. “Yeah, I guess I’m the face of... whatever this is.” He paused. “I didn’t think I was invited, and then Gloria literally enchanted the invite to appear in my room, which, highly disturbing

“And your friends?” she asked warily.

“They’re in by association. You know Peter and Mako?”

“The situationship duo.”

“That’s the one.”

Right on cue, Peter and Mako strolled in behind him. Peter had his usual open shirt and mischievous grin, while Mako was wearing a cosmic-print bomber jacket and chewing enchanted gum that glowed violet every time she blew a bubble.

“Hey, Professor Olivia,” Mako said cheerfully.

Peter gave her finger guns. “Just checking in on our plants-slash-social lives.”

Olivia groaned. “You’re all actually going?” she said holding the neon invite for them to see.

“Well, yeah,” Mako said. “It’s like... the first big party of the year, and we’re freshmans so…”

Peter leaned against a planting table. “You don’t strike me as the rave-in-the-conference-room type, was certain I heard wrong when they said you endorsed it.”

“I’m not. I didn’t. Technically. I helped approve the damn thing, which means I’ll be busy praying nothing catches fire.”

Oliver tilted his head, giving her a look that made her insides lurch. “Wait. You knew they were going to ask me to attend?”

She rubbed her temples. “No. I had no idea what really entitled it, truthfully, when I gave the council the final nod. Thought it was a generic welcome event.”

Peter snorted. “If that’s your narrative.”

Mako blew another violet bubble. “But now we’re all going, so you kinda have to show up too, we don't know many seniors.”

“I really don’t.”

Oliver’s smile tilted sideways. “C’mon. You’re the face of bureaucracy and benevolent rule. You have to make a five-minute appearance at least.”

“Stop using my own guilt-tripping techniques against me.”

He just smiled at her, and her brain stuttered. "Please?"

Gods. He was too pretty. Not just “cute” or “handsome.” This was infuriating, art-student-turned-idol, objectively-unfair face pretty. She noticed that same little beauty mark again—how had it become the most distracting thing in the universe?

And now he was looking at her, in this filtered, sun-drenched greenhouse light like something out of a fever dream, and she—

She was completely, utterly brain dead.

She’d found her words around him in the last few weeks, sure. He wasn’t as intimidating now. They even had inside jokes about noise spells and caffeine dependencies. But now, with his soft smile and stupidly good soft cheeks?

Olivia short-circuited.

“Cool, cool, cool,” she muttered, nodding at nothing. “Party stuff. Love that for us.”

Oliver blinked. “You okay?”

“Me? Fine. Great. I love plants. I mean—parties. I love parties. Just not at the same time. Or... ever.”

Peter raised a brow at Mako. “She’s glitching.”

“She’s endearing,” Oliver said, still smiling.

Olivia wanted the earth to swallow her. Or maybe the piranha blossoms to suddenly gain sentience and eat her whole.

Instead, she straightened her spine, pretending her voice hadn’t just cracked like a cursed potion bottle. “Anyway. You’re here to check on your project, right?” She asked then turned towards the other two. “And you’re here because he is here and you’re a package deal”

Oliver nodded. “Yup. I downloaded some spectral sound curves to test. Want to see them?”

“Sure”

He leaned closer, tugging his phone from his pocket. She caught a whiff of him—clean, fresh like citrus and basil and maybe a spell for charm because ugh. She nodded mutely.

Mako and Peter watched the exchange like it was a romance play they were unwillingly dragged into but now couldn’t look away from.

Mako whispered to Peter, “Ten galleons she asks him if he believes plants can fall in love.”

Peter whispered back, “Fifteen if she tries to prove it with a monologue.”

“We can hear you and I can still ruin your potted seedlings and make it seem like an accident, just remember who the one that has a clue on botanics here is.” Olivia cleared her throat and forced herself to snap out of it. “ Right . Let’s look at those sound curves.”

But deep down, as she walked beside him to the worktable, she already knew: this semester was going to kill her.

Saturday

The dorm room smelled like perfume and warm curling iron coils. Bits of glitter clung to every available surface—Sunny’s doing, obviously—and there was a half-devoured pizza box on the desk, guarded by a single, solemn basilisk-eyed slice.

Saturday nights were for dressing like your crush was definitely going to be there.

And tonight? He was. Both of them were.

“I hate my closet,” Olivia muttered, holding up a red backless top like it had personally betrayed her. “None of this says ‘casually powerful and emotionally untouchable.’ It just says slutty tree nymph who cries in the shower.”

“So… you?” Moony deadpanned, perched in the doorway, eyeliner knife-sharp and boots already laced. “You’re stalling”

“You say that like it’s news,” Rose called from the bathroom, one leg propped on the counter as she carefully adjusted her boots. Her sheer button-up shimmered faintly under the dorm lighting, and she looked like she was about to beat someone up at an art gallery. She looked good, androgynous, in a different way from the rest, considering Tulip did look like you’d never guess their assigned gender at birth and Cairo looked like a fashion twink but you definitely could tell he still had some masculinity. Her friends were gorgeous. “You hate your closet every time we go out.”

“Because my closet is stupid and I’m stupid and everything is stupid,” Olivia said, flopping face-down into the pile.

Moony, perched on her desk chair painting her nails a sharp indigo, didn’t even look up. “You’re not stupid. You’re spiraling.”

“And you’re dramatic,” Tulip added, already dressed and lying upside down on Sunny’s bed with a crystal on their forehead blue like the ends of their blonde hair plus a glowing hair charm flickering in time with their pulse. “Is this about the party or the boy?”

“Yes,” Olivia muffled into the bedsheets.

There was a pause. Then, laughter. Low and familiar.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Sunny said gently, emerging from her half of the closet with a pastel dress covered in embroidered bees. “Where you pretend it’s about one thing but it’s actually about six.”

“It’s not six things.”

“It’s at least five,” Moony said, finally blowing on her nails.

“Let’s see,” Rose ticked off, now lounging in the doorway. “One: You’re nervous about the party. Two: You hate the fact that Orion is the one who technically asked you to approve it, and he’s ya know, him . Three: You’re worried something’s gonna go horribly wrong and you’ll be blamed. Four: You’ve got that thing about not being allowed to have fun because you’re in charge —and you’re not—. And five—”

“Don’t,” Olivia warned, lifting her head.

“—you’ve been hopelessly, humiliatingly crushing on a literal freshman.”

“Rose!”

“It’s not humiliating,” Sunny rushed to say, sitting beside Olivia and rubbing her back. “It’s kind of sweet.”

Moony nodded, eyes soft. “You do that sometimes. Fall for someone you’re not supposed to.” If only you knew.

Tulip raised a hand from their upside-down position. “Counterpoint: It’s also kind of hilarious.”

“You guys suck,” Olivia mumbled, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “I don’t even know him. Not really. And it’s not like I planned it. It just… happened.”

“Like pollen,” said Sunny wistfully. “Just floating in.”

“Exactly!” Olivia sat up. “Like, I knew who he was before I met him. I know his room, and his cat and everything really because I used to watch his livestreams religiously. But it was this abstract thing, like a celebrity crush. It didn’t feel real.”

“Until he walked into the greenhouse and opened his mouth?” Moony asked.

“And smiled,” Moony added teasing. “And had a beauty mark on his cheek! And was just—so much!”

She glared at them, betrayed.

Rose snorted. “We get it. The man is pretty, that much is obvious. Not in the hot dumb guy way, but in the ‘accidentally made a dryad fall in love with him’ kind of way.”

“Right?” Olivia threw her arms up. “And now I have to see him at this party and try not to stare like an idiot or say something embarrassing or fall down a flight of stairs.”

“You won’t,” said Moony. “You’re composed. Usually.”

“Except when she panics and walks into shelves,” said Tulip. “Remember that lab incident?”

“Don’t remind me,” Olivia groaned, but she was laughing now.

They let the topic hang there, light and silly, like party smoke.

“Okay,” said Rose, standing to stretch. “Real talk. Are you going to flirt with him?”

Olivia blinked. “ What? ”

“Because you could ,” Rose shrugged. “You’re smart, hot, intimidating when you want to be. You have power. Don’t act like you don’t know it.”

“She’s right,” Moony agreed. “You’re not some lovesick kid. You’re Olivia. You walk into rooms and people shut up.”

“That’s not true,” Olivia muttered.

“Yes it is babe,” said Sunny, her voice quiet but certain. “Even when you’re overthinking everything, you still manage to be… impressive.”

“I think,” said Tulip thoughtfully, “you’re scared of liking someone who doesn’t see all that.”

Everyone fell silent.

Sometimes Tulip just said things like that. Like their mouth was a divination crystal that filtered feelings into prophecy. Maybe that’s why they had that gem on their head.

“I think I’m scared of liking someone. Period, it never works out for me.” Olivia admitted.

“You don’t have to do anything tonight,” Sunny said. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“I know.”

“But if you do,” Rose said, digging through the pile and holding up one of Olivia’s silkier tops, red and backless “maybe wear this?”

“And earrings,” said Tulip, grabbing big star shaped ones. “If nothing else, they can double as tiny weapons.”

“I brought shimmer balm!” said Sunny, sitting up properly. “Let me do your eyes.”

Olivia let herself be tugged and primped and painted. She let them pick her outfit and fluff her hair and chant little spells for confidence and clear skin. She let herself be a friend, not just a rep or a student or a planner of everyone else’s good time.

And when she looked in the mirror, she felt—well, not perfect. But pretty. Real. Ready.

Kind of.

“Okay,” she exhaled. “Let’s do this.”

The conference room didn’t look like a conference room anymore.

It looked like temptation had been distilled into color and movement. The ceiling had been charmed to shimmer like a living aurora—pink and gold ribbons of glamor light rolling across enchanted mist that pulsed with the music. Spell-bound projectors cast illusions against the walls: slow-burning images of forest fire kisses, collapsing stars, velvet wings in flight. Overstimulation was curated here.

The room was hot with bodies. Too many perfumes clashing with each other. Skin glowing with enchantments and confidence. Wardrobes ranged from barely-there glamours to floor-length drama. Crop tops stitched with runes. Skirts made of smoke. A guy walked past shirtless except for floating lapel pins that spelled “YES DADDY” in glowing cursive.

Olivia hadn’t even reached the dance floor yet, and her drink was already sweating in her hand.

The table of drinks was its own ecosystem.

Charms floated above bottles: “Wicked Bloom – floral, mild hallucinogen,” “Midnight Resin – spicy, you’ll text your ex,” “Starlit Crush – may induce horniness or crying,” and, of course, “Water (lol).” Someone had also mixed a batch of “Horny Goat Fizz” and poured it into potion vials with glittering tops. A sign next to it read: SFW if you don’t ask questions.

People were drinking like it was a shared performance—cups clinking, potions fizzing on tongues, one guy levitating a whole jug of Lustfruit Sangria and letting it drip into his mouth like a fountain. Moony snagged a lavender haze drink and sipped it without changing expression. Cairo was drinking something pink and glowing and probably illegal.

“I don’t trust that bottle,” Olivia muttered as she passed the sangria.

“Trust isn’t the point,” Aaron pointed out.

“This is way better than I thought it would be,” Cairo shouted over the music, his hair glittering faintly with spell-dust as he twirled away into the crowd.

“I know!” Tulip said, ducking in beside Olivia. Their eyeliner was smudged perfectly and they had somehow stolen a disco ball pin from someone’s collar. “I mean, it’s tragic how good they are at this.”

A group near the wall was dancing without music—their own glamoured rhythm playing only in their heads. Two air majors floated three inches above the floor, spinning slowly. A water witch had conjured tiny waves to ripple under her heels like she was dancing on the sea. Someone else was mid-breakup, mascara charm visibly failing.

Olivia let herself be swept up in the current. She danced for a bit—laughing with Rose and Moony, spinning under flickering runes, her drink morphing flavors between each sip. Her second drink, something blue and fizzy, made her skin smell faintly like cedarwood and confidence. Her third? She didn’t ask. It made her smile too easily.

A couple was full-on making out against a pillar, glamours flickering with the force of their need. Two seniors were arm-wrestling with enchanted gloves that shot sparks. The DJ—an earth major in floating sunglasses—was mixing hexed basslines with romantic house beats and occasional samples of whale song. No one knew why. No one questioned it.

People cheered when someone crowd-surfed in a bubble. Someone else crashed through it yelling, “I’m emotionally available now!”

The party was beautiful. It was too much. It was everything Olivia wanted to forget and couldn’t quite let go of.

Moon and Sunny appeared next, hands full of neon-colored drinks. Sunny had gone for a glittery soft look—cloud-print blouse, sparkling eyelids—while Moon had leaned into her usual sharp, chic vibe. Together, they were like coordinated chaos.

“Are we gonna dance or what?” Moon asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Cairo already is,” Olivia laughed, pointing to the dancefloor where Cairo had his hands on the hips of a smirking junior with a septum ring and the kind of smoky eyeliner that could make people convert religions. They were dancing too close, but no one seemed to care.

“You need to drink more,” said Sunny, pushing a cup into Olivia’s hand. “You’re too aware of everything.”

“Peer pressure,” Olivia muttered. But she drank. Because it was Saturday. Because she was tired of being the Rep. Because she wanted to forget.

The alcohol softened everything: the noise, the pressure, the way her shoulders always felt tight. It made the lights prettier, and the music warmer. She laughed more easily, leaned into her friends’ stories, let herself be spun in a loose circle on the dance floor once before declaring herself too dizzy.

When she finally pulled away to cool off near the backdoors, she wasn’t alone for long.

“Hey,” came a voice. Quiet, warm, familiar now.

Oliver.

He wore dark jeans and a silver shirt that shimmered ever so slightly under the lights—enchanted, maybe. There was always something faintly glowing about him. Maybe it was just the skin, the youth, the eyes. Maybe it was her.

“Hey, Music-Plant Guy,” she teased, lips pulling into a grin. The alcohol made her brave.

He smiled, and it was shy but luminous. “You look like you’re thriving.”

“Barely,” she said. “But thanks for noticing.”

He leaned on the railing next to her, hands in his pockets. “Thanks for getting this approved. I think half the school might worship you now.”

“I’ll use that power never again,” she replied.

He laughed softly. “You really don’t like parties, huh?”

“I like people,” she said, “just not… this many of them. In one place. And also not the pressure to have fun like it’s a performance.”

“That’s kind of poetic,” he said, studying her. “You think everything’s a performance?”

She did, she always has done it that way, walking and smiling, talking and assuming responsibilities way beyond her. Ever since she was little and ever since she could remember she has been like that, maybe it is the consequences of being an only child and or having working parents that did the best they could but weren’t there in the ways that mattered, origin villain story for another time.  She didn’t answer. She just looked at him. His beauty felt like a trap laid out in slow motion. The soft curve of his cheek, the tiny mole under one eye mostly on his cheek, god you’re gorgeous , the dark lashes. And maybe it was the drink or the heat or the week she’d had—but she realized, in that second, that she was entirely doomed.

“Anyway,” she said quickly, looking away, “you’re enjoying yourself?”

“Yeah. Peter and Mako are fighting and dancing at the same time, which is peak normal for them.”

“I saw them,” she snorted. “They were literally tango-arguing.”

“I think that’s their love language.”

They were both laughing when a warm arm slung around Olivia’s shoulders.

“Here you are,” Orion said, his voice sliding into the space between them like a match into dry leaves. He smelled like cinnamon whiskey and magic. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, and flames flickered lazily between his fingertips as if the fire just liked being around him. “Hey, dude” he gave Oliver a nod which was replied in the same fashion.

“Enjoying your own event?” Olivia asked, masking the sudden tension.

“I am now.” His grin was lazy, lopsided. “Thanks for pushing it through. You’re kind of the hero of the semester already.”

Oliver had gone quiet beside her, just watching.

Orion noticed. He always noticed. He turned slightly, just enough to side-eye Oliver. “And you brought your fan club, I see.”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Don’t be annoying.”

“I’m charming, don’t forget to get wasted, CP, that’s like the whole point of all of this and you deserve some fun, and also, remember what I texted you, I meant it” Orion said, giving her cheek a quick, fire-warmed kiss. Then he was gone, melting back into the crowd like he owned it.

For a moment, Olivia stared after him. 

“Does he always do that?” Oliver asked.

“Only when he wants something or feels territorial,” she muttered, not sure which was worse.

“Are you two—” 

“No.”

They started walking back inside when they passed near the hallway by the coat check—just close enough to hear it.

“…What’s Orion’s deal with the Rep?” Stefan’s voice floated over the murmur of the hallway, careless and too loud with tipsiness.

Olivia paused mid-step, Oliver beside her. They hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—it just happened. Wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe exactly the right place to learn something she didn’t want to know.

Indiana gave a snort. “She’s hot and he’s horny. Let him do whatever. Doesn’t mean shit really.”

Olivia’s stomach twisted. She wanted to look away, to leave, but Stefan kept going, laughing under his breath. “Is he planning to leave the party with her?”

Indiana’s answer came fast and smug: “Nah, Cara already called dibs on dicks tonight. But I guess maybe soon—if we need another favor and if he still feels like it. Not like she won’t say yes to him anyways. Besides, he probably just feels like he has to do it. She’s the only real Sagemoon High homie he hasn’t banged yet, and I think he’s finally over the whole fire accident from years ago, which honestly wasn’t even his fault, she was just being fussy about it, even his mom got involved and you know how that family is…”

Don’t cry, for the love of everything pure Olivia, don’t you dare cry in public. There was a silence so sharp it could’ve sliced through bone. Olivia blinked. Her body was still, like she had stepped out of herself. Like she was watching someone else process it—someone who looked just like her, but whose hands weren’t tightening around a plastic cup and whose heart wasn’t lurching like a kicked dog. Oliver looked at her and his eyes were furious and also soft. No, out, get OUT of here, don’t cry.

She turned without a word, without a sound, and Oliver followed.

They walked in silence back toward the crowded room, toward the heat and noise and glittered joy of other people’s laughter. Olivia didn’t stop until she reached the bar—a long wooden table near the far wall with enchanted fairy lights dangling above it. Some junior was playing bartender with flair, juggling bottles while his illusions poured the real drinks.

“Three tequilas,” Olivia said. Her voice didn’t shake.

The bartender blinked. “Straight?”

“Yes.”

He poured them quickly.

She downed the first shot.

Oliver hovered, concern painting his features. “Olivia—”

She threw back the second before he could finish.

And then the third.

It hit her like fire and sunlight and shame.

She exhaled, eyes still fixed on the table.

Oliver laid a gentle hand on her arm. “Are you okay?”

She smiled too wide. “Of course. Don’t I look okay?”

“Not really,” he said, honest and soft.

The world tilted just slightly, the edges of the music growing fuzzier, too many colors and not enough oxygen. Her throat burned. Her chest ached.

She wanted to scream. Or cry. Or punch someone. Or all three in some order.

Instead, she said, “Don’t worry. It’s nothing. Nothing that hasn’t happened before.”

But it was different. Because this time, she thought—stupidly, naively, embarrassingly—that maybe she wasn’t just a notch on someone’s mental scoreboard. That maybe the way Orion looked at her, acted towards her, meant something. That maybe—

God. She hated herself.

Oliver didn’t press. He didn’t ask again. But he didn’t leave either. He just stood beside her, hand still lightly touching her wrist, as if tethering her in place so she wouldn’t float away. And maybe that’s why she didn’t. But it wasn’t enough, she needed—she didn’t even know what she needed but definitely she needed to move, maybe another shot but her mind already felt kind of dizzy and she was not throwing up tonight, she was way past that era.  Olivia swayed on her heels, gaze glossy with tequila and something far more dangerous—embarrassment, anger, hurt, pride. Her fingers still buzzed with adrenaline. The tequila wasn’t numbing things, not really. It just blurred the edges, made it easier to say what she wouldn’t normally say.

“I need to dance,” she announced, suddenly, turning to Oliver with a lopsided smile.

He raised a brow. “Olivia, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I wasn’t asking. Are you coming?” He hesitated. She grinned again, too sharp this time. “I’m going to dance anyway. I need to. I need to do something stupid and loud and alive before I crawl into a hole and rewatch season four of Inuyasha for the twelfth time and wonder why boys are always the worst idea.”

“…That is a very specific spiral.”

“I’m a very specific girl.”

Before he could say anything else, she pivoted and disappeared into the throng of bodies pulsing with music and multicolored lighting spells. The bass thumped through the soles of her boots. All around her, students danced, laughed, flirted, drank, sparkled.

She didn’t trust herself with a senior. That much she knew.

So, she grabbed the nearest junior-looking guy who wasn’t blackout wasted or drooling, flashed her best tequila-laced smile, and said, “Dance with me.” He was nice to the eyes, shorter than what she’s used to but built like a machine, he looked kinda dumb honestly, but she didn’t need brains she needed brawn and nothing else.

He blinked—startled, maybe honored—and nodded. “Yeah, sure.”

They moved together through the beat, Olivia letting herself fall into the rhythm, into the chaos. The guy wasn’t a great dancer, but he followed her lead and didn’t ask questions. His hands were respectful, tentative. She moved like she didn’t care who was watching. The guy offered his name, she didn’t care, maybe Aaron, maybe Baron, maybe something else entirely, he looked like an Adam, of some sorts, maybe. 

Except she did. A little.

She wanted him to see. Orion. Just once. Just long enough to wipe that smirk off his face and choke on the thought that he hadn’t touched her—not because he hadn’t had the chance, but because she hadn’t let him.

The junior’s hands slid lower on her hips. His voice tickling her ear in a pleasant way, she wrapped her arms around his neck, knowing what was building up to. As the music begins to pick up, the junior, maybe-Adam’s hands begin to roam on her, steadying her on his hips as he moved her to a rhythm that was just a bit out of beat but did the job of making her skin heat up, she looked up at him, searching for more contact, anything, a kiss and maybe later—

“Olivia.”

The voice came low, calm, right beside her.

She turned.

Oliver.

The lighting turned the strands of his hair silver-gold. He looked impossibly cool, even slightly tousled and out of place in this chaotic crowd. There was a strange certainty in his eyes as he gently tugged her hand, slipping her away from the junior like it had been planned all along.

She let herself be taken. It wasn’t even a question.

“You didn’t like my date?” she teased, a little breathless.

“He was fine,” Oliver said. “But you were dancing like you wanted to break something.”

“Myself mostly, you should’ve let me.”

They stood close now. The music changed—slower, deeper, something with a seductive pull and a thudding beat. Most people left the improv-dancing floor and some others, mostly couples who were already grinding on each other stayed, this was the perfect moment to start some good ol’ foreplay, she thought.

Oliver leaned in, voice barely a whisper against her ear. “Can I try something?”

She tilted her head, skeptical. “That’s an ominous sentence.”

“I’m a music major, if you didn’t know, and I have fairly good pipes if I can say so myself.” She knew that, she knew all too well —how high and low he could get, she knew the exact voice timbre he had, he could recognize him singing in a crowd too well, because she knew him. It dawned on her in that specific moment who was holding her on a dance floor, on a stupid, stupid dance floor that wasn’t even a dance floor, on a stupid, stupid party she made possible for not being able to resist the urge of pleasing an asshole who apparently just wanted to get into her pants. “Trust me?” It wasn’t an order, it gave her a space to deny, to make an excuse, to leave, she stayed.

He brought his lips close to the shell of her ear, barely touching.

And then he began to hum.

It was quiet—only for her. A melody threaded with magic, subtle and silver, winding like smoke into her skin and breath and ribs. The magic in his voice didn’t force calm. It didn’t hypnotize or twist. It just reminded her how to breathe. Everything in her chest loosened. Her body softened into his. She leaned forward just slightly, forehead resting against his shoulder. She was only half paying attention to the lyrics, something about home, and the past and missing people. 

The magic in his voice didn’t command peace—it invited it. No spell. No compulsion. Just a sound that reached into her chest and reminded it how to move again. The tightness she'd been carrying—the tension braced in her shoulders, the knot in her throat, the storm in her head—all of it began to loosen.

She exhaled, soft and uneven, her body leaning into his a bit more almost without thinking. Her hands found his shoulders, steadying herself like she’d forgotten how her legs worked. She swayed gently, as if that hum was a thread pulling her through the noise. His chest was warm under her cheek, and his skin smelled faintly of sage, cologne, and magic.

“I didn’t think you’d actually pull me away,” she murmured.

“You didn’t look like you wanted to be there.”

“I didn’t want to be anywhere.”

“That’s different,” he said, with a gentle, almost sad smile.

They didn’t talk for a while. They just moved—slow and steady, in a small corner of the chaos, surrounded by a dozen drunken pairs spinning too out of it to mean it. The sound of Oliver’s humming lingered, golden and low, like a secret only she could hear. He didn’t tease. Didn’t push. Just held her in that corner of the chaos where the lights were dimmer and the bass from the speakers softened into a distant heartbeat. Around them, people shouted and laughed and showed off—but in this tiny pocket, it was only the two of them, the hum in his throat still echoing somewhere in her spine.

He didn’t let go.

They moved slowly. A lazy, swaying rhythm that wasn’t quite dancing, wasn’t quite standing still. Olivia felt like she was underwater, or maybe floating just above it. The tequila was still in her blood, but it wasn’t what made her press her face into the curve of his neck. That was something else.

Something terrifyingly tender.

A small part of her remembered who he was, who she was, where they were, who was watching. That part was screaming to stand up straight and pull away before she gave herself away completely.

But the rest of her just... stayed.

When the song ended, he didn’t let go.

“Come on,” he said.

She blinked. “What?”

“I’m walking you back to your dorm.”

“I can handle myself.”

“I know,” he said simply. “I’m just not ready to let you yet.”

Something in her unraveled at that. She didn’t argue.

They stepped out into the cooler hallway, the music dulling behind them like a distant memory. The air was a relief—less perfume, more night breeze and distant spells crackling lazily from partygoers on balconies.

As they walked, Olivia’s buzz dulled slightly, just enough for exhaustion to creep in.

“I should be embarrassed,” she muttered. “I mean, I am , I don’t even know why , I didn’t do anything other than falling for the charms of the charmer, you know? Maybe that’s why I feel so ashamed, you know? Because I like to think I’m above this …” gestures vaguely at her, at the gym, at the girls obviously fawning over Oliver. “but turns out I’m actually just another silly collage student who falls for the exactly same thing all over again, god, I’m such an idiot , I am sorry you are hearing all of this, Oliver”

“You’re allowed to have feelings, you know.”

“Even messy ones?”

“Especially messy ones,” he said. “You’re not some perfect statue, Liv. You’re a person.”

She swallowed hard, but the tequila made it easier to pretend she was fine. She didn’t want to think about Orion. Or what was said. Or how much it hurt to realize she was a convenience to someone she once thought might be real. Or how she was babbling in front of Oliver who was barely his friend and probably just stuck with her because she was being such a mess , she groaned and covered her face. Do not cry . 

They stopped in front of her dorm building. Their dorm building , she reminded herself, he was on the first floor. The warm, amber lighting spilled onto the steps like safety.

She turned to Oliver.

He didn’t say anything.

Just looked at her with eyes that saw far too much.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For the music. For the rescue. For walking me home. And… sorry, again, for… everything else”

He nodded once. “Anytime.”

She opened the door. Then paused. “Hey, Oliver?”

“Yeah?”

“That song—can you teach it to me sometime?”

He smiled. It was small, but it reached his eyes. “Is not finished yet,”

Oliver’s POV

The noise hit him like a wall the moment he stepped back into the conference room.

Music, magic, bodies. Laughter that didn’t quite sound real, the buzz of spell-laced speakers thumping to a remix of some overplayed summer hit. Someone had enchanted the floor to shimmer faintly, and the ceiling pulsed like stars. The music sucked, honestly, too loud, to techno-house and no soul to it, he wasn’t enemy of up beat songs, just tasteful one’s: He controlled his facial expressions, is not like he has a manager or something —a million followers on tiktok meant nothing really, not now a days and not if he didn’t accept all the sponsors and collaborations that flooded his work mail— but his friends always told him that even if he wanted out he was always going to be in, in on society, in on the public eye, and deep down on him, he regretted doing all of this in the first place. He ducked past a group of upperclassmen in matching crop tops, scanning the room for familiar faces. Olivia's friends had to be somewhere near the edge of the dance floor. He was halfway through plotting the best path across the chaos when someone tugged at his sleeve.

“Hey—wait, are you Oliver? The streamer?”

He turned. A girl with soft pink curls, freckles on her cheeks, and a nervous but excited grin blinked up at him. She looked familiar in the way most of his followers did—like a face he might’ve seen a thousand times in the chat. On his presentations, on the conventions people wanted him to be, in the one’s he wanted to be. 

“I am,” he said, smile easy, slipping into the version of himself that was second nature now. “What gave me away?”

“Uh, the face. And the voice. And, y’know, the millions of views.” She laughed, a little breathless. “Sorry, that was weird.”

He chuckled. “You’re good.”

“I’m Cassia,” she said, adjusting her clutch awkwardly. “I just wanted to say—I love your stuff. Like, genuinely. The harmonics video? That got me through my elemental audio finals.”

He let himself grin wider, warmth blooming in his chest at the praise. “You’re studying music magic too?”

“Yeah! I’m second year. Nowhere near your level though. But… your work really helped me believe I could stick with it.”

That kind of thing always hit him sideways—praise that felt like worship, like proof he mattered. He didn’t chase it, not really. But it always felt good when it found him. He thrived in it a little. Maybe more than he should.

“That means a lot,” he said, and meant it.

They stood like that for a moment, just enough quiet between them for her to glance down, shy. Then, braver, she added, “I was kind of hoping I’d run into you here. You wanna dance?”

He hesitated.

Cassia was sweet. Pretty, too. Long lashes and the kind of nervous energy he found endearing. In another life, another mood—he might have said yes. He considered it, it’s been a while since he allowed himself to, you know just, enjoy the perks of the fame in a very unhealthy manner but—

But Olivia’s face flickered in the back of his mind. Not the tipsy, reckless version of her from earlier, but the way she’d looked when she leaned into him, forehead to shoulder, trusting him not to break the spell. His body still remembered the weight of her against him.

“I—” He offered a crooked smile. “That’s flattering, really. But I told my friends I’d find them. They were worried about someone earlier and I haven’t checked in yet.”

Cassia’s smile faltered only slightly. “Totally fair. Sorry if that was weird.”

“Not weird at all. You’re lovely,” he said gently. “And I’m really glad my work helped. Keep going with it. Maybe another time?”

She nodded, and this time the smile was genuine again. “Maybe another time. Thanks, Oliver. Seriously.”

He waved and slipped back into the crowd, heart still warm, but guilt bleeding into the edges of it. He liked being seen. Liked being told he mattered. Liked being the center of attention just enough for it to be dangerous. He wanted to stop. He couldn’t. And that made everything harder.

He didn’t even answer. Just kept moving, cutting through the crowd with his chin down and his hands in the pockets of his jacket, ignoring the glances and stares and the way people suddenly made space for him like he was an urban legend. He passed a group of girls giggling way too loudly, one of them brushing his arm with the kind of laugh that didn’t have anything to do with a joke. He stepped away before she could say more.

And then he saw them.

Olivia’s friends—A tall one and fierce with a sharp, no-bullshit expression; and Sunny, the one he knew the name of, pastel-pink and delicate but with eyes that didn’t miss anything. They were standing near the snack table, sipping drinks and talking to a group of upperclassmen.

And not far from them—of course—was him. Tch.

Orion.

Leaned against the wall like he owned it, shirt half-unbuttoned, drink in hand, still glowing with that effortless, stupid kind of charm that didn’t require talent or wit. Just good hair, fire magic, and a last name that turned doors into doormats.

“Hey, streamer,” Orion called lazily the moment their eyes met. “Enjoying the party?”

Oliver stopped. Didn’t answer.

Orion smirked. “I’ve got a friend here who’d really like to get to know you better.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “No pressure, but she said she listens to your songs when she’s… sad. Very sad. ”

Someone in his group snorted. Indiana? Stefan? He didn’t care.

Oliver smiled. Cold. Thin. Sharp.

Then he turned his back.

Walked directly toward Olivia’s friends.

Rose arched an eyebrow and gestured to the rest of them to look at him. He tensed.

“Hi,” Oliver said, ignoring the pulsing music and the way the heat of too many bodies made his shirt stick to his back. “Sorry to interrupt.”

“Hey,” Sunny said softly. “You okay?”

“I’m Oliver,” he said. “Olivia’s—friend.”

Rose tilted her head. “The plant-music guy.”

“That 's me.”

There was a beat. Then he said, quieter, “She was pretty out of it when I walked her back earlier. She’s in her dorm now, but… would one of you mind checking on her later? Just in case?”

“You walked her out?” A guy asked, tall, lean, glasses, nothing much to him. 

Rose studied him for a moment, measuring. “Did something happen?”

“It’s not my place to tell, she was a bit tipsy as well so, yeah just, make sure she’s okay? Please?”

Then she nodded once. “We’ll make sure she’s good.” Offered Sunny.

“Thank you.” 

He lingered for a second. Like maybe they’d ask him to stay. Like maybe he’d find a reason to belong in this mess of spellfire and bad decisions.

They didn’t.

So he turned again, cutting back through the crowd of glitter and stares and invitations, wishing he hadn’t come back at all.

Chapter Text

Olivia didn’t want to go to the greenhouse.

She had paced her dorm for ten solid minutes, chewing the corner of her thumbnail, whispering excuses under her breath. Her room still smelled faintly like peppermint mist and damp soil—a result of the overzealous summer irrigation system she’d programmed while she was away. Dan, her old roommate, had transferred last spring to help develop a new magical entertainment app—something borderline revolutionary, the kind of gig you only got if a company like Spellecore or EchoSoft spotted your code.

When Dan left, the university—surprisingly kind for once—didn't reassign her a new roommate. Olivia got to keep the space to herself, and promptly transformed Dan’s half of the room into a miniature greenhouse. Now one entire side of the dorm was a jungle of bioluminescent ivy, moody sun-thirsty blooms, enchanted herbs, and three cacti in ceramic skull pots—one of which she’d rescued from the greenhouse fire back in high school. That one had taken her betrayal the hardest, its spines bent in disdainful angles ever since she nearly drowned it over the summer.

She was tired. She had a headache. She’d suddenly remembered important, urgent, life-altering homework due tonight.

But none of it stuck.

Because none of it mattered.

She had to go.

It was Thursday—greenhouse day. Her shift with the first-years. With him.

Oliver.

Just thinking about the party made her skin crawl and flush all at once. The music, the drinks, that random junior with grabby hands, her own idiotic “Are you coming?” moment— why . And then him. Stealing her from the chaos. Whispering music into her spine. Walking her home like a damn gentleman while she was slurring depressing things like a little bitch, ughhhh. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

God.

She groaned into her sleeve as she opened the door to the warm, earthy scent of magical flora. The greenhouse was alive with humming spells, soft pollen motes drifting in lazy spirals through the filtered sun. Rows of enchanted seedlings twitched in the soil, responding to the shift in atmosphere, to her. Somewhere near the back, she heard someone coughing.

Great. He’s already here.

But when she turned the corner, it wasn’t Oliver waiting for her.

It was Professor Elryn.

The dryad was crouched by the lavender section, her bark-patterned skin dappled in the golden light, humming to a wilting stalk that visibly perked under her song. A vine trailed from her wrist like a bracelet, softly glowing. Olivia relaxed slightly.

“Professor Elryn,” she greeted, tucking her embarrassment behind a smile.

“Ah, Olivia. And—” the dryad turned, eyes twinkling as she noticed Oliver emerging from behind the rosemary bed.

Olivia startled. She hadn’t heard him move, hadn’t felt the familiar thrum of his presence until it was suddenly overwhelming. He was there—right there—with dirt-smudged cheeks, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up to his elbows, arms full of labeled pots. There was a streak of soil on his forearm and a faint glint of a tuning charm clipped to his collar. His hair was slightly damp, like he’d rinsed it and towel-dried it just moments before coming here, and gods, he looked good in green.

“Our music boy,” Elryn finished, smiling.

Olivia blinked. Oliver, across the room, stiffened slightly.

The professor rose, brushing off her skirts, and smiled at them both. “Wonderful progress you two are making. The basil is responding nicely to harmonic stimuli. I might start assigning more first-years to your care if you keep this up.”

“Thank you, Oliver here has been very wise at developing music for each specimen, we’re hoping for some results still but it is going pretty…well,” Olivia managed. She avoided Oliver’s gaze. His presence buzzed on her skin like static.

“Oh, yes,” Professor Elryn continued breezily, stepping past the creeping ivy and toward the exit. “There’s still a long way to go—especially with the mandrakes and the cacti. Perhaps I’ll even lend you two some of the Sahara specimens if you prove worthy. And it’s a good thing you got him that scholarship, huh, Olivia?”

Silence.

A deafening, syrup-thick pause.

“What?” they said at the same time.

Professor Elryn blinked. Her leafy brows lifted. “The Cider Grove scholarship. Three spots to the top-performing high school students from the central valley district? You petitioned the board to offer them, did you not?”

Olivia’s heart stuttered. Her voice felt trapped somewhere between her ribs and throat.

“You… you won that scholarship?” she asked, turning to Oliver. “From the central valley? From—?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said slowly, brows furrowed. “Wait—you’re the student who pitched it?”

Elryn’s bark-lined lips curled into a bemused smile. “You two didn’t know? How delightfully unaware. I assumed you were both keeping it low-key.”

“I—I didn’t know who won,” Olivia muttered, more to herself than anyone else. “I just… I gave some classes at your school. When I was in my old university. They asked me to do a community program, and I was there for like, six months. I noticed that most graduates weren’t applying anywhere because tuition was too expensive. So when I transferred here, I pitched the idea to the board. Just a few spots. A chance.”

Memory flickered across Oliver’s face, slow and dawning. "Cider Grove," he repeated under his breath. Then, with a frown—"Wait. You—were at Cider Grove? Teaching? Gods, I think I remember you."

“Only like twice a week,” she said quickly, already waving it off. “You probably don’t remember me. Seriously, it’s fine.”

“I do,” he said.

His voice was softer now. Distant.

“There was this girl with sun charms on her collar and a sketchbook full of herbal diagrams. She looked like she didn’t want to be there but taught like she couldn’t help it. You, uh…” He hesitated, scratching the back of his neck. “You used to have short pink hair, right? And you dressed like… like you were experimenting with being five different people at once. I didn’t recognize you at all.”

He gave a nervous little laugh, gaze dropping for a second. “You were really hard to ignore back then. I guess I just—noticed you. A lot.”

Olivia’s brain stuttered.

Noticed.

What did that even mean? Gods, he noticed her?

Olivia swallowed. Heat crept up her neck.

“I never knew your name,” Oliver continued. “But we all remembered you. We thought you were one of the good ones. You taught us about root systems and magical pH gradients and made terrible jokes about plant mood swings.”

“I make excellent jokes,” she muttered, and he laughed—low, genuine.

Elryn, watching with her gentle, knowing gaze, began stepping toward the exit.

“I’ll leave you two to finish your work ,” she said, glancing back once. “Oh—and Oliver?”

He looked up.

“Don’t waste the chance she gave you.”

Then she was gone, the door shutting with a soft click and a faint rustle of wind.

The silence that followed felt charged. Like something about to bloom or break.

Olivia exhaled, turned to the closest table, and began rearranging the watering charms, mostly for something to do. Her hands trembled.

“I didn’t know it was you,” she said, barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t know it was you,” he echoed.

Oliver shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes flicking toward her, hesitant. “Can I ask you something?”
 

She gave a slow nod.

“Why were you even at our high school?” he asked. “Like—no offense, but you didn’t exactly seem like you belonged there. You were… older. Smarter. You taught classes in the greenhouse. I used to think you were some prodigy grad student doing outreach or something.”

Olivia blinked, surprised. “No. I was enrolled at Central Valley University.”
 

“Central Valley?”
 

“The old magical college downtown,” she said. “The one with the awful plumbing and too many crows.”

He gave a low laugh. “Oh my gods, that place. My friend thought it was haunted.”

“It probably was,” she muttered.

Oliver tilted his head. “But that doesn’t explain what you were doing at our school.”

She hesitated, gaze falling to her hands. “It was part of a community track program. I liked the greenhouse there… the students were decent.”

Something in her tone shifted, quieter now. “Back in highschool I was also taking care of a Greenhouse, no where near as big or complete as this one but it was mostly mine...”

Oliver stilled.

“There was an incident,” she said, voice careful. “A fire. Greenhouse nearly went up in flames. I was inside.”

He looked horrified. “ Shit. ”

“All of the plants protected me and I was okay,” she added quickly, too quickly. “It wasn’t that bad. But the people involved, everything, I just, ran, Central Valley seemed nice, and it was, until it went bankrupt”

“And then Lumina absorbed the students?”

She nodded. “And here I am.”

A silence stretched between them. Oliver’s brow furrowed, eyes flicking over her like he was seeing the outline of something he hadn’t known was there. Something breakable.

“I didn’t know,” he said. “That any of that happened.”

“You weren’t supposed to.”

He hesitated, then gave her a small, crooked smile. “I’m sorry, but if anything I’m glad that fate made it for us to meet there, and now here again, I’ve always believed in fated things.”

Her brain did something unhelpful. Her stomach, too.

But then Professor Elryn glided back in, searching for something she’d forgotten.

Olivia shot upright, pretending to fidget with a bag.

The moment passed. Kind of.

She still wasn’t breathing normally by the time she sprinted across campus almost an hour later.

The advanced plant cytology lab was already half full. The morning sun slanted through the tall windows, turning everything a gold-tinged green. Olivia spotted Sunny instantly—same seat as always, her notebook already open, a tiny bee sticker stuck to the corner.

“Move over,” Olivia hissed, practically throwing her bag down.

Sunny looked up, blinked, and slid her chair two inches. Olivia dropped into the seat beside her and inhaled like she was about to run a mile.

“I think I’m going to throw up.”

“Oh no,” Sunny said, concerned but clearly used to this. “What happened now?”

Olivia flipped her phone face-down on the desk. “Did you see Spellecast this morning?”

“No. Should I have?”

“There’s a clip. Of Oliver.”

Sunny perked up. “Your Oliver?”

“He’s not—” Olivia groaned. “Yes. That Oliver. He did a Q&A stream last night, and someone clipped the part where he talked about his final project. He said he’s working with a greenhouse TA. A girl.”

Sunny’s brows arched. “Ohhh no.”

“Yeah. Comments are full of ‘who’s the TA,’ ‘greenhouse girl reveal,’ and someone on Feywire already made a fancam using my silhouette.”

“Oh gods. Wait—how did they even know it was you?”

“I don’t think they do. Not officially. One person in the comments guessed my name but spelled it wrong. So now I’m both mysterious and apparently named Aliviah.”

Sunny laughed into her sleeve. “You’re untagged but speculated. That’s elite status.”

Olivia slumped forward, burying her face in her elbow. “I can’t be a public figure right now. I’m too tired. My cacti already hate me.”

Sunny nudged her gently. “What happened this morning? You look like you ran here with ghosts in your pockets.”

Olivia stayed silent for a moment, then turned her head to mumble into her sleeve. “Remember the scholarship I vouched for?”

Sunny nodded slowly, sensing incoming chaos.

“Well. He won one. Elryn told him this morning. So now he knows.”

She looked up, eyes wide. “He’s here. Because of me. And then—then he said he noticed me. Not, like, in passing. Noticed me. From back then.”

Sunny froze. “Wait. What?”

“She didn’t know we didn’t know. Or maybe she did. I can’t tell. But he knows now.”

“What did he say?”

“He remembered me. From Cider Grove.”

Sunny stared. “Wait. He remembered you?”

“Yeah. Not my name. But he described me. In detail. Pink hair, disaster fashion, sketchbook full of herbal diagrams—everything.”

“Oh my gods.”

“And then he said—he said I was really hard to ignore back then. That he noticed me.”

Sunny inhaled sharply. “Liv.”

“I know.” Olivia groaned. “I was not prepared. I panicked and muttered something about excellent jokes. Then—gods, I don’t even know why—I told him about the fire. You know which one.

Sunny blinked, alert. “What do you mean?”

Olivia looked down at her lap, fingers twisting the edge of her sleeve. “I told him about the fire back in highschool. And why I ended up in Cider Grove. I don’t even know why—I’ve never mentioned that to anyone but you.”

A pause.

Sunny tilted her head slightly. "Are you okay with him knowing that?"

Olivia hesitated. Then, more quietly than before, "Yeah. I think I am. I trust him. I don't know why—but it didn't feel wrong."

Sunny gently reached across the table and stuck a new bee sticker on Olivia’s sleeve.

“You earned that.”

Olivia stared at the sticker like it might explode.

They both sat in silence as the classroom buzzed around them. The lab smelled faintly of mint gel and dry pollen, a mix that always stuck to Olivia’s clothes. The professor—Dr. Keswick, a woman with perfectly symmetrical hair buns and the emotional range of a potted fern—was scribbling vague instructions on the board: 'Cytoplasmic cross-referencing — start with quadrant 2. No invasive spells, please.'

Beakers clinked, enchanted trowels hovered quietly from the prep station, and everyone else had already sunk into the usual weekday haze. No one spoke above a whisper. Someone's tulip specimen let out a sleepy sigh.

“Why are you taking this class again?” Olivia whispered, resting her chin on her hand.

Sunny flipped through her notes. “If I want the extra certification in pollination cycles, it’s a requirement.”

“You already have three certifications.”

“I want options.”

Olivia rolled her eyes but smiled faintly. It was the kind of class where time slowed and plant cells blurred together like magic-laced watercolor. Where the only thing sharper than the microscope focus knobs was the realization that she’d walked into a lab session with her entire nervous system still hijacked by a boy who had once noticed her pink-haired chaos and somehow still looked at her like she made sense.

Finally, Sunny leaned in, voice soft but edged with mischief. “So... are you going to tell me what actually happened at the party?”

Olivia didn’t answer.

Outside, Echo was already bubbling. But in here, Olivia was trying to remember how to breathe.

After a few moments, Sunny tapped her pen lightly against the table. “He came back, you know.”

Olivia peeled one eye open. “…Who did?”

“Oliver. The night of the party.” Sunny sat back in her chair, a knowing expression settling on her face. “He showed up again after walking you out. Found us standing near the drink tables. Rose was still fuming about Cairo ditching her to make out with that eyeliner kid.”

Olivia blinked, the memory flickering dimly like a snapped match. “He did?”

“Yeah.” Sunny nodded. “He looked kind of—like, alert. Tense. Walked straight up to me and Rose and said: ‘Hey, can you go check on Olivia? I just walked her back to her dorm, but I think she might not be okay.’”

Olivia’s heart twisted in her chest. “He said that?”

“He was really polite, but, like… you could tell he meant it. Like he cared.”

Olivia stared at the leaf vein diagrams in her textbook, suddenly overwhelmed by the way the lines blurred. “No, Sunshine, no, don’t do this. Gods. ”

“You never told us what happened,” Sunny said gently. “But hey, it’s just me now.” She bumped her shoulder against Olivia’s. “Wanna talk about it?”

Olivia hesitated.

The party. The music. The heat of tequila warming her throat. The stupid, breathless way she’d danced like she could forget. How Oliver had pulled her away just in time. The way his voice in her ear had felt like someone flipping a breaker inside her mind. And then—

Her mouth went dry.

“They were talking about me,” she said finally. “Orion’s friends.”

Sunny’s brows drew together and stiffened beside her. “What did they say?”

Olivia stared straight ahead. Proceeded to tell her everything, and really everything, Orion’s friends, what they said about her, and also—Oliver, and the song and how that made her feel. She told her everything that has been going on, even the obnoxious text from Orion and his commentary at the party, just — everything.  Her voice tightening a bit and her mood getting bluer. She was not okay with any of this, not that she didn’t trust Sunny but she was so ashamed, of what? who knows , but still. The air around them dropped a few degrees. Sunny’s fingers tightened around her pen. “What the actual fuck .”

Olivia gave a weak shrug, lips pressed into a line. “It felt like a slap. They made me feel like I was a prize. A game. Like I was being auctioned off and didn’t know I was part of the bet.”

Sunny was quiet for a second too long. Then she said, evenly: “I want to set his hair on fire, but it won’t do much to him, since he’s ya know”

“Pathetic,” Olivia said, almost laughing. Almost.

Sunny reached across the table and squeezed her hand, warm and steady. “I’m sorry, Liv. That’s awful.”

“I just…” Olivia rubbed her face. “I don’t even know why it hurt so much. I’ve known Orion forever. I know he’s a mess. But hearing that? It made everything from when we were kids feel gross and fake and it was like the fire incident all over again.”

“Because it wasn’t fake to you,” Sunny said, soft but firm. “You cared.”

Olivia swallowed. “Yeah. I did.”

They sat there for a while in silence, the classroom alive with the hum of conversation and the soft rustle of paper. Eventually, Olivia looked up, exhausted but grateful.

“Thanks for not making it worse.”

Sunny gave her a smile, then leaned in again, her tone lighter. “Now that that’s out in the open… should we get back to freaking out about Oliver having a crush on you?”

Olivia groaned, covering her face again, and Sunny burst into a quiet laugh.

“He didn't, he just noticed me like he said, turns out I’m not as invisible as I very much hope to be… I haven’t told anyone else about the party or anything” she said.

“I won’t, unless you want me to.” Sunny reached over and gently squeezed her arm. “But it’s juicy stuff , Cairo would kill for this intel.”

Olivia shakes her head slowly. “Nosey. I just… I didn’t know how to process it. And then when I saw Oliver again today, and he smiled at me like nothing had happened, and I didn’t know what to do with that either. And now with the whole scholarship thing and also the whole internet wondering who this mysterious TA girl is, I don’t know, he makes me nervous”

Sunny tilted her head. “You are someone much much bigger than you expect yourself to be sweetie, it’s obvious that he noticed you because you shine, and it’s okay if you’re still walking in shells around him, but I personally don’t think you should, I think it’s good that you’re opening up to someone new, it’s been ages” Of course she’s mentioning her bad attempts at relationships before.

“Yeah. You’re sneaky” Olivia drew a shaky breath. “But also, I’m scared because I don’t know how to explain the way he makes me feel.”

A pause.

Sunny smiled softly. “You know, for someone who used to analyze pollination patterns like they were the secret to the universe, you’re really bad at recognizing when someone likes you.”

Olivia stared at the faint greenish glow of the projector, and the low hum of the lab felt like static under her skin.

“I’m always wrong when it comes to that stuff, Sun,” she said finally, voice brittle.

Sunny looked up, blinked once, then leaned forward like she hadn’t quite heard right. “Well…”

Olivia nodded slowly. “I mean, if you lined up all the people I’ve ever had a crush on and put their names on a dartboard, you’d have to close your eyes and spin to find a single healthy choice.”

“Liv…” Sunny started carefully, but Olivia was already bracing herself, hands tucked under her thighs like she was anchoring herself to the chair.

“I don’t just mean Oliver,” she said. “I mean—before. There was someone else.”

Sunny’s eyes narrowed slightly, her whole vibe shifting from soft support to mental whiteboard mode.

“…Okay, I’m guessing not the one’s I know about, which is new.” she said slowly. “And this mystery person is…?”

Olivia stayed quiet.

Sunny blinked.

Then blinked again.

“ No.”

Olivia winced.

“Oh my gods, no. ”

“Sunny—”

“Sweetheart, really? Him?”

“I didn’t plan on it!”

“Oh my gods, Olivia.” Sunny’s hands covered her face for a moment, fingers spread like she needed to filter reality through them. “You had a crush on Orion ?” she whispered his name like an acidic secret.

“I had ,” Olivia said, emphasizing the past tense like it was some kind of spell. “Had. Long gone. Rusted over. Embarrassingly buried.”

“You’re kidding me, no it’s not” Sunny said, lowering her hands. “How long?”

“A while,” Olivia admitted. “It wasn’t always this messy. Back then he was just… a boy who was angry about his sister’s wedding and scared his dad was going to come back. He was loud and dramatic and stupidly charming.”

“And you were the kid who pressed violets in your textbooks and threatened to cut off people’s braids if they got in your way, oh I remember” Sunny muttered.

“Exactly,” Olivia said. “Which is why our teacher thought it would be hilarious to pair me with him so he wouldn’t light his desk on fire again.”

Sunny gave her a look of disbelief and a low whistle. “Gods. That’s such a you origin story. And yeah, of course I remember, I was there, when you two had that weird dynamic thingy”

Olivia gave a helpless little shrug. “We became friends. I mean, I like- liked him, but I never acted on it . Half the school already had a crush on him and I swore I wouldn’t be one of those girls, even if I kind of was.”

“Oh babe.” Sunny sighed.

“There was this one day, in high school,” Olivia continued. “We had this tiny greenhouse. I was taking care of it — growing things, keeping something alive for once, you know? He came in to ‘help’ but was in a mood , and… long story short, he set the whole thing on fire, I got trapped in it and almost burn down with the building.”

“What?” Sunny sat upright. “Wait, that was the greenhouse story? You never told me what really happened! He is the one you said made you want to transfer? And you still like him? Olivia! ”

“Yeah.” Olivia looked down. “His mom and aunt begged mine not to make a fuss. I just… left it. And later I left the whole city. And you, I’m sorry I never told you why. But I don’t regret it.” And really, she didn’t, that’s where she met Tulip and Cairo, back in Central Valley University, and when the campus was absorbed by Lumina Hall she wasn’t as nervous to transfer back to her natal city, to her friends from highschool and such, and honestly college life hasn’t been bad, just this year was making an effort to kick her ass. 

“Jesus, Liv.”

“I think… I think a part of me stayed stuck there,” Olivia said softly. “In that tiny greenhouse. In that moment where I realized liking someone like him meant getting burned. Literally.”

Sunny looked at her for a long beat. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

Olivia gave a sheepish little smile. “I guess I was scared of hearing what you’re probably thinking right now.”

“Which is?”

“That I’m dumb for still catching feelings for a boy who treated me like I was disposable,” Olivia murmured. “ Again .” Because there it was, the truth, the fact that she also had a crush on Orion and his stupid smile, and his stupid fire. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

But Sunny didn’t roll her eyes or sigh. She reached across the table and gently covered Olivia’s hand with hers.

“No,” she said quietly. “I’m thinking you’ve been through more than you ever say out loud. And you still walk into rooms like you own them. I’m thinking you deserve someone who sees that. Who doesn’t need to be reminded.”

A silence settled between them — heavier, maybe, but honest.

“…Okay,” Sunny added after a beat, squeezing her hand once. “Now that I’ve done the friend thing, I’m also going to say this: Orion’s an ass , and Oliver’s hot, and if the universe wants to give you a second chance, maybe let it.”

Olivia laughed — a little tearfully, a little relieved. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re brilliant,” Sunny said, grinning. “Now. Want to go get boba and pretend cytoplasm doesn’t exist?”

“Is that what the class was about?,” Olivia said, standing.

They left the lab together, the ghost of a greenhouse still flickering in Olivia’s memory — but beside her, something warmer walked too: the fragile beginning of letting go.

Chapter Text

Nine Years Ago

Olivia had never really liked elemental magic.

Too flashy, too wild, too easy to lose control of. Too prone to exploding in your face and getting praised for it. It was magic with teeth—reckless, showy, impossible to ignore. Like a tantrum that got rewarded with applause.

She liked soil better. Flowers pressed between pages. Seeds tucked deep in the dark, waiting. Her magic bloomed slowly, rooted in silence, in patience. It didn’t dazzle. It grew.

Elemental magic, though—it was spectacle. And people adored spectacle.

She’d never admit it out loud, but maybe that’s why it bothered her. Maybe that’s why she flinched the first time they paired her with Orion in their fourth year of primary.

Because even back then, she knew what it meant to be an Elemental.

Elian, a water-bender, never carried a coat. Rain bent around him like he was charmed. Gloria, air-bender, floated home after school and never touched a backpack—wind did it for her. Students like that walked through the world untouchable. Their magic didn’t just serve them—it worshipped them. And so did everyone else.

Elementals got admiration, scholarships, modeling contracts. Even when they were reckless. Especially when they were reckless.

Meanwhile, Olivia—whose magic could coax dead seeds to sprout, whose vines had a heartbeat—was told she was "sweet." "Unusual." “Useful, maybe, in a healer’s garden.”

She could split concrete with a root spell if she wanted. But no one clapped for quiet power.

He was already one of those kids: charming and loud, the kind of boy teachers adored even when he didn’t do his homework, the kind of boy who always had five people following him at recess and at least three girls arguing about whose turn it was to hold his stuff. It was exhausting just to look at him and she felt so very envious, his fingertips always on fire like a glove that made people recoil just in case but also pulled people in because objectively flames were enchanting. She didn't like his powers though.

He burned things. Constantly.

Pencils. Grass. His sleeves. Once, an entire math workbook—didn’t even look sorry about it. It was almost impressive, the way he lost control with style. Accidents followed him like smoke trails, and still, somehow, everything broke in his favor.

It helped that he was charming. The kind of charming that made teachers hesitate before writing him up. The kind that made trouble look like charisma. And when that didn’t work—well, his mom had money. The kind of money that smoothed over scorched desks and replaced textbooks overnight. He could’ve set the whole lab on fire and someone would’ve blamed the ventilation.

So when Miss Cala handed Olivia a laminated chart and said, “You’ll be Orion’s fire monitor for the semester,” she nearly choked on her apple.

“Why me?” she’d asked, too honest for her age, too tired already.

“Because you’re sensible,” Miss Cala said, smiling like it was a compliment. “And you don’t take nonsense. He’ll listen to you.”

Olivia highly doubted that.

But still—she did her job.

She sat next to him in class, kept a pocket mister in her bag, and swatted sparks away from the books they shared. She confiscated his matches. She learned his tells — the twitch of his fingers, the way he rolled his shoulders before letting a flame loose. “Stop, why are you always like this? Can’t you just stop?” He looked at her, defiantly, but obeyed. He liked that about her, he was always-always talking, mostly random things, achievements, teasing, he talked all of the time, she pretended she wasn’t paying attention most of the time.

But she was, and she listened, even when he didn’t think she was.

She noticed how he hated math but loved the maps in their history books. How he talked louder when he was upset, like volume could make the world less scary. How his hands trembled a little the week before his sister’s wedding. Oh god, that wedding, he’s been talking about that non-stop for the past weeks, at the beginning it was just some comment here and there, now most of the days he ended up talking about that, she commented, occasionally on it, not wanting to push it too much, it was clearly a sensitive topic, she didn’t know why. 

“Everyone’s talking about the dress,” he muttered during silent reading, not looking up from his book. He was definitely stalling—waiting for her to fill in the questions first so he could copy them. She let him. She always let him. “But she looks sad.”

Olivia blinked. “Is she nervous?”

“She’s twenty. She’s not supposed to be nervous.” Then, after a long pause: “My dad’s coming. He hasn’t been around since last summer.” 

oh.

She didn’t ask questions. Not about the way his shoulders tensed or the way he blinked too fast, like he hated that he’d said anything at all.

She just opened her notebook, careful and slow, and pulled out a pressed sprig of lilac—faded purple, slightly curled at the edges. She passed it over without ceremony, tucking it gently into the crease of his book.

“Take care of it,” she said. “They’re out of season. I’m trusting you.”

He stared at it like it was a trick. “That’s stupid.”

She shrugged. “It helps. I keep one when I’m stressed. You’re more likely to burn your fingers when you’re mad, you know.”

He didn’t say thank you.

But he turned the page carefully, like the lilac might fall apart if he didn’t.

And he didn’t burn anything that day.

And Olivia—who’d sworn she wouldn’t be one of those girls—found herself staring at his cheekbones a little too long during spelling. His lashes were stupid long. His hair curled when it rained. Now it was flat on his forehead in a way that was cute. 

Half the school had a crush on him. She knew that.

But she didn’t want to be one of the many.

So she told herself she wasn’t.

Even when her heart did that hiccup-thing every time he called her Liv.

Even when he offered to walk her home after school, in his usual dramatic “a lady must be escorted” voice.

Even when he drew little suns in the margins of her notebook during lectures he was not paying attention to.

She wasn’t one of those girls.

She wasn’t.

She wasn’t one of those girls.

Olivia had never really liked elemental magic.

Too flashy, too wild, too easy to lose control of. 

Highschool took a long time so came, but it was now senior year, many things stayed the same though, not Orion of course. It really irritated her how people change just because they have influence in highschool. Orion was like that, but in retrospect he was always like that, people pleaser in a way that was hidden in false security.  He grew taller, stronger, and more careless with his magic. And he took advantage of that, of the impact he knew he had in that small bubble that was high school life. He started dating—loudly, publicly—everyone but her. Not that it mattered, they had grown apart after all, and yeah maybe she sometimes caught herself looking for him in the hallways, at lunch time, maybe. 

Olivia focused on other things. She had to. Her studies. Her future. The half-forgotten greenhouse tucked behind the old gymnasium.

It was a sad-looking structure, more rust than frame—half-glass, half-patched polycarbonate, stitched together with weather charms and leftover school funding. Most students didn’t even know it existed. But it was hers. Or at least, no one else cared enough to claim it. One less salary for the school to pay.

Inside, it smelled like mint and lavender and sun-warmed soil—earthy and sharp and alive. The air shimmered faintly with enchantment, a magic that didn’t brag, just quietly thrived. Ivy coiled around the rafters like lazy cats. Calendula blooms opened when she entered, petals tilting toward her footsteps. Even the vining heartblooms leaned her way, trailing after her fingers like they missed her.

The plants liked her. More than liked—they reached for her. Rooted for her.

She spent every lunch break there, fingers in dirt, coaxing stubborn sprouts to bloom, whispering to bruised herbs until they unfurled. She sang softly under her breath—binding spells, growth charms, tiny prayers for strength. Sometimes she wove magic into the air just to see it settle on the leaves like dust.

Her friends loved it, too. They treated it like a haven—because that’s what it was. A place to be loud, to test spells without supervision, to sprawl across sun-warmed benches and steal bites of enchanted tangerines. Olivia didn’t mind. Not as long as they respected the space. Not as long as no one touched the lunar basil without asking.

Orion visited, sometimes.

Never with his friends. Always alone.

He’d lean against the crooked doorframe with his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual. He always asked questions he already knew the answers to—what’s this plant, what’s that charm for—just to keep her talking. She let him.

But only here.

Only where no one could see.

Outside this glass-taped refuge, he acted like they didn’t know each other. Like she was just another face in the hallway. Because that’s how popular boys operated—like friendships were secrets and reputations were currency.

Inside the greenhouse, though, he was... different.

He helped, sometimes. Not always well—he overwatered or forgot which gloves to use for thornweeds—but he tried. And the plants noticed. The only ones that leaned toward him were the cacti. Spined and resilient. Half-feral, half-beautiful. They responded to heat.

He didn’t ask why.

Sometimes, she let him help. Handed him a sprouting tray, nodded toward the compost charm, gave him space to move.

Sometimes, she didn’t.

It depended on the day. On her mood. On whether he’d nodded to her in passing or ignored her entirely.

But he kept showing up.

And the greenhouse always felt warmer when he did.

And then—one afternoon.

October, maybe. The air had that brittle dryness, the kind that made your skin feel tight and the wind taste like copper. The sky was high and pale and too still.

She doesn’t remember how it started. An argument, maybe. A dare. A careless spark tossed too high.

But she remembers the heat.

The fire bloomed fast—unnaturally fast. One second, she was crouched beside the cacti bed, pruning a cluster of tender aster hybrids. The next, she smelled it. The air shifted. Magic surged wrong.

Flame kissed the brittle drying vines above the door, and suddenly it was everywhere.

Her greenhouse—her sanctuary—became a furnace.

The fire moved like it was alive, hungry and laughing, chasing oxygen with reckless joy. The binding spells failed first. The charm-locks on the windows screamed as they shattered—sharp, shattering notes like glass begging for mercy. Smoke surged in, thick and sentient, curling like claws around every stem and petal.

She choked. Stumbled backward. Heard the plants scream.

Not with sound, but through magic. Through grief. Through her.

She could feel them dying—feel them choosing her.

Roots tore themselves from soil to crawl toward her. Leaves stretched, vines flung themselves into the flames as shields. One of the thorned creepers wrapped around her legs, anchoring her, then withered in the same instant, burned to ash before it hit the floor.

She didn't move. Couldn’t. Her back was against the cactus shelf, the only thing not immediately on fire. Dozens of tiny spines and waxy arms, huddled behind her, trembling with heat. She reached blindly for one—just one—and pulled it to her chest. A seedling. Barely rooted. A round-bellied sprout no bigger than her palm.

The rest—the flowering herbs, the climbing vines, the water-hungry blossoms—they died wrapped around her like armor.

And outside the smoke, through the chaos, she saw him.

Orion. Standing in the doorway, unmoving. Eyes wide. Mouth slack. His fingers still glowing with the last of the spell he’d lost control of. His magic flickered at his knuckles like it didn’t know what to do without a command.

He froze.

She screamed his name. Screamed at him to move, to help, to do anything—

And for one terrible, endless second, he just shook. His face had gone pale, his jaw slack. He looked small. Ten years old again. Scared of himself.

Then he ran.

It took almost an hour to get her out.

They said it was the smoke. The melted beams. The collapsing roof. That her magic had gone wild and tangled with the vines, made it hard to reach her. That even the fire-suppression charms stuttered under elemental backlash.

But Olivia remembered only this: the silence of the plants as they died. The leaves that wrapped around her arms like hands. The scent of mint burning. The sound of the ceiling breaking open like a cracking heart.

When they pulled her out, she was covered in scorched petals and dead roots and the long, blackened leaves of the sentient plants that gave themselves up to shield her.

She clutched the cactus sprout to her chest the whole time.

It was the only thing that lived.

The greenhouse didn’t just burn.

It collapsed.

And later, when her hands were still shaking and her backpack still smelled like charcoal, Olivia sat stiffly on the principal’s couch as members of the Cittadella family arrived with velvet apologies and strained expressions. Her mom was furious, demanding explanations and blaming the school “How do you live a fifteen year old in charge of a greenhouse? Why weren’t teachers around? How did you let this happen? I could sue you, I could sue the kid that almost killed my daughter! I will!”

“Boys can be reckless,” Orion’s aunt had said.

“He didn’t mean harm,” murmured a scared teacher.

“You know how strong his fire is. He’s just figuring it out.”

Then—low, sharp, from a relative who didn’t look at Olivia when he spoke: “We’d really appreciate it if your family didn’t escalate this.”

She could feel her parents bristle beside her. Her mother’s hand curled into a fist.

But Olivia—tired, betrayed, and still blinking away the image of her melted herb table—just stood up.

“I won’t escalate anything,” she said.

And she didn’t.

But a month later, when university applications opened, she didn’t list any of the local schools. Not the one with a nice program in magical horticulture just two bus stops away. Not the one Orion said he was considering.

She looked for something further.

Something hers.

When the acceptance letter came—campus hours from home, surrounded by coast and forest and cooler winds—she packed her dried flowers and buried the ones that had burned, and left.

She told no one why.

Not even herself.

The campus felt unusually electric that afternoon—humidity clung to the air like a warning. Even the environmental charms seemed sluggish, like they didn’t want to get in the way of what was coming.

Most students avoided the east courtyard during midday, when the sun pooled hot between the stone pavers and the enchanted trees buzzed faintly with spell-static. But today, there was a crowd—drawn in like moths to something flammable.

A wide arc of students gathered around the stone benches, pretending they weren’t watching.

They were.

Juniper stood center. Feet braced. Shoulders squared. Braid snapping in the still air like a banner before a storm. His family crest—stitched in silver thread over the collar of his tailored stormcoat—gleamed faintly, flashing with old-magic sigils. There was power behind him. Wealth. Legacy. But not enough.

Not compared to Orion.

Orion Cittadella, heir to a bloodline older than most magical laws, stood across from him like this was just another break between classes. Thumbs in his belt loops. Sleeves rolled up. Barely a flicker of flame along his knuckles, like his magic was stretching lazily in its sleep.

He didn’t look threatened. He looked bored .

“Seriously, again?” Orion said, a smirk curling at his mouth. “What’s your problem this time, Junie? Someone ruffle your Council robes?”

Juniper’s jaw tensed. “My problem is that you keep being handed things other people work for. And you don’t even care.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Someone whispered, “What’s he talking about?”

Juniper’s voice carried. Clear. Cold. Controlled. “You got the symposium slot.”

Orion tilted his head. “So?”

“So I applied for that position six months ago. Drafted a thesis. Proposed inter-major collaboration models. Sat through four board reviews.”

“And I walked in and got it,” Orion finished for him. “Wow. Magic really is faster when you’re hot.”

Juniper didn’t laugh.

He stepped forward, wind stirring around his boots. “You didn’t even show up to the last planning session. You forgot your advisory interview. You charmed a senior project into smoke. And now, instead of preparing like the rest of us, you’ve used your slot to throw a glorified party.”

Another ripple. This time sharper.

“You think this is about a party?” Orion asked, straightening just a little.

“I think this is about power,” Juniper said. “And the fact that this school—this system—keeps rewarding your mediocrity because of your last name. While the rest of us get told to ‘wait our turn.’”

The air shifted.

Not metaphorically.

Wind stirred under Juniper’s coat, lifting the edges like a slow exhale. His magic was building now, coiling in the pressure system only elemental majors could read instinctively.

“You walk around like everything bends for you,” Juniper snapped. “You set fires, and people call it passion. I so much as raise my voice, and I’m ‘hostile.’ You forget to show up, and it’s charming. I miss one deadline, and I lose funding.”

Orion’s jaw flexed. He said nothing for a long moment.

Then, quietly: “Maybe you’re just not as fun to watch.”

Juniper’s eyes flashed. “You think this is about watching ? About attention?”

He took another step forward. “I’m trying to build something . Create space for majors outside the core four. Advocate for interdisciplinary reform. I wanted that platform because I actually have something to say.”

“And what, I don’t?” Orion snapped, the smirk finally dropping.

Juniper didn’t answer. Not with words.

Instead, the air cracked—a sound like thunder with no lightning. Wind pressure buckled over the courtyard, rattling glamoured earrings and sweeping the shimmer-dust from everyone’s hair. Shields went up. Someone shouted to move back.

The wind had moved.

Orion’s fire answered—without being called. Heat pulsed from his skin, a wave that warped the air and singed a few dry leaves from a nearby tree.

For a second, they stood like that—wind and fire, locked in tension, the space between them charged like a wire stretched to its limit.

And everyone watching?

They held their breath.

It coiled upward around Juniper’s feet, pulling loose leaves into spirals. His coat flared behind him like wings. A pressure built in the air, dense and invisible, like the moment before a downpour.

“Careful,” Orion said, voice low. “You’re not gonna like what happens if you keep pushing me.”

Juniper sneered. “I already don’t like what happens when I don’t.”

The wind had moved.

Orion’s fire answered—without being called. Heat pulsed from his skin, a wave that warped the air and singed a few dry leaves from a nearby tree.

For a second, they stood like that—wind and fire, locked in tension, the space between them charged like a wire stretched to its limit.

Then: a crack like thunder.

Juniper launched the first strike—a slicing burst of air that split a nearby bench clean in half and sent dust spiraling toward the crowd.

Orion staggered back, blinking grit from his eyes. His fingers flared instinctively—literal sparks flying.

The fire surged before he even meant to call it. It poured from his hands in a sweeping arc, reckless and raw. Orange-gold flames roared across the air like a whip, licking at the corners of the benches, searing a scorch mark into the cobblestones.

Bright and dangerous.

People screamed. A few ducked behind the fountains.

Juniper matched the fire with another gust of wind, trying to smother it, but it only fed the flames. A pillar of heat exploded between them.

Orion swore, sliding backward over scorched grass.

“Juniper—back off!” he shouted, voice hoarse. “You’re escalating this!”

“You started it the day you set half the locker hall on fire for a laugh,” Juniper growled. “I’m just calling it even.”

Air slammed into Orion’s chest like a battering ram, knocking the breath out of him. He dropped to one knee, fingers digging into the ground, eyes wide.

Enough. That should have been enough—

But Orion’s pulse was already roaring in his ears. Embers hissed from his palms, magic crackling too fast, too loud, too much. He sucked in a breath that tasted like ash and fury, and when he looked up at Juniper, something snapped.

A fist of fire punched forward from his chest, unrestrained. Not a spell, not technique—just rage and instinct. It roared across the courtyard in a compressed spiral, glowing hotter at the core, carving the air apart in its wake.

Juniper barely had time to react. He threw up a wind barrier, slashing sideways to divert the blow. It worked.

Almost.

The fire veered.

It slammed into the tree line.

There was a gasp—then the sound of leaves igniting. Heat flared across the courtyard as the flames took root and spread like they'd been waiting for permission. Branches popped. The air filled with smoke.

Someone screamed. Then two more. Shields went up across the crowd as the forest caught.

Juniper’s expression shattered.

Orion’s heart plummeted.

Because beyond the trees—barely fifty meters away—was the greenhouse.

Olivia’s greenhouse.

The main hall was quieter than usual, the sun filtering through the tall stained glass windows painting flickering, kaleidoscopic patterns across the polished floor. It was the sort of lazy golden hour that made you want to nap in a patch of light or walk just to chase the sun as it moved. As she walked more towards the end she started to hear the typical hum of students between classes — footsteps echoing against marble, laughter echoing beneath floating banners advertising spring festivals and research showcases.

Olivia had just stepped out from the magical botanics office, her tablet tucked under her arm and a snack bar half-eaten in her hand, when a voice called out from across the entryway

“Olivia!”

She turned at the sound of her name, instantly recognizing the voice. Oliver. He was walking toward her from the west wing corridor, hands in the pockets of his slate-blue jacket, his expression open and hopeful. The way he said her name—casual, bright, but not overfamiliar—sent a strange flutter through her chest.

He was still ridiculously pretty, even at the tail end of the day when most people looked wilted. A strand of ash hair had fallen loose from behind his ear, catching the light like a thread of silk. He reached up to tuck it back, and she looked away quickly, annoyed at herself.

“Hi,” she said, shifting her notebook to her other hand. “What’s up?”

He fell into step beside her as she started toward the main stairwell, not asking where she was headed. “I was hoping I could steal a moment of your time.”

She raised a brow. “That sounds ominous.”

Oliver laughed, and the sound was unfairly musical. “It’s not. Well, it’s not bad-ominous. Just... potentially embarrassing for me.”

“Oh?” she asked, surprised, slowing slightly.

“The music department’s hosting a closed midterm showcase,” he explained, eyes flicking to hers and then away again, as if measuring her reaction. “It’s a formal assessment for our enchantment integration projects—only invited guests are allowed in. Word is a few talent reps from Arctech and Resonantia might be sitting in, which is... yeah. Big. I’m performing something I’ve been building for weeks—it’s experimental. We’re using magi-tech loops to manipulate tempo based on emotional resonance from the audience. It’s risky, and honestly kind of terrifying.”

She stared at him, stunned. A flush crept up her neck. “That’s incredible. Congratulations, seriously. I mean, that’s huge. No wonder you’re nervous.”

Oliver smiled, eyes warm. “Yeah. It's kind of a big deal. People have been whispering all week. And they told us we could each invite one person.” Then, quieter: “I… was hoping you’d come. As my guest.”

Her heart didn’t just flip—it cartwheeled, somersaulted, pirouetted midair like it had just been set loose from gravity. Something bright and fierce bloomed in her chest, like a sunbeam cracking through the clouds she hadn’t realized she was living under. Every cell in her body buzzed like she’d swallowed a hummingbird. He wanted her there. He chose her. Her.

She blinked twice, almost dizzy. She was very suddenly aware of her hair, of her shoes, of the fact that she was still holding half a snack bar in one hand like a goblin. And he was standing there, stupidly gorgeous and soft and glowing like she was the only person on this stupid enchanted campus.

Her voice, when it finally came, was half-breathless. Half-squeal. "Wait, seriously?"

She was going to have to sit down or scream into a tree or physically launch herself into orbit.

Because Oliver just invited her to that.

She’d seen some of his work online—spell-synced instruments and emotionally reactive melodies—but hearing him talk about it in person, in that quiet, careful way of his, made it feel different. More personal. Less influencer, more artist. Like he wasn’t showing off. Like he was inviting her in.

“Oh,” she said again, blinking. “You want me to go?”

He nodded, smile sheepish. “Yeah. I know it’s not exactly your scene—there’s no dirt involved whatsoever—but… I’d like you to be there.”

Somewhere along the way, without realizing it, they'd wandered toward the music lab. Olivia glanced up and blinked in surprise—it was a large corner room with massive bay windows, the kind you could see from almost anywhere on this level. She hadn’t even noticed how far they’d walked.

It hit her then how little time she’d spent outside the lab lately. Everything had become tunnel vision: dirt under her nails, spreadsheets full of plant behavior logs, night after night spent under artificial growlight. Socializing had become accidental, peripheral. This—talking, walking, laughing—felt oddly out of rhythm. Like she’d stepped back into a life she’d quietly put on pause.

Her fingers brushed against the glass without thinking. From here, the greenhouse was just visible down the hill—a glint of curved roof and scattered glass tucked behind the trees. The light caught on its side in a way that made her chest tighten. Her fingers curled a little.

It was like the universe had taken a perfect snapshot of everything she loved, everything she wanted—magic and beauty and people she didn’t feel invisible around—and handed it to her in one soft moment.

“I haven’t been to anything like that in a while,” she admitted. “I’ve been so buried in the lab this semester.”

“You deserve a break,” he said simply.

She looked over at him then, at his earnest face and gentle smile, and something in her unraveled a bit. He wasn’t what she’d expected when she first looked him up. Too pretty, too curated, too polished. But the more time she spent near him, the more cracks she noticed—soft, human ones. He was kind in a way that didn’t ask for credit. A little awkward when people weren’t watching. 

“I’d like that,” she said before she could overthink it. “When and where?”

“Next week. friday. Starts at seven. They’re closing the wold backyard near the music department. You’ll get a good view from the hill behind the lab if you want space from the crowd.” He smiled, then added, “Plus, the greenhouse lights up beautifully from there at night and you can still see it.”

“I’ll be there,” she said, and this time she meant it.

There was something slow and golden about this moment, like it was dipped in honey. Time felt gentle for once. She almost asked if she should bring snacks, or which side of the hill gave the best acoustics, or if he’d laugh if she wore her moonflower-print dress. She wanted to say more. She would’ve —

Then a voice cut through the air like broken glass.

“Olivia!”

She turned, smile still half-formed.

And everything shattered.

Tulip was running full speed down the hall. No mischief in their eyes. No charm. Just terror. Pure and human. Behind them, Moony and Aaron, pale and gasping.

The hallway tilted. Not literally. But it felt like gravity forgot how to hold her.

Tulip reached her first, skidding to a stop like they’d been yanked by fate. “You need to come. Now. The trees near the Greenline are on fire—Juniper and Orion were fighting—it’s bad—”

“It’s spreading fast,” Moony panted. “Toward the greenhouse.”

Her heart plummeted. Fell out of her body and into the floor. She couldn't breathe for a second. Everything inside her turned cold, even as heat bloomed at the edge of her senses.

“No,” Olivia whispered. Her voice sounded like someone else’s.

The walls blurred.

“No, no, no—”

Oliver moved to her side, concerned. “Wait—what’s happening? What—”

She thrust her notebook at him, almost hitting his chest. “I need to go. Call Professor Elryn. The principal.”

“Wait—” Oliver started, but she was already shoving her notebook at him. “Get help,” she barked over her shoulder. “Call the grounds warden, the magical faculty Call Professor Elryn!” She checked her smart watch, MAGIC HEAT SIGNATURE DETECTED — 74m AHEAD — TEMP 610°C.. “Trigger the emergency runes. There’s an old one by the arcane history alcove—it should still be wired to the campus-wide glyph net. They’ll feel the surge.”

She didn’t wait for his answer. Her feet hit the stairs in a blur. Her friends followed. The world became tunnel vision. Her boots hit the ground like thunder, her braid whipping behind her, air slicing against her lungs. Her body moved faster than her thoughts, but her mind was a cacophony.

Not again. Not again.

The last time she had burned, she was fifteen, trapped inside and screaming as the vines curled to ash around her. That time, she’d survived. But just barely. The scars weren’t visible—but they were there. In her nightmares. In her hesitation every time she smelled smoke. In her breath, caught sharp in her chest now.

Her legs ached, but she pushed harder.

Stone and moss blurred underfoot. Trees swayed. Birds shrieked. Somewhere far away, a magical siren went off—low and dissonant, like a spell being torn in half.

As she rounded the west quad, she saw it.

The sky.

It wasn’t blue anymore. It was orange and black and sick with smoke.

And the fire—gods, the fire—was climbing. Magic twisted in the air, wild and disobedient, and she could feel it. Like static under her skin. Like the trees were crying .

Mana sparks leapt from branch to branch. Charmed petals flared like dying stars. A vine burst open mid-air with a shriek. Her greenhouse—the greenhouse—stood in the distance, trembling in the haze. Half-shadowed, half-glowing like it was trying to protect itself.

But it wouldn’t be enough.

“MOVE!” she shouted to no one in particular, elbowing past a student standing frozen with their phone out. “Don’t just film it, MOVE.”

Her lungs were knives now. She choked on smoke, tripped on a step, caught herself on pure adrenaline.

“Elryn—” she gasped, heart stuttering like a dying charm. “Where is she—”

“Inside,” someone yelled. “She’s trying to hold the enchantments—”

Olivia didn’t hesitate.

She burst through the lower gate like a storm, ignoring the heat licking at her sleeves. The wards were flickering, failing. Magical vines hissed underfoot. The path to the greenhouse door was glowing with sigils she didn’t remember placing—maybe Elryn had added failsafes. Maybe the tree had.

But the front gate— her gate —was starting to sag inward.

The ancient lock rune pulsed feebly.

The greenhouse breathed smoke .

“Don’t do this,” she whispered, almost begging. Her hand touched the gate.

“Please,” she told it. “Not you too.”

She reached deep into herself—past the fear, the panic, the fractured voice in her head screaming run—and channeled. Not cast. Not conjure. She simply called .

“I’m here,” she said, breath hitching. “It’s me. Olivia. Wake up.”

The vine on the right side of the arch twitched.

Then curled slowly, weakly, like a hand trying to reach back.

Inside, she saw Elryn—barefoot, radiant, and furious , hands lifted to the glass ceiling as she chanted in a dialect Olivia didn’t recognize. Fire bloomed overhead like a living dome. One of the enchanted windows cracked.

Olivia fell to her knees, a sob tearing from her throat before she could stop it.

She didn’t care who saw. Didn’t care if she looked hysterical.

It was happening again.

The place that had cradled her, healed her, known her—was burning.

And this time, it wasn’t just a memory.

It was now.

A noise behind her—Oliver.

“Olivia,” he said, breathless. “We triggered the runes. Help’s coming— You need to get out!”

She dropped to her knees by the warding stones, whispering fast and desperate, hands pressed flat against the floor. “Please,” she said, over and over, fingers glowing green as she poured everything she had into the protection spell. “Protect it,” she whispered. “Come on, come on—connect!”

Vines leapt from the nearby planters as if answering her cry, curling into ward posts and reinforcing the field. Her spell fed into the system—earth, chlorophyll, memory—and the greenhouse hummed with sudden strength, the dome expanding like a breath held against the fire.

A ping lit up at her wrist—Shield Integrity Restored: 73%. Deterioration paused.

But she could still hear the blaze cracking. Still feel the temperature rising.

The greenhouse groaned like a dying animal.

Vines curled back from the glass walls in anguish. Petals blackened at the edges. The central dome pulsed wildly with mana-light—too wildly—and Olivia realized suddenly, horribly:

It wasn’t the greenhouse holding the flames back anymore.

It was Elryn.

Inside, her professor stood at the base of the great soul-bound tree, her hands raised toward its canopy. Her bare feet were planted firmly in the mossy floor, legs trembling, jaw clenched. Her long hair blew back in the heat, and her skin was lit from within—not by fire, but by power.

Too much power.

“No—no, no—” Olivia surged forward, heart slamming against her ribs.

A surge of energy blasted the outer vines back, flaring in waves. The tree's bark was glowing— glowing —not like it was enchanted, but like it was burning from the inside out. Its runes were searing hot, bleeding golden light that looked more like veins than symbols.

And Elryn—gods, Elryn was speaking in tongues now, ancient dialects that turned the air to static. Her body hunched slightly. She was shaking . And the way her hand faltered—

Something was wrong.

Something was very, very wrong.

The wards shrieked. One of the protective sigils collapsed with a flash, and Olivia felt it in her teeth like a punch.

“We have to get her out of there!” she shouted. “Elryn! Let go!”

But the dryad-like woman didn’t turn. Didn’t blink.

She was bound. Not just soul-linked. Not just magical. Elryn was anchored to the tree. And Olivia knew—knew—from the way her professor’s knees finally buckled and hit the moss floor that she wasn’t going to stop.

Not until the tree was safe.

Not until it was too late.

“She’s overchanneling,” Olivia gasped. “She’s—she’s pulling from her life force. That’s not a spell. It’s a last resort.”

Oliver swore under his breath. “She can’t survive that.”

“She’s not trying to,” Olivia said, her voice cracking.

Flames licked the topmost glass, but they couldn’t get in. Not anymore. Because Elryn’s body had become the seal. She was drawing the fire into herself—transmuting it through her link with the tree.

And the tree? It wept.

Not metaphorically. Its branches trembled. The mana-runes on its bark twisted like wounded limbs. Its leaves dropped, glowing faintly, evaporating as they fell like ash in reverse.

Olivia pounded on the glass, useless, desperate. “ELRYN! STOP!”

A crack spidered across the upper arch. Not from fire.

From magic backlash.

And then Elryn turned her head—just slightly—and saw her.

Just a moment.

A look.

And Olivia would remember that expression for the rest of her life.

A kind of peace. A kind of regret. A kind of knowing.

Elryn mouthed a single word: “Live.”

And then the dome surged with light.

Everything blinked white.

Then gold.

Then silence.

Olivia hit the ground. A wave of force knocked her flat—like a heartbeat. Her ears rang. Her hands scraped stone. Smoke curled around her hair. Her watch stopped vibrating.

When the haze cleared, the fire was gone.

The tree stood tall, its branches intact—but half its leaves had fallen in glowing piles. The greenhouse shimmered faintly, its runes flickering but stable. The sigils were raw and newly drawn, as if remade by sheer will.

And Elryn—

Elryn was slumped at the base of the tree, motionless.

“No,” Olivia whispered. “No, no, no—”

She crawled to the gate. The vines parted for her now. Not proudly. Not fiercely.

Gently.

Like they were mourning.

Inside, everything smelled of mana and sap and smoke. She stumbled to Elryn’s side, heart clawing at her ribs.

“Please don’t,” she whispered. “Please don’t leave.”

Elryn wasn’t dead.

But she wasn’t really awake , either.

Her breathing was shallow. Her skin pale. Her limbs limp, like roots drained of water. The tree leaned toward her, shading her body with its branches like a canopy of grief.

A small group of faculty arrived behind them. One of the healers dropped to Elryn’s side immediately, whispering diagnostics.

“Her core magic’s fractured,” the healer muttered. “She’ll need stabilization spells. Possibly soul-thread anchoring. It’ll be... a long recovery.”

Olivia sat beside her, fists curled in her lap.

She should’ve stopped her.

She should’ve known.

“She saved everything,” someone said behind her.

“She always saves everything,” Olivia whispered.

But at what cost?

The fire was gone, but the scent lingered—scorched bark and bitter ozone, curling in the air like the ghost of a scream. The greenhouse stood, somehow. A little blackened. A little cracked. But standing.

Professor Elryn had saved most of it.

The west beds were singed. A few spell-sensitive seedlings had wilted beyond revival. Someone’s final-year thesis plants—their entire magical soil interface—was now a smoldering, warped memory.

But the heart of it? The domed sanctuary? The tree? Still here.

The soul-bound wood still thrummed faintly in the background—diminished, but alive.

A loose ring of students and faculty had gathered outside, quiet and shell-shocked. Some spoke in hushed voices, like they were afraid to break whatever spell was holding the glass up. Others weren’t so subtle.

“I heard she overcast a tether spell through the tree—like, looped it into her own root system. That’s… ancient shit.”

“Is she… dead?”

“No, not dead. But she hasn’t moved. That’s worse, right? That’s burnout at the soul-level. That’s… a coma .”

“Shouldn’t have been her. Should’ve been Orion. He started it.”

“What happens if the soul-tree breaks? Does that break her ?”

“I didn’t know plants could cry like that. Did you hear them screaming?”

Olivia stood just outside the arched entrance, breath shallow. Her body shook—not from fear now, but magical depletion, the kind that felt like hunger in her bones and frost in her spine. Her reservoir—the core of her sun-fed roots, the part of her that bloomed in the heat of action—was scorched clean through.

She wasn’t empty.

She was hollowed .

Tears came anyway. Hot. Slow. They cut through the soot on her face like rivers over ash.

Her hands were blackened with dirt, magic residue, and bark dust. Her sleeves were singed at the edges. She looked like something the greenhouse had birthed and then set aflame.

And still, the vines followed her.

They crept from the shattered threshold, gentle and slow, curling up her arms, twining around her wrist and neck like a necklace she hadn’t chosen to wear. One small bloom brushed against her temple.

“Easy,” she whispered, her voice the ghost of itself. “I’m okay.”

The vines pulsed faintly.

Like they didn’t believe her .

Behind her, her friends kept their distance—but not their presence.

Moony stood like a fortress, arms locked across her chest, jaw clenched so tightly it looked like a challenge to the gods themselves. She glared at the horizon like it had personally betrayed Olivia. Like if she stared long enough, she could drag vengeance down from the sun.

Aaron was pacing, his holo-tablet floating beside him, still running damage diagnostics, muttering spell structures and notes on repair logistics. His hands trembled—not with fear, but frustration. Like he thought if he could just calculate hard enough, he could undo it.

Tulip flicked their fingers continuously, threads of pastel magic weaving across broken panes. A soft glamour of comfort spells settled over the greenhouse like a protective quilt. One of the cracked windows shuddered, then stilled under their spellwork.

“Breathe,” they murmured to the glass. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

And then there was Oliver.

He stood apart. Not far. But not close enough to interrupt the moment.

He held Olivia’s bag, her notebook, her enchanted water bottle—everything she’d dropped, everything she hadn’t thought to carry when the world caught fire.

His eyes were locked on her. Quiet. Unblinking. Like she was a lyric he didn’t want to mishear.

The gold stitching on his jacket caught the sun, but his face was pale. Drained. His hands kept flexing at his sides, like he wanted to do something—anything—but couldn’t find a shape for it.

He’d seen her unravel. Watched her go from lighthearted laughter to full-blown devastation in a blink.

And now, he didn’t say a word.

He just watched. Like a song waiting to be written.

Inside, Elryn hadn’t moved.

The healers were gentle. One hovered her vitals. Another laid down a stabilizing ring made of mana-infused petals and sand. A third whispered a binding chant, not to keep her in—but to keep her here.

“She’s resting,” one said, though even that sounded like a question. “Her life thread hasn’t snapped. It’s just… deep. Rooted. She’s gone down into the tree.”

Olivia knew what that meant.

It wasn’t sleep.

It was slumber. The kind only the oldest dryads entered. Where time passed like rainfall in a forest. Where one year could feel like one second—or a hundred.

She might wake tomorrow.

Or next season.

Or never.

“She shouldn’t have done it,” Olivia whispered, eyes locked on the faint glow of the tree. “She should’ve let me help.”

Moony stepped forward, slow, as if breaking ritual. “You did help.”

“Not enough.”

Aaron moved beside her, but didn’t speak. Just let his hand hover near her shoulder.

“She made a choice,” Tulip said quietly. “You know that. Dryads don’t bind lightly. You know that.”

Olivia didn’t answer.

A breeze stirred the leaves. The vines on her wrist trembled. Somewhere, the fire runes finally died out.

In the distance, someone started crying.

Olivia just stood there, rooted in place, her own body held together by willpower and grief.

One hand gripped a trailing vine like a lifeline.

She didn’t say anything else.

She didn’t have to.

And then—like from nothing—Principal Thorne appeared.

Literally.

One moment the path was clear, the next it rippled, and the old headmaster shimmered into place from thin air. His robes were obsidian with flecks of starlight thread. The air around him smelled faintly of cedar and ink and warding chalk. His eyes — golden, like a falcon’s — swept over the scene with the stillness of someone used to much worse, and never surprised.

“Miss Calloway,” he said, voice gravel and gravitas. “Report.”

Olivia swallowed. She couldn’t speak.

Moony stepped up, “There was a duel, sir. Unauthorized. Juniper and Orion. Elementals. It got out of hand. Professor Elryn—"

“I can see that,” he said dryly. He turned to his assistant, a shapeshifter guy. “Bring them to me.” 

Chapter Text

Long ago, before Lumina Hall had a name, before the towers and libraries, before lecture halls and runic lamplight, there was only a lake.

It lay at the heart of a quiet land, still and wide and deep, untouched by charts or spells, humans or entities. The stars liked to look at themselves in it. The wind passed softly over it, as if not to wake it. Nothing stirred there but light and the turning of the seasons.

And by that lake, there was a fountain.

It was not grand—not the kind carved for emperors or meant for coins. It was round and plain and always half-covered in ivy. No one knew who built it. No one knew when. But every now and then, when the sky was just right, it would glimmer.

Not with light. Not with water.

With promise, a spell someone, something casted upon it, or that’s what the stories told.

And just past that lake, beyond the birch treeline near the edge of the forest, there lived a dryad.

She was a creature of joy and movement, all bright laughter and sunlit steps. She danced when no one was looking. She greeted squirrels by name. Her voice carried through the trees like wind chimes caught mid-laugh, and when she sang, the blossoms turned to face her.

The dryad loved the world loudly. She spoke to flowers as though they were friends and scolded trees who hoarded too much rain. She was always seen with a smear of dirt on her cheek and twigs in her braid, arms full of cuttings or scrolls or honey sweets stolen from bees who adored her too much to mind.

Wherever she went, the forest followed.

But one day, she noticed she was being followed by something else.

It was not a fox. Not a deer. Not a bird, though she was used to those.

It was something deeper. Older. Quieter than silence. A shadow at the edge of every clearing. A breath that did not fog the air. A gaze that never blinked.

The dryad saw it first in reflections—glimpses in the lake, just beyond her shoulder. Then in footprints that never sank into soil. Then, one night, in a shape at the far end of the fountain, still as stone.

“You’ve been watching me,” she said, brushing moss from the rim of the fountain.

The figure nodded.

“You’re not a spirit,” she added. “Not a fae, not a ghost. What are you?”

The being—tall, draped in black robes that drank moonlight, face unreadable—answered in a voice like wind through old crypts.

“Not what,” he said. “When.”

That made her blink. Then laugh. “What does that mean?”

It stilled. 

“You’re terrible at conversation,” she said. “Try again tomorrow.”

And she turned and walked away, twigs crackling underfoot.

He returned the next day.

She was already there, kneeling in the clover, sun caught in her hair. Her skin had the look of polished bark—smooth, amber-toned, almost wooden in the right light—but when she brushed his sleeve, it was softer than moss. Her eyes were green. Not the kind of green that fades with time, but the deep, growing kind—like leaves that remembered spring.

She offered him honey. He refused.

He looked human, almost. His shape held like mist packed into bone. But the longer you stared, the more the illusion frayed. His feet never quite touched the ground. His skin, too pale for any season, swallowed light. And where his legs should have cast shadow, there was only smoke , slow and curling, as if his body had forgotten where it ended.

His eyes—black, all black—held no whites, no pupils, only depth. Cold radiated from him like memory from stone.

She asked his name.

He said it could not be spoken anymore.

She squinted at him, then nodded to herself and declared, “Moss.”

“Because you’re always at the edge of things,” she said. “Quiet. Still. And probably older than you look.”

He did not protest.

The next day, she braided flowers into his cloak—delicate blooms with petals like lanterns. He stood still as she did, the contrast sharp: warm skin against frost, green life woven through a void.

“You should smile more,” she told him as she worked.

“I do not remember how.”

“Well, keep watching,” she grinned. “I’m an excellent teacher.”

So he did

Spring turned to summer.

The dryad danced across the lake’s edge with petals in her palms. She caught fish with her hands, then let them go. She dragged the ancient being into conversations with frogs, and taught him how to hum, and told him about the secret language of leaves.

He followed like the tide follows the moon. Always near. Never too close.

“Why are you here?” she asked once, sitting at the lip of the fountain, her toes in the water.

He hesitated.

“I was nothing,” he said finally. “A thing between endings. Until I saw you.”

The fountain glimmered.

The dryad smiled. “Good,” she said. “Then stay.”

Autumn came like copper fire.

The lake filled with leaves. The trees whispered slower.

The dryad began building things—tiny shrines, stone circles, garden beds that pulsed with soft enchantments. She hummed as she worked, always barefoot, dirt on her arms, sun in her hair. The ancient one, silent as ever, carried things for her without being asked. Cleared roots from paths. Held her tools. Sat beside her when her hands ached, unmoving as stone.

And always, they returned to the fountain.

No one knew who had placed the spell there, or when. But it was old. The kind of old that made even seasoned mages forget how to speak when they stood too close. It had no visible rune, no sigil or mark—but everyone who lived near the lake eventually heard the same whispered tale:

If the fountain glimmered in your presence, it meant love was coming.

Not always soon. Not always safe.

But true.

The shimmer was rare. Some said it only happened once in a lifetime. Some said it was the land’s way of knowing hearts before they did. Some said it was a curse.

The dryad never called it that.

One day, when the sky was the color of tea and the lake was calm, she and the being called Moss sat beneath the willow branches.

She pressed a hand to his chest—right over where a heart might have been.

“Do you love me?” she asked, blunt and shining.

He paused. His voice was barely a ripple. “I do not know how.”

“You’re learning,” she said.

“I am.”

She leaned in, resting her head against his shoulder. She was all warmth and woodgrain and patience. He was all cold and quiet and ache.

The fountain behind them rippled once.

Though there was no wind.

And just like it did whenever she was with him, the water glimmered

Winter was gentle that year.

Snow dusted the lake but never froze it. The dryad stayed close to her tree, which never lost its leaves. The ancient one built her a greenhouse, enchanted glass blooming out of the ground like a crystal cocoon. “To keep your roots warm,” he said.

She kissed his cheek. He didn’t flinch this time.

When the first frost passed, she showed him her favorite bloom—an ugly, lopsided bud with petals too short to open.

“It’s perfect,” she said, holding it to his chest.

“Why?”

“Because it tried anyway.”

He kept it. Still does.

Years passed.

They do not say how many.

But the greenhouse grew. The lake became the heart of something bigger. Other dryads came. Mages. Students. They say the land called to them. That Ethe dryad’s laughter turned into songs that turned into lessons. That the trees made paths just wide enough to follow. That the stones built steps when no one was looking.

And at the center of it all—her tree. Their lake. Their fountain.

And their strange, ancient love.

It’s said he never answered her question.

But he built a world around her anyway.

And when the first mage asked to learn beside the lake, they said yes.

When the first student asked what the fountain meant, they said nothing.

She only smiled, and touched the rim of the basin, and said:

“If it ever glimmers… you’ll understand.”

Their names changed. Their roles changed. But their hearts did not. And though their tale was never written down, it was never truly lost.

Because the land remembers.

The vines that lean toward the lake. The glass that never fogs in the greenhouse, no matter the season. The wind that still hums near the treeline, like someone laughing just out of sight.

And the fountain—

The old stone fountain, wrapped in ivy, cracked and patient—

Still glimmers.

Not often.

Only when it matters.

And always when love is near.

Just as she said.

Juniper and Orion were dragged forward by campus enforcers — cloaked in shimmersteel, faces unreadable behind veil spells. Juniper looked half-defiant, half-ashamed, his jacket singed, his wind-scar magic sigils still faintly glowing around his arms like pulsing ink.

Orion looked… worse. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, blood matted against his temple, and his hands twitched like they wanted to spark again, even though he clearly knew better. He met Olivia’s eyes for a second. Just one. And looked away.

The enforcers did not release them. They stood, flanked by magic-veiled guards, as a trio of white-robed healers approached Principal Thorne.

"Professor Elryn remains in a critical restorative state," one healer reported, voice neutral but strained. "Her body is unresponsive, but magically stabilized. She’s entered a dryadic slumber—comatose by most standards."

Another added, "The soulbinding is drawing heavily from the greenhouse mana systems. She’s feeding off the land itself, which is keeping her alive. But we can’t predict how long it will take. Weeks. Months. Maybe longer." Elryn's body was placed at the base of his tree, her body had started to form a form of cocoon around her. Olivia looked away.

The courtyard was silent. Even the breeze held its breath.

Juniper glanced at the ground. Orion's jaw tightened. Neither spoke. But their postures had shifted—less defiant now, less armored. Guilt flickered through their auras like stormlight behind a veil. It was there. They just couldn’t afford to show it. Not with everyone watching.

Thorne's expression didn't change. But his silence felt sharp.

He stepped forward, just once.

"Do you know what kind of magic it takes to enter that kind of slumber?" he asked softly.

No one answered.

"She gave everything. Not to save herself. Not even just the tree. But all of you. This school. This place. And you—"

He turned slightly, gaze slicing across the boys like a spell sharpened to edge.

"You thought a spell duel was worth more than centuries of sacred magic. Than a life. Than every soul under these wards."

Juniper swallowed.

Orion said nothing.

Thorne smiled. But it was not kind.

"You will think of that," he said, "every time your hands touch a seed. Every time you water a plant. Every time your feet step onto soil. You will think of her."

Then he turned away, as if they no longer existed at all.

“I see two things,” the principal said, his voice sweeping across not just Juniper and Orion but the entire gathered crowd. “Pride and recklessness. But not just theirs.”

He turned, gaze sharp enough to pierce through layers of glamours and guilt alike. “Where were the rest of you?”

Murmurs stirred. Eyes lowered.

“I saw students recording the blaze with their scrying orbs. Whispering, watching, waiting for someone else to act. And when Olivia Calloway ran into the flames, alone , not a single one of you followed. Not one of you lifted a hand to help.”

The air thickened, heavy with shame.

“And now you stand here, silent and wide-eyed, as if tragedy is something that simply happened to you , rather than something you allowed. You feel bad? Good. But don’t mistake feeling bad for doing something.”

He took one slow step forward.

“This school will not reward apathy. Not from its students. Not from its legacy houses. If you are here to spectate, leave. If you are here to learn—learn from this. This is what cowardice looks like. This is what reverence failing looks like. This is how sacred things die.”

The courtyard was silent now, not just quiet but grieving .

“Let this be your warning,” Thorne finished, voice low but firm. “The next time fire falls and you choose the sidelines, you will not be welcomed back at all.”

His voice was calm, but there was thunder beneath it.

“You’ll be assisting with the restoration of the gardens,” he continued. “From sunrise to dinner bell, six days a week. Under supervision. No glamour, no shortcuts. This will be manual. Magical remediation work, as needed. And if I hear so much as a whisper of resistance—”

He let the pause hang.

—your academic records will be reviewed for immediate suspension.”

He turned slightly, voice colder. “And beyond the gardens, you will also attend empathy reconstruction seminars. Twice a week. With written reflections. Public ones. I want you to stand before your peers and name what you broke.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from someone in the crowd.

“You will also complete research essays,” Thorne went on, “on dryadic lifeforms, mana-linked architecture, and the ethics of soulbound ecosystems. Ten pages each. Cited. No shortcuts. You will understand what you nearly destroyed—if not by magic, then by knowledge.”

Orion scoffed, low but audible. "With respect, Principal Thorne—"

Thorne turned.

The effect was immediate. Orion faltered.

“With respect,” the principal repeated, every syllable like glass cracking underfoot. “You think that word gives you leeway here?”

“I think this is an overreaction,” Orion said, jaw tightening. “It was a fight. A stupid one. I apologize.”

“You set part of the university on fire.”

“It wasn’t— I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t care what you meant, Mr. Cittadella,” Thorne snapped. His robes shimmered slightly, the starlight-thread glowing darker. The magic around him pulsed once, firm and vast.

Orion took a step back.

“Your family may be rich. They may be influential. But this school is not theirs. It is mine. And I will not be strong-armed, bribed, or swayed by last names.”

Olivia’s head snapped up at that. For once, Orion looked less like a prince and more like what she was: a twenty-two-year-old college student.

“This is a school of magic,” Thorne went on. “A living space of learning, sacred pacts, and deep history. It does not bend to inherited power. It bends to discipline. And you’ve shown none.”

Juniper raised his hand, nervously. “Sir, if I could just—”

“You will write a formal apology to every student in the magical botanics department, to Miss Calloway—who risked her life when none of you did—and to Professor Elryn, whose soul is currently suspended in dryadic stasis because of your arrogance,” Thorne said, his voice restrained but trembling with fury. “You will fund the full material costs of restoration, down to the last root-thread and seedstone. The greenhouse is not just a structure—it is a soulbound ecosystem, a living archive, and your recklessness nearly erased it. The Magic Commission of the East has already been notified, and your families will be involved. Compliance is not optional. If I do not receive your restitution pledges in writing by week's end, I will personally recommend your expulsion to the Commission and freeze your academic credentials.”

Juniper paled.

“But I—”

“Silence.” Thorne’s voice dropped to something ancient. “Speak again out of turn, and I’ll strip your wards and have you resealed before you’re allowed back on school grounds.”

Even the air around him seemed to hush.

And still, Orion stood there — tense, like he was coiling for one last lunge.

“I can call my mother—”

“Call her,” Thorne barked, voice booming with magic. “Call whoever you want. It won’t change the fact that you almost destroyed a soulbound grove. That your recklessness endangered not just students, but an entire archive of living knowledge, this school was here before the Cittadella name was even invented, and would be here far longer than the last of you, just remember that.”

A gust of wind blew through the courtyard, but it wasn’t natural. It was thick with spell energy, golden and pressurized, like the school itself was listening now.

“This isn’t your playground, Mr. Cittadella,” Thorne finished. “It never was. And the next time you forget that, you won’t be here to remember anything at all.”

Orion didn’t speak again.

Olivia watched it all — silent, fury still rippling beneath her bones. The vines curled tighter at her elbows.

And when the principal turned back to her, Olivia’s voice came suddenly.

“No.”

It wasn’t loud. But it cracked through the courtyard like thunder.

Everyone went still.

The vines on her arms tightened. Olivia looked toward the medical tent—toward the still, glowing form of Professor Elryn, suspended in her dryadic cocoon. The sight grounded her fury, shaped it into something sharp. Something that could speak.

“No,” Olivia said again. “They don’t get to be near it.”

Juniper opened his mouth. Orion flinched.

“They burned our forest,” Olivia said, her voice low but laced with fury. “This wasn’t a mistake. This wasn’t a spill in a lab. This was devastation. They didn’t just break glass. They didn’t just ruin my thesis project.”

She took a step forward, every word gaining weight. “They nearly erased every single student’s work in the botanical department — spells that took years to inscribe, grafts that took entire semesters to stabilize. Some plants were bonded to students' familiars. Some were one of a kind. Sacred. Ancient. And now they’re ash.”

She pointed, eyes burning. “They didn’t just start a fire. They almost burned our future down to the roots.”

The wind held its breath.

She pointed behind her, towards the central tree.

“They almost burned the heart tree!” Olivia screamed, her voice breaking. “The one that holds Professor Elryn’s soulbinding! She’s in a slumber because of them!”

She turned, eyes wild, pointing back toward the glowing cocoon barely visible through the archway. “There were three people inside when the fire started. Three! And I was one of them. We almost didn’t make it out!”

Her voice cracked again, raw and thunderous. “Did any of you think of that?! Did any of you even care?!”

There was a collective gasp. Oliver’s mouth parted slightly. Moony’s knuckles went white. Principal Thorne looked as though something inside him had cracked. His gaze drifted—slow, unwilling—toward the glowing cocoon cradling Elryn’s comatose body. For a moment, the weight of it all washed over him: the silence where her voice should’ve been, the stillness that once brimmed with laughter and counsel. His jaw clenched. His eyes burned.

But when he turned back, his expression had hardened into something unbreakable. Not cold—never cold—but honed. Measured. And utterly unyielding.

“I—I didn’t know it would get that bad,” Orion said, stumbling over the words. He stepped forward, hands raised in a half-plea. “Liv, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”

She unraveled. Before anyone could stop her, she slapped him. Hard. The sound cracked louder than fire.

He stumbled back a step, one hand to his face. Blood welled at the corner of his lip.

A ripple of gasps tore through the courtyard.

Even the enforcers shifted.

Because Olivia Calloway—no legacy name, no ancestral wealth, but a rising force in magical botanics, courted by research institutes and sanctuaries across the realm—had just struck Orion Cittadella, heir to the most influential magical bloodline on the continent.

And no one moved to stop her.

“You never know, Orion! Always so fucking clueless,” she shouted, voice shattering with rage and something ancient. “Do you even realize this is the second time you’ve almost burned me alive? Do you? You just—what—throw sparks when you’re angry and let the world catch fire? And then you stand there like some tragic victim, shocked that anything got hurt.”

She was shaking now, voice hoarse. “You never think. You act. You explode. And everyone else has to pick up the fucking pieces because gods forbid the Cittadella heir faces consequences like the rest of us. You don’t even look back at what you wrecked!”

“Olivia,” Principal Thorne began.

“No,” she cut in. “I’m done. I’m so done. If you assign them to help, fine. But not near me. Not near my plants. Not near her.” She gestured back at the heart tree. To Professor Elryn. “Put them on compost duty. Make them replant the outer gardens. I don’t care. But they don’t get to touch what they almost killed.”

Vines coiled tighter, reflecting her rage.

There was a moment of breathless stillness—then motion.

A few professors moved toward Olivia, not to restrain her, but as if drawn by gravity. One older professor from the enchantment wing murmured something that sounded like praise, while another in pale green robes simply bowed their head in acknowledgment. She wasn’t just a student now. She was a voice none of them had dared to be.

Oliver stepped closer, slow and steady, his gaze never leaving her. Not in pity. In awe. He didn’t try to touch her again. He just stood beside her, silent sentinel.

And Orion—Orion looked at her like he was seeing her for the first time. Not just furious. Not just brilliant. But righteous. And untouchable. His hands dropped to his sides. His jaw clenched.

The vines loosened. Not because someone calmed her—but because they recognized she’d said what needed saying.

Principal Thorne looked between them all. Then sighed, long and low.

“Very well,” he said. “Miss Calloway’s wishes will be respected. Mr. Cittadella and Mr. Gale will serve their punishment away from the greenhouse interior. Any violation, and I revoke their enrollment.”

Silence fell again.

Orion didn’t speak. He looked at the ground, blood on his lip, hands clenched at his sides. Juniper muttered something under his breath and got silenced with a withering look from one of the enforcers—a tall figure wrapped in shimmersteel, whose veil spell shimmered faintly with restrained magic. It was enough to shut him up instantly.

Olivia turned away.

She couldn’t take it anymore. Her friends surrounded her, catching her before she collapsed. Oliver moved beside her without a word, sliding his coat off and draping it around her shoulders, warm with music-threaded sigils. She didn’t say thank you. But she didn’t shrug it off either.

The vines followed her all the way back to the infirmary. A path of flowers, weeds and broken dreams.

And when the doors shut, she let herself cry.

Hours later, moonlight streamed faint through the infirmary wards. Olivia lay asleep on one of the far cots, wrapped in Oliver’s coat, her face pale and still. Her body barely stirred with breath—utterly drained.

Nearby, a nurse dabbed salve over Oliver’s faint burns as he winced, more from the tension than the pain.

At the other end of the room, Moony sat cross-legged on a bench, flanked by Tulip. They were whispering to Sunny, Rose, and Cairo—none of whom had been there. Their voices were low but urgent, reliving every word, every spell, every breath of fire.

“And then Olivia slapped him,” Tulip said, wide-eyed. “In front of everyone. ”

“She screamed about the heart tree,” Moony added. “About Elryn. I’ve never heard her like that.”

The door creaked open.

An enforcer entered. Behind them: Orion and Juniper, both silent, both stripped of their glamours, their wrists still glowing faintly with containment sigils.

Sunny was the first to react. Her eyes widened—then blazed.

“You have got to be kidding me,” she snarled.

Orion looked up, startled.

“I could literally kill you, Orion Cittadella!” she roared, rising to her feet so fast her chair clattered. “Again?! You nearly killed her again?! And you— fucking elemental bastards, just because you have money doesn’t mean you get to be this fucking useless!”

Juniper tried to step forward, but Aaron—who had just entered from the hallway—placed a firm hand on his shoulder and didn’t let him.

“Don’t,” Aaron said, voice low. “Just don’t.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen!” Orion shot back, his voice cracking. “Sunny, you know me—we’ve known each other since we were seven. I didn’t think—”

“That’s exactly the problem!” she screamed, pointing at him like she could set him on fire. “You never fucking think! Not then. Not now. You nearly burned her alive once already—and you did it again! ”

“Enough.”

Oliver’s voice didn’t rise—but it resonated . It was layered with sound-magic, each word striking like a note through glass. The warded room hummed .

Everyone froze.

“You’re waking her,” he said, eyes locked on Orion. Then Sunny. Then Juniper. His voice pulsed with invisible chords. “She needs rest. Not your guilt. Not your fury. Not your excuses. So shut up. Or get out.”

Orion looked toward Olivia’s sleeping form. Then towards Oliver, fingers sparkling.

Oliver stood, slow and quiet. The salve still gleamed on his skin.

“You’re an irresponsible brat,” Oliver said, voice quiet but cutting. “I’m Olivia’s friend. I stand by my friends. I ran into the fire because she was in there. You started it, and she was trapped.”

Orion’s face darkened. “Don’t act like you know her better than me. I’ve known Olivia since we were kids. We’ve been through more than you could ever understand.”

Oliver’s eyes didn’t blink. “Then maybe you should’ve protected her instead of endangering her. Maybe you should’ve thought for half a second before nearly killing her— again. ”

“Shut up,” Orion snapped. “You think you’re better than me? You don't know shit.”

“I don’t have to think it,” Oliver said. “She told me about the fire. The one in high school. The one you pretend wasn’t your fault.”

Orion’s breath hitched. So did Moon's and Sunny's.

“I would never lose control of my magic like that,” Oliver went on, voice low and sharp. “Not near her. Not near anyone. And definitely not near someone I claimed to care about.”

Orion’s mouth curled, bitter. “Of course you do. Is that what this is about? You think she’s going to fall for your loyal lapdog act?”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold—it was shattered .

Oliver took a step forward. “I’m with her in the greenhouse almost every week. Not just TA sessions. We study together. We eat together. We talk . Just how many times have you spoken to Olivia and not wanted something in return?”

Orion’s jaw tensed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I do,” Oliver said, voice low. “Because I overheard your friends. Saying maybe you were just hanging out with her for favors. That maybe you were planning on screwing her because she was the last name on your little high school conquest list.”

Orion’s entire face went white-hot. “Don’t you dare say such thing to her. Don’t even repeat it—”

“I don’t have to,” Oliver cut in. “She heard it too. And she still had to look you in the face and pretend it didn’t crush her. Real friends don’t use each other. Real friends don’t screw each other over just to win some power game.”

Orion staggered back half a step like he’d been struck. And before the silence could thicken further, Sunny stepped forward, grabbed him by the arm, and yanked him toward the door.

“Out. Now,” she hissed through her teeth, fury still blazing. “Before I set something on fire myself.”

Juniper followed without a word, his face pale. Enforcers on their back.

Moony stared after them, then turned to Oliver. “Was that true?”

Tulip echoed, “All of it?”

Oliver didn’t look away from the doorway. “Yes,” he said simply. “Every word.”

He turned to the others, voice softer now. “It happened at that party. We were passing by and heard his friends talking. Laughing about it. About how she was the last one left on his high school list. That maybe he could get some use out of her first.”

Moony’s expression twisted into disbelief. Tulip covered her mouth. Cairo swore under his breath.

“I didn’t say anything at the time,” Oliver continued, voice raw. “But Olivia heard it too. She didn’t let it show. She just walked out. Didn’t even cry. But I saw the way she looked at him after that.”

He hesitated, then turned to the others. “Did they ever have anything going on? Olivia and Orion?”

Moony was the one to answer this time, her voice soft but certain. “They were close. Back in middle school, the three of us— my sister, Olivia and me—we used to hang out with Orion all the time. He was part of our little group. They were, different, tho.”

She paused, fingers twisting in her lap.

“But things changed in high school. Olivia started pulling away. Or maybe he did. They got distant. And then she moved to Central Valley for a couple years, lost contact with almost everyone. When she came back, he kept bugging her. Like he wanted to pick things up again. Like nothing had happened.”

“Why?” Oliver asked quietly.

“Because he always pulled away before it meant something,” Moony muttered. “Like he was afraid of caring. Or afraid of her caring back.”

“Olivia told you about the fire?” Moon asked quietly.

Oliver nodded. Everyone else was paying attention as well, like some deep lore was being revealed that would help them later in the quest of being part of Olivia Calloway’s life.

“I don’t know the full story,” Moony admitted. “But our parents were talking once—about how Orion’s family paid Olivia’s to keep quiet about what really happened. She never told us why she moved away. My sister was devastated when she left. We both were, I— Liv is someone that feels so much, and because of that she gets hurt so so much, we all try to take care of her, but she closes off, she rns away, it hurts— you know? She doesn’t mean to but it does.” Everyone in the room watched Olivia’s soft breathing form, how the dry tears stained her face and made rivers of ash and sweat. “Listen kid, loving Liv means that sometimes you’ll get hurt, but I promise you, she’s worth it.”

Oliver stood silently for a moment, the weight of everything settling around him. Then, without a word, he turned and started to walk away from the group.

Rose caught up quickly, falling into step beside him. “Hey,” she said softly, voice careful. “You’re okay, right? You were in the fire too.”

Oliver nodded, voice steady. “I’m fine. Just… tired. But I’ll recover.”

“And… what you said about caring for Olivia,” Rose continued, a teasing lilt creeping into her voice. “Is that true? Because, you know, every friend of Liv’s is a friend of ours. I think that’s what Moony meant with all that, it’s true tho everything she said, Liv is probably going to be very distant from now on but that’s just her programming, she’ll come around.”

He smiled faintly, eyes thoughtful. “It’s true. Olivia’s one of the few people I trust completely. Not just because she’s brilliant, but because she’s real. I’ve always tried to be there for her—whether it’s in the greenhouse or out. And thank you, for considering me.”

Rose grinned. “You’re pretty chivalrous with her, you know that? I mean I wasn’t there but three of her best friends were there and you jumped in to save her, what a friend right?”

Oliver's cheeks reddened as if he only now realized how his actions looked from the outside. Rose noticed, she may not look like it but she notices things all the time. “If you need help looking out for her… well, I could always help with that.” She winked to cement her last statement.

Oliver chuckled, the tension breaking for the first time in hours. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks, Rose.”

Chapter Text

The greenhouse still smelled like smoke. Despite the healing spells, the wards, the restoration work done by both faculty and students, Olivia could smell it — phantom soot clinging to the walls, burned roots buried beneath re-grown soil. Rows once filled with vibrant magical flora now lay charred or stripped bare, scorch marks webbed along the ceiling beams. The scent of singed mana still lingered in the air, sharp and bitter. One of the central grafting tables had melted halfway through.

Some students had wept openly the day they were let back in. Others raged — throwing curses at the air, at the fireproofing spells that hadn’t held, at the names Orion and Juniper . Months, even years of work, wiped out in one uncontrolled blaze. Olivia had overheard someone say they hoped Juniper’s wand hand withered off.

Professor Elryn had always said the greenhouse was more than a classroom. It was a sanctuary. And now it looked like a ruin.

She hadn’t said anything else since the fire — not to Olivia, not to anyone. Because she couldn’t. Because she was still comatose, cocooned inside the tree she once taught beneath. And Olivia didn’t know if she’d ever hear her voice again.

Principal Thorne found her one afternoon, kneeling by a scorched cluster of what used to be glass-thistle.

“She was very fond of you, you know,” he said, his voice quiet, tired. Not the thunderous figure from the disciplinary courtyard. Just a husband with shadows beneath his eyes.

Olivia didn’t look up. “She used to hum to them,” she murmured. “Said it helped the roots breathe.”

“She still hums,” Thorne replied. “The tree hums with her. That means she’s not gone. Just resting. Dryadic slumber can take time, but she’ll wake. She’ll want to see you.”

Olivia nodded, but the knot in her throat didn’t ease. She didn’t want Elryn to wake in five years. Or ten. She wanted her to wake while she was still Olivia. While she could still tell her how much she mattered. While there was still time.

She spent most of her week knee-deep in regrowth charms, cleaning out magical ash with her friends, and avoiding eye contact with almost everyone.

Except Oliver.

Not that she didn’t try. Oliver, who had run into the fire after her, who’d dragged her half-conscious out through the smoke and flame, coughing and singed but refusing to let go. Oliver, who hadn’t said anything when she slapped Orion, just stared like she was both terrifying and radiant. He'd helped repair the vines that had curled away in fear. His music helped the plants recover just a bit better, like his magic was still holding space for her where no one else could. And when she’d needed a ride back to her dorm, too drained to walk, he’d called a levitation bike and rode her back to their dorm, like it was nothing, like he hadn't almost burned too.

Four days after the greenhouse fire, he waited for her again. This time, in the main hall.

“Hey,” he said, smiling in that unhurried way of his, like the world was background noise and he’d only tuned in to see her. “You busy right now?”

She glanced at the stack of flyers in her arms. Class rep duties. Announcements. More admin work than anyone cared for.

“…Sort of?”

He tilted his head, sunlight spilling off his cheekbone like a lens flare. “Come with me anyway.”

She should’ve said no. But she followed him.

They walked side by side past the campus fountain, which shimmered, still whatever, past the library’s floating window platforms, toward the east wing and the music department, where glass corridors sang if you tapped them in the right key. The world grew quieter there, more acoustically controlled — Olivia could feel the hum of tuned magic under her feet, like the halls themselves had breath.

“Is this a kidnapping?” she asked.

“Technically? No.” He held open the door to the studio wing. “But I did bring you here under vague pretenses.”

She gave him a look. “Charming.”

He grinned, but it was a little softer this time. "Hey—remember the midterm showcase? I was wondering if you were still down to be my guest. No pressure, I just... figured it’d be nice."

He scratched the back of his neck. "Honestly, I’m kind of nervous. I know that sounds dumb. But it’s different performing for people who actually know you."

She blinked at him. "You have a million and a half followers on SpelleCast."

“Keeping tracks on me now?” He smiled.

Fuck . With everything going on—the greenhouse, Elryn, the magic depletion, Orion, all the fucking gossip and redoing her thesis which was partly burned in the incident—she forgot to hide it. The fact that she’d followed him on SpelleCast before she ever met him. That she’d liked his posts. Listened to his remixes. Maybe even rewatched some of his livestreams more than once. She wasn’t thinking straight. She wasn’t thinking at all.

“Yeah… I mean, now that I know you, I just got curious about your socials, not—like—not because I already followed you or anything,” she said, too fast, tripping over the words.

Her face was burning.

“Not that I was, like, stalking your page or anything, I just… someone mentioned your name and then I put it together later. That’s all.”

She was spiraling.

She clamped her mouth shut.

Smooth.

“Hey, chill, if anything, I’m flattered, hope you liked my content, am always open to feedback, and anyways you were going to need to watch it because I wanted to ask if you’d want to… collaborate on something.” He smiled, the dimple showing.

Her eyebrows lifted. “With you?”

He nodded. “With me. I’m planning to vlog the whole midterm showcase — you know, behind the scenes, prep, that kind of thing. Nothing super formal, but you’d show up in it, obviously. Since you’re my guest.”

He hesitated, then added, “And after the set, I’m doing a livestream on SpelleCast. Thought it might be nice to do it from the greenhouse… if you’re okay with that. Kind of a soft focus on recovery and rebirth and all that meaningful stuff the algorithm loves.”

She hesitated. “I don’t even have a SpelleCast account, well no, scratch that I do, I just never use it for that, mostly just for watching idols and that’s it” what was she saying?

He glanced sideways, a little nervous now. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say yes. Just—when the vines reached for you the other day, they synced to your magic like a heartbeat. I think… I think they’d respond to sound too. And I think you’re the only person who could help me find that resonance.”

She stared at him. Then looked out the window.

The greenhouse was visible from here. The new wards shimmered faintly in the morning light, gold-threaded sigils pulsing with careful intent. Vines were already climbing the walls again.

Olivia turned back to Oliver, her cheeks warm. “I’ll think about it.”

His smile was dazzling. “Cool. Just—don’t overthink it. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Olivia didn’t trust that smile. Or the word "fun." Nothing good ever followed a boy with a smile like that saying it.

She opened her mouth to reply—probably with a snarky “define fun”—when a low whistle echoed from the hallway behind them.

“Wow,” someone drawled. “Should we give them a minute?”

They both turned. Two juniors—clearly from the underdone robes and the giddy expressions—stood a few steps away at the junction between the Music Hall and the main university corridor. The space was one of the busiest crosspoints on campus: high arched ceilings enchanted to shift from sky blue to starlight depending on the hour, noticeboards glowing with spell-ink, and an ambient charm that played soft instrumental music near the acoustics wing.

One of the juniors had a charm-laced phone hovering just beside their head, glittering with magical filters. It pulsed in sync with their heartbeat—an enchanted model designed for fast-casting SnapSigils and high-traffic streaming. They grinned like they’d stumbled across a celebrity sighting (which, technically, they had), and one nudged the other before whispering something between giggles.

Oliver’s expression didn’t shift. He stood with easy posture, practiced charm sliding into place like a second skin—eyes bright, lips in that faint, familiar smirk that played well on camera. Olivia, meanwhile, stiffened, eyes narrowing at the floating phone. The moment felt invasive. Performed. She hated it.

She wasn’t used to being a background character in someone else’s broadcast.

Before Olivia could process what was happening, the enchanted phone snapped a picture with a chimed sparkle sound and zipped off, zooming through the hall like it had a mission.

“Wait—what the hell was that?” Olivia said, her brow furrowing.

Oliver blinked after the device, clearly confused. “Uh. That looked like a SnapSigil. Like the kind used for enchanted announcements. Or…”

“Or matchmaking pranks,” said a dry voice behind them.

Olivia turned to find Cairo leaning against a nearby doorframe, arms crossed, striking a pose that was far too curated to be casual. He wore high-waisted spell-dyed trousers in shimmering violet and a mesh top under a cropped velvet blazer, the sleeves covered in tiny embroidered constellations. His nails were glossy black, each with a tiny charm embedded at the tip, and his hair was slicked into swooping curls that defied gravity. The shimmer on his cheekbones caught the overhead spell-light perfectly. He raised one perfectly arched brow, looking equal parts amused, exasperated, and camera-ready.

Next to him, Aaron and Moony stood in quiet contrast. Moony’s aura was darker, almost shadow-kissed — they wore a sleek black trench coat over a storm-gray turtleneck and wide-legged charcoal trousers, with matte obsidian rings stacked on every finger. Their long black hair was tied back in a low, precise knot, and their expression stayed unreadably calm, like they were permanently watching a funeral procession.

Tulip flanked them soon after, unmistakable as always — their undercut was dyed sky blue, with tufts styled to defy gravity. Their nails were painted with shimmering glyphs that shimmered like bottled weather spells, and a matching cyan lip tint gave them an almost otherworldly edge. They wore loose black cargo pants with a cropped electric blue hoodie, hem charmed to flutter dramatically with every step. It clashed perfectly with their casual smirk and the constant hum of barely restrained chaos that followed them like perfume.

Cairo, meanwhile, looked like he’d stepped out of a streetwear runway designed by constellations. High-waisted violet spell-dyed trousers glimmered beneath a cropped velvet blazer scattered with tiny embroidered stars. A sheer mesh top hugged his frame beneath it, and his nails, black and glassy, each bore a tiny floating rune that glinted when he gestured. His swooped curls defied gravity, held in place with glimmerdust, and the shimmer on his cheekbones caught the overhead spell-light like a challenge. He didn’t stand — he posed.

“What,” Olivia said flatly.

“Oh, you haven’t heard?”

“After Olivia slapped the most popular heir in school—on camera, mind you, which hit a million views on TikTok before Orion’s family scrambled to scrub the footage—things got messy,” Moony added, eyes wide. “So now, to distract from the PR nightmare, his cronies started this magical matchmaking game. And be careful, music-plant guy, you're getting dragged into the fan edits already.”

“What kind of game?”

“Cupid,” said Tulip grimly, joining the group, nodding at Oliver. “Hey there music man.” Olivia wondered when he became so used to her friend group. But back at the important thing.

Oliver, still watching the direction the enchanted phone had vanished, turned slightly toward the juniors and offered them a practiced, polite smile—the kind meant for impromptu fan encounters. "Hey. That footage’s probably going to end up in an edit with synth-pop and magical sparkles, right? Just tag me this time. You forgot last week."

The juniors let out a mix of delighted gasps and high-pitched giggles, one clutching their hovering charm phone like it had blessed them. "Oh my gods, he saw the edit," one whispered.

"He liked the edit," the other corrected, starry-eyed.

Olivia stared between them and Oliver like she was watching two entirely different species attempt communication. Her shoulders tensed. This wasn’t her world—this curated, content-hungry performance space. And the way their voices lilted with sugary awe made her skin crawl. She hated being collateral in someone else’s idea of a ship.

"Do they just... follow you around?" she muttered.

"Only when the lighting’s good," he replied, straight-faced. Then he leaned in slightly. "You get used to it. Sort of."

Cairo, from his post against the wall, snorted. "So... back to the thing that involves you now, my beautiful Liv, you'd maybe want to give me all the stuff that you're carrying."

Olivia made a strangled sound and resisted the urge to melt into the floor. "Why? What just happened? What's going on?"

“You shouldn't lose so many classes or social life. It's like magical matchmaking gladiator arena,” Aaron said. “They’re publicly calling people out to confess to their crushes. If they don’t, they get magically locked in with them.”

“In what?”

“Closest magical container. Closets. Cupboards. Practice rooms. One couple ended up in a cleaning cabinet. It’s chaos.” Sunny said, appearing out of nowhere with Rose behind her. “Hey, Oliver.”

“They locked Elian and Clara in a trophy case!” Moony said, half-horrified, half-impressed.

“They kissed,” Tulip added. “Immediately.”

“Which is basically the point of the whole spell. Think magical Seven Minutes in Heaven meets public humiliation. If someone gets caught looking too long at their crush—or walking them anywhere private—someone sends a SnapSigil to Orion’s idiot friends, who apparently decided to form a matchmaking team instead of facing consequences like adults. Next thing you know, a spell-lock closet door swings open and you’re magically dragged inside together until you either confess your undying affection, hook up, or endure seven minutes of awkward purgatory.” Cairo explained, eyes sparkling with gossip-fueled glee.

“You’re joking,” Olivia deadpanned.

“I wish.”

Oliver made a strangled noise next to her.

Olivia covered her face with her hands.

“I hate this school,” she muttered.

Oliver ran a hand through his hair, visibly trying to hold the situation together with the grace of someone who’d survived far weirder fan interactions. He gave a lopsided grin—half apology, half practiced ease—and said, gently, "Okay, I mean, it’s kind of funny—but also definitely not ideal."

“No. It’s harassment and,” Olivia snapped.

But as she turned, the reality sank in. The SnapSigil. The grinning juniors. And the increasingly loud ding-ding-ding noise echoing from down the hallway—like a magical announcement spell warming up.

“Oh my god,” Olivia muttered.

“Yeah,” Cairo said. “You might want to, uh, run.”

Too late. A soft shimmer of magic washed through the hall as a bright pink banner lit up across the far wall, blinking text in swirling cursive and the annoying, annoying voice of Gloria resonated from somewhere or everywhere in the hallway:

“Next Lucky Pair: Olivia Calloway + Oliver Kami 💘 Closet 3C will unlock in 60 seconds! Either walk in gracefully, or get magically dragged—your choice, sweethearts! Don’t worry, it’ll pop back open in seven minutes… and no one outside can peek. Good luck, love birds. May your secrets be spicy and your confessions dramatic!”

Oliver choked on a laugh.

Olivia didn’t.

“Who. Said. That,” she hissed, her hands already curling into fists.

Cairo raised his hands in surrender. “Probably those juniors that saw you together, and the announcement? Totally Gloria's idea.”

Olivia turned back toward Oliver, who looked half-apologetic, half-stunned, half-delighted, which was too many halves for one person to have. She shoved her hands into her coat pockets before she did something stupid.

“We’re not doing this,” she said.

But a distant cheer erupted from down the hall.

“Too late!” someone shouted. “Closet 3C’s already glowing!”

“I’m going to kill whoever did this,” Olivia muttered.

She could hear footsteps pounding toward them. More students. More eyes. More magical cameras. A crowd was already gathering, voices rising with gleeful muttering. Olivia’s stomach twisted—she knew that tone, that atmosphere. The tension before spectacle. People were getting ready to witness her next headline.

Because, of course, it was happening again. Olivia Calloway, unwilling star of another chaotic social incident involving another popular boy everyone loved to shove their enchanted lenses at.

And honestly? Poor Oliver. He might have been used to the stalking—celebrity had trained him for moments like these—but Olivia hadn’t been built for it. She wasn’t polished, she wasn’t prepared, and she definitely wasn’t ready to trend.

Cairo winced. “This is gonna be legendary.”

“Yeah,” Olivia muttered. “Legendary migraine.”

She turned to Oliver. “Let’s go. If we make it to the stairwell, maybe we can override the binding spell before they—”

Click.

The closet door behind them, previously invisible, shivered into visibility, golden runes crawling up its side. It creaked open with dramatic slowness, glitter wafting out like it had been waiting.

There was no warning.

One moment Olivia was turning to run, the next a shimmer of golden magic zipped past her ear—followed by a sudden yank at her spine.

"What the—!"

They both stumbled, feet dragged by an invisible force, as a gust of laughing wind circled them. Olivia barely had time to grab Oliver’s wrist before a supply cupboard door slammed open behind them, wide as a yawn—and then snapped shut with a resounding click the moment they were both inside.

Darkness. Wood. Breath.

And no space. None. Zero.

Her nose bumped his collarbone.

"...This is a broom cupboard," she said faintly.

Oliver, very close, whispered, “Seems like it. Fuck that hurt.”

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her brain was short-circuiting.

Because—oh gods—she was in a broom closet. With Oliver Kami. Her crush-turned-friend-turned-actual-human-boy-who-just-invited-her-to-an-important-event . Who was also a freshman. While she was a senior. And they were chest-to-chest. Literally.

And she had just realized—mortifyingly—that she was still wearing her greenhouse outfit . Baggy cardigan. Ancient band tee. And shorts . Short shorts. Because she had been on her way to change into her overalls for root-tuning.

He, meanwhile, looked like the cover of a soft-boy fantasy novel. That perfectly-cut jacket. That gleaming chain. That sleek black hair with its ash-white accent stripe that somehow made him look even more expensive. That lip piercing , which—oh no—was faintly glowing in the dark.

The cupboard smelled like lemon oil and magic polish and him—warm, clean, like cedarwood and something grounded. And she was dangerously aware of the line of his jaw. His breath. The heat of his chest. Her own legs, bare and stupid.

“I am going to die in here,” she thought wildly. “This is it. Death by hot proximity.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed it—his lip piercing, faintly glowing in the dark. It shimmered like it had its own little spell running. Her eyes locked on it without meaning to.

Oliver noticed.

His voice, low and amused, brushed the air between them. “You’re staring at my mouth.”

Her head jerked up. “It’s glowing,” she blurted.

He leaned just a hair closer, smile curling into something bold. “I know. It does that it's a silly charm but it works.”

Oh gods.

“Why is this happening to me? Why is this semester forcibly trying to break my ass?” she said, voice hollow with disbelief.

Oliver coughed softly. “Is it?”

She shifted slightly, trying to give herself breathing room—but there was nowhere to go. Her thigh bumped his. Her elbow brushed his ribs. Her shoulder dragged across the line of his chest and gods, now her hand was resting somewhere that definitely wasn't neutral ground.

She froze.

He didn’t flinch. He just... placed his hands gently at her waist and hips. Not suggestively—just steadying her. Like he knew she was flustered and wanted to anchor her without making it worse.

Her brain flatlined.

Completely.

“Right,” she managed, voice about four octaves too high. “Cool. Fine. This is fine. I am so normal. Except you’re a freshman.”

Oliver tilted his head slightly, clearly amused. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s an everything ,” she hissed.

But her voice was more breath than bite, and she refused to meet his eyes in case he smiled again—because if he smiled again she might actually melt into a puddle on the supply room floor.

They were standing chest-to-chest in the tiny cupboard, barely enough room for breath. The dim light flickered above them like it, too, was holding its breath. Her back was pressed against a mop handle and a wall of old cleaning charms. His elbow grazed a floating bottle of leaf polish that refused to settle.

Their faces were so close. Too close. She could count every lash shadowing his cheek, feel the heat of his breath fanning across her lips.

Her hands rested against his abdomen, fingers barely touching fabric, but still she could feel the low tremble in him. A tremble that echoed her own. One of his hands—hesitant, then not—tightened slightly at her waist, the other brushing against her hip.

Her heart thudded. Louder. Harder.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her. And when she dared meet his gaze, she found it wasn’t soft.

It was intense.

All of him—the sweet, steady, sunshine-boy persona—peeled back for a moment. What was left was something older. Something deeper. Something that wanted to be seen.

“You’re kind of careless,” Oliver said, voice low but steady. His eyes didn’t leave hers. “Being alone like this. With a guy.”

Olivia blinked. "You're still just a kid. You don’t get it."

Oliver’s expression didn’t change, but something sharp flickered in his eyes. "You sure about that?"

The space between them felt smaller. More charged.

"Because I think I get it just fine. And I think you're scared of seeing me as more than safe."

His hand was still on her hip. Her breath hitched.

“I know you see me as safe,” he murmured. “Nice. Easy.”

He stepped in slightly, chest brushing hers. Then, slowly, deliberately, he raised one hand and placed it on the wall beside her head. The other stayed firm at her hip. Not trapping—just there. A cage made of warmth and breath.

“Look at me,” he said quietly.

She tried. Looked past him. Around him. Anywhere but his eyes.

“Olivia,” he said again, more gently, but unshakably firm. “Look. At. Me.”

She did.

“I think about you,” he said. “A lot. Probably more than I should.”

He hesitated, then added, honest to the bone, "I don’t even know what to do with it yet. But I know it’s there. And I know it’s you."

Then, quieter, "What about you? What do you feel right now?"

She opened her mouth to answer—tried to.

Her voice cracked on a whisper: "Oliver."

The cupboard was silent, the air thick with breath and magic and want.

“I hate this—” she whispered, but the words came out strangled.

He blinked, startled.

She swallowed, voice shaky but firm. "this—this moment. Not you. I just… don’t know what to do with any of it."

His shoulders relaxed just slightly. Not in victory. In understanding.

She looked up.

He smiled, but it was different now. Still crooked. Still warm. But there was something steel-edged behind it.

“I get the cupboard part,” he said. “That sucks. But being here with you? Feeling this? I don’t hate it at all.”

Her heart was thudding so loud, she was sure he could hear it.

He leaned down, slow—so slow—as if drawn by gravity, or something more dangerous. His face inched closer, breath brushing against hers, eyes never leaving hers. He didn’t touch her face. Didn’t kiss her. Just hovered there, close enough to make her forget every spell she ever learned.

A second passed. Then two.

It wasn’t a kiss. Not quite.

But it could’ve been.

He just needed her to move first.

Before she could form anything else—any word, any answer—the sound of footsteps echoed from outside the door.

Voices. Laughter. Then—

“Who's in the closet now?” called Gloria, sing-song, clearly amused.

Sunny’s voice, dry and dangerous, replied, “Oliver.”

A pause.

Then Orion's sharp, sarcastic drawl cut through the hallway: “The streamer? What is he doing now—some fan service with half the school or something?”

He hadn’t noticed who Oliver was with yet—his tone was careless, meant to sting, the kind of throwaway jab he gave when annoyed but trying to act unbothered. He leaned against the archway with folded arms, exasperated, like Oliver’s existence was a personal inconvenience. It was only as murmurs spread, as Gloria’s enchanted SnapSigil floated back with a glowing caption, that Orion’s eyes sharpened and followed everyone’s gaze.

Sunny didn't miss a beat. “Exactly the other half of the school that doesn’t fawn over you, Orion. But no. It's just Olivia.”

Silence. Heavy. Awkward.

Inside the cupboard, Oliver winced—then caught the shift in Olivia’s breathing, the way her shoulders tensed, her lips slightly parted in surprise. He gently nudged her chin with his fingers, just enough to make her look at him. No words. Just a quiet look, steady and warm, meant to anchor her.

Outside, he could hear the name drop. The sarcasm. Orion.

Oliver didn’t flinch this time. But Olivia did.

He kept his gaze on her, saying nothing, but silently asking her not to look away. Not yet.

Outside, Orion didn’t respond.

He stood frozen. Expression unreadable.

But Sunny, standing just behind him, caught the flicker in his eyes. The sudden way his jaw tensed, the twitch in his knuckles like he was fighting the urge to react. She knew that look—had seen it too many times during childhood arguments and hollow family dinners. That was Orion imploding. And now she knew exactly why.

The cupboard creaked.

A warm pulse of magic uncoiled between them, brushing against their skins like silk.

The door popped open. That wasn’t seven minutes.

They both blinked at the sudden light, at the crowd gathered in the hallway—gossipers, pranksters, friends, and a very frozen Orion who finally saw who Oliver had been locked in with. His smirk vanished. He stood completely still, mouth parted slightly, as Olivia stepped out of the cupboard with Oliver beside her, his hand still resting casually on her waist. She didn’t flinch, didn’t look away—just lifted her chin and walked forward, brushing past Orion like he was smoke and she was wind.

Oliver followed, calm as ever, but his fingers stayed right where they were, as if daring anyone to comment. Especially Orion.

“Hey, who did that?” Indiana called out, voice gleeful and annoyed. “Get them back in that closet!”

Laughter rippled from the bystanders.

“Try me, Indiana,” Olivia said, voice low, dangerous. “Please, try me.”

Indiana’s eyes lit up like a cat spotting a twitching tail. Shapeshifter. He stepped forward, all swagger and too-white teeth. “Relax, Greenhouse Barbie. It’s just a joke. You two were cute in there. The school needs a new campus couple, and since you’re enjoying the attention so much lately—”

That was as far as he got.

Because as soon as his foot shifted closer, Tulip moved.

No words. Just a slow step to Olivia’s side, arms folded, eyes gleaming with stardust and murder.

Behind them, Moony appeared like a ghost—shoulders square, hands tucked into their sleeves, but blue eyes absolutely glacial.

Then came Aaron, tall and twitchy, stepping forward with one finger already sparking with faint gold magic. “Try to touch her and I will experiment on your bone density.”

Cairo appeared next, lazily leaning against a column with a lollipop in his mouth. “Oh look. Indiana trying to become relevant again. How nostalgic.”

Even Sunny stepped forward, her tone flat and razor-sharp. "Olivia, want me to turn him into a bee and toss him in the nettle beds? It wouldn’t take long."

Olivia didn’t speak.

She didn’t have to.

The air itself thickened. Magic stirred around her like roots remembering their place in the earth. Even the vines crawling down the hall sconces shifted, subtly curling in her direction.

Indiana took a visible breath, realizing—belatedly—that he was very, very alone.

“I was joking,” he said, voice too high now. “Lighten up. Gods, everyone’s so sensitive these days.”

“You magically shoved two people into a cursed closet without consent,” said Moony, deadpan. “That’s not a prank. That’s a lawsuit.”

“I—whatever,” Indiana muttered, taking a step back. “This school’s full of freaks anyway.”

“Then leave,” Cairo said, taking the lollipop out of his mouth. “Before someone uses you as a case study in magical stupidity.”

Indiana turned. He vanished into the crowd.

A silence followed. Tense. Humming.

And then someone muttered, “Damn.”

Someone else clapped. Nervous laughter followed.

But Olivia just turned, calm as ever, and walked away.

Oliver caught up with her by the dorm entrance staircase. “Hey,” he said gently, “you okay?”

She didn’t look at him, not yet. But her voice—low, measured—replied, “I don’t like being cornered.”

His gaze dropped. “I know.”

They stood there for a second, outside the old greenhouse wing. The hallway was quieter now. The crowd had dispersed, but the air still shimmered faintly with leftover magic and the echo of laughter. Olivia’s mind hadn’t settled—if anything, it buzzed louder now, thoughts darting like lightning bugs behind her eyes. Her skin still felt warm from where he’d almost kissed her. Her pulse wasn’t sure if it should slow down or spike again. They hadn’t talked about it. They hadn’t needed to. But now, standing still in the hush of post-chaos, it suddenly felt like something they’d need to choose to ignore—or name.

They had just started walking again.

Oliver was beside her, not too close, but close enough that the scent of his cologne drifted between them—something clean, like citrus and petrichor, grounded by the faintest warmth of skin and cotton. Olivia felt… light. Clear. Like she could finally breathe. Her cheeks still burned a little. She wasn’t sure if it was leftover embarrassment or the ghost of his breath near her lips, still tingling. She risked a glance at him—he was looking straight ahead, jaw tight, trying to act normal, but his ears were pink. That helped. He was flustered too. They didn’t speak about it. Didn’t name what had just almost happened. But it hung there—like a suspended spell, waiting for the next word to cast it fully.

Then a shadow fell over them.

“Hey, Rep,” Orion said, voice rough. “Can we talk?”

Olivia stopped walking.

So did Oliver.

She didn’t look at Orion right away—just exhaled slowly through her nose, as if counting inward to prevent combustion. Her fingers curled slightly, the sting of ash and memory still vivid in her chest. It was the first time he’d spoken to her since the fire—since she’d dragged herself out of smoke and splinters, since she’d screamed Elryn’s name and slapped him in front of half the school. The fact that he was here now, acting like anything could be mended with a conversation, made her stomach twist. She could feel Oliver shift slightly beside her, instinctively protective, like he was ready to put himself between them all over again.

She beat him to it.

“No,” she said. “We can’t. There’s nothing to talk about.”

Orion stepped closer, a twitch of hesitation in his shoulders, eyebrows drawn together. His voice dropped, quieter, not demanding—just strained. "Liv please, can we talk? Not here. Just... somewhere else. Please."

“Save it, I don't care if you're here to try and charm your way into forgiveness just because I hurt your pride, I don't care of all the ways you've planned on making this about you, it's not, so save it.”

“That’s not—” He looked almost pained. "You don't even know what I was going to say."

Her patience snapped. Olivia turned on him, eyes sharp and full of wildfire. "And  I don't care! You don’t get to play hurt right now, Orion. You nearly killed us. You put everyone in danger—Elryn is in a slumber because of you ."

He flinched. But she wasn’t finished.

“You don’t get to show up now and pretend this is about your hurt feelings. You lit a fire, then watched it burn. And now you're mad that I won't help you douse the smoke?”

She stepped forward, jaw tight, voice quiet but seething. “You don’t get to ask for privacy after making everything public. You don’t get to act like you’re the one who was wronged.”

Orion’s face tightened, but he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

She looked at him like he was a puzzle she was done solving.

“Whatever it is you need to say... find someone else to say it to.”

A few nearby students paused, pretending not to eavesdrop. Olivia ignored them. Her eyes flicked back to Oliver, whose jaw was tight.

“Go to class,” she said to Oliver softly. “I know your free period is over. I’m okay.”

“Sure, Liv?”

“Positive.”

Oliver shot Orion a glance. He hesitated at the fork in the path that led toward the entrance. “Want me to walk you the rest of the way?”

Olivia gave him a soft, grateful look. “I’ll be fine. He’s not a threat.”

Oliver didn’t like it. Not one bit. But he nodded. “You know where to find me.”

Then, as he turned to go, he leaned in—just slightly—and pressed a soft kiss to the crown of her head. Not dramatic. Not showy. Just enough.

But his eyes didn’t leave Orion as he did it.

It wasn’t a warning. It was a statement.

She smiled faintly. Then turned and headed toward her dorm.

Orion blinked. His lips parted like he had something else to argue. But Olivia was already walking again, expression cool and unreadable.

And she was tired .

Not just from the confrontation. From everything. The fire. The guilt. The weight of being the responsible one—again. Her cheeks still carried the heat of Oliver’s almost-kiss, and her hand still felt the warmth of his palm, the steady pressure of his presence that hadn’t left her side until he absolutely had to. It had grounded her. It had shaken her, too. Her heart was still doing that uncertain fluttery thing, and she didn’t know if it was because of how close he’d gotten—or because of how far she had to walk with Orion now trailing her like a living regret.

She didn’t need him to follow her. But he did. From a distance. Silent, like a ghost with guilt stitched into its seams. Each step away from Oliver and toward the dorms made her more aware of everything she'd been pushing down. The air still smelled faintly of citrus and smoke. Her head buzzed with unasked questions. Her body ached with restraint.

She was supposed to visit the greenhouse today. She was supposed to check on the young orchids, the spiderlilies, the new protective runes that were etched into the stone floor. But she couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. Her magic had already begun to prickle at the base of her neck, restless and agitated. The vines wouldn’t understand. They’d reach for her and feel the chaos under her skin.

And Elryn wouldn’t be there.

The thought hit her mid-step. And it made her throat tighten.

So she just kept walking.

The walk was quiet.

Behind her, she could hear Orion’s boots on the cobbled path—too loud, too slow. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t invite him. By the time she reached the second floor of the ivy-clad dormitory building, her magic had started to hum again, restless at the back of her throat. The vines in the hallway walls twitched as she passed, sensing her mood, her tension, her restraint. She unlocked her door. Stepped inside.

And—because of course—he followed.

“Seriously?” she said, spinning around to face him.

Orion stopped in the doorway, looking like someone who’d bitten off the wrong spell and couldn’t quite spit it out. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry,” she repeated, dry.

“Yes.” He hesitated. “Not just for the fire. Or for being careless. For everything. For—”

“No.” Her voice cracked like a whip—but there was hurt under the sharpness, the kind of ache that couldn’t be hidden anymore. “Don’t make it about everything . This isn’t some fairy tale redemption arc. You endangered the greenhouse. You endangered Elryn. You let your ego start a war with Juniper and let it spill into a sacred space you knew mattered to me. You set me on fire, again, Orion.”

She faltered, just for a breath. When she spoke again, her voice trembled—not with fear, but with grief. “And you didn’t even look sorry until it was too late. Until I was the one screaming. Until she was the one lying in a bed of roots, barely breathing. No. You don’t get to say sorry. I don’t forgive you.”

He flinched.

“And then,” Olivia continued, voice rising like a tide, “you had the audacity to try and talk your way out of it like you always do—like your family name could bury another disaster.”

“I wasn’t trying to talk out of it—”

“But you were,” she said, eyes burning. “Just like last time. Just like when your parents tried to pay mine into silence. You didn’t care about the damage until it had public consequences. You didn’t care what it cost me, or Elryn, or the greenhouse—you cared that you got caught. Again.”

“I know,” Orion said, voice breaking. “I know I messed up. I know I messed up with you. I just—can you tell me how to fix it?”

Olivia was very still.

Then, slowly, she stepped forward. Not in forgiveness—but finality.

“You can’t.”

The word landed like stone.

She moved past him and held the door open, arm outstretched like judgment made flesh.

“You can’t fix it, Orion. And you don’t get to follow me anymore.”

His mouth opened. Closed.

He didn’t move.

She raised an eyebrow. “What, are you waiting for applause? Another slap?”

“I just…” He looked down. “You used to care.”

Olivia’s breath caught in her chest. Ouch . Not because it wasn’t true—but because it was. Brutally, horribly true. She had cared. More than she should have. More than she wanted to admit, even now. And hearing it thrown back at her like that—like a weapon sharpened with memory—made something sting behind her eyes.

Her voice was quieter this time, and laced with something raw. “Yeah,” she said. “I did. And you know what? fuck you, Orion Cittadella, you never deserved my care ."

A breath passed between them.

Orion stepped back.

Out into the hall.

Olivia shut the door.

It closed with the soft finality of a spell locking shut.

The greenhouse still lingered in her thoughts—flames devouring bark and leaf, magic twisting into screams. She wanted to scream again. Or sleep for a week. Instead, she turned toward her window, drawn by the soft rustle of something calling her.

The cactus. Tteobokki, she over-watered him in the summer and he got sick enough to not wanting her to take care of him, a big tantrum. It was barely alive. Once a proud little thing in a sunny corner of her windowsill, now slumped, shriveled, roots pulling inward like a wounded creature. It had stopped responding to light, to water, even to her gentle magic.

But now—

Now, it stirred.

The soil shifted slightly. Tiny vibrations in the air buzzed around it, subtle but unmistakable. It reached—yes, reached —toward the door. Toward the hallway. Toward something… warm.

No. Not something.

Someone.

Olivia froze.

She felt it.

Her cactus, long unresponsive, was reacting to Orion .

She clenched her jaw. A thousand objections gathered on her tongue—anger, resentment, the cold wall she had built around her heart like ivy-wrought armor. But the cactus had always been a little odd. Sensitive. Attuned to subtle magic.

And apparently… it reacted to him.

Before she could overthink it, she pulled the door open. She tried to breathe. He was still there. Orion was still there. Sitting on the hallway floor like a kicked dog, his back against the wall, arms on his knees. He looked up slowly.

"The cactus wants you," Olivia said.

He blinked. "What?"

She gestured. "My cactus, Tteobokki. It moved. Toward your fire magic."

He stared at her.

Then stood.

Inside, he was cautious. Like stepping into her space was both a blessing and a battlefield.

The cactus perked up more with each step he took toward it. Its tiny limbs quivered like they were remembering something.

Olivia stood back, arms crossed, watching in silence.

Orion knelt beside the pot. "What do I do with it?"

She shrugged.

A soft warmth began to radiate from his hands—not visible flames, not sparks or flares. Just heat. Gentle, golden. Familiar. He hovered his palms over the cactus, not touching it, just letting the warmth soak into the soil. The cactus shifted again, almost happily, its shriveled skin seeming to plump, if only slightly.

Olivia didn’t speak. Neither did he. The silence was not angry this time. It was full. Tense. But soft around the edges.

"You used to do that," she finally said, voice barely above a whisper. "You’d warm them, back in high school. Every time I forgot the window was cracked open in winter, you’d notice and warm them up. He was one of them. The one I saved when you nearly set everything on fire the first time. He’s never liked me much since—but he still remembered you."

"I remember him," he murmured. His hand stayed steady.

She watched him. His face was serious. Unusually gentle. The boy who burned trees for pride didn’t seem to be in the room anymore. Just this version: quieter, tired, and somehow closer to the Orion she used to trust. The cactus curled toward him, leaning toward the warmth like it had waited weeks for it.

"Magic leaves echoes," Olivia said softly. "Even in plants. Even in small things."

"I didn’t know," Orion said, still watching the cactus. "I didn’t think I mattered that much."

Olivia’s heart twisted.

"I didn’t think the cactus cared about y— that kind of stuff," she said, almost to herself. "But I guess it did."

A pause.

He looked up at her. "Do you?"

She flinched, barely—but didn’t answer.

Instead, she walked over and gently laid her hand next to his over the pot. Not touching his skin. But close. Magic shimmered faintly in the air, resonant, bittersweet.

"I don’t know what I feel right now," she said honestly. "But I’m tired. And I can’t do this halfway, he has been bitchy since the beginning of the semester and I need to make sure he’s okay"

He nodded. Not pressing. Just sitting beside her in the quiet. Together, their combined heat fed the cactus until its limbs curled a little higher. Still healing. Still fragile. But not alone. Tteobokki—her most temperamental plant, the one she’d nursed back from the brink more times than she could count—shifted like it was finally ready to forgive her for overwatering it that summer, or for letting it sit too long in the cold, or for any of the other invisible sins it always seemed to hold against her. It leaned greedily into Orion’s heat, like a traitor, like it had missed him. And maybe it had. Maybe it only remembered his warmth, not the fire he’d once caused. Olivia watched it soften and hated that she was grateful. Warmth shimmered in the small space between their palms, like sunlight seeping into frost. The plant visibly relaxed, and so did something in her chest, tight and coiled since the greenhouse burned.

She didn’t move her hand away.

Neither did he.

Silence stretched. Then, softly, Orion spoke.

"How are you, Liv?"

Her name in his voice, low and uncertain, made her flinch more than flames ever had. She didn’t answer right away. She watched the cactus—so alive now, greedy for heat, even after everything. Ironic.

"Still mad," she said at last, voice rough. "Still tired."

He nodded. "Elryn saved it. The greenhouse. I don’t know how she—"

"You almost killed her."

His mouth closed. The air between them thickened. Her fingers twitched, magic stirring like a warning. But the cactus leaned more into his hand, anchoring them to something smaller, gentler.

"I know," he said eventually. "And I’m sorry."

"You already said that."

"I know."

He looked away. A breeze stirred against the windowpane. Olivia shifted her weight, arms crossed loosely. She could throw him out, close the door and enchant his shoes to walk away from here, but she stilled.

"You're not cruel, Orion. But you're careless," she said quietly, her voice thinner now. Hurt tucked into every syllable. "And when you lose control, people get burned."

He blinked, thrown.

She didn’t let him speak. "I left because of that fire. Back in high school. I didn’t tell anyone, didn’t make a scene. Just packed up and went. And you never asked why."

He opened his mouth, closed it. Shame flickered over his features.

"I couldn’t sleep for weeks," Olivia continued, each word deliberate. "My hair smelled like smoke for months. Sunny covered for it, said it was an accident, but we both knew. You knew. And you never said anything."

"I thought you hated me," Orion murmured.

"I didn’t," she said. "I was scared of you. And I hated that I missed you anyway."

His lips parted. But again, he said nothing.

"You still don’t know how to handle it," she added, voice steady now. "The anger. The power. The way people look at you when you light up a room. You still chase that rush—and every time, something gets scorched."

He bowed his head.

"You hurt me again," Olivia whispered. "And you still don’t get how deep it goes."

Orion sat still, the weight inside him shifting like cracked glass settling into place. He didn’t meet her eyes—not because he didn’t want to, but because he didn’t think he could hold her gaze and stay whole.

"Do you want to know what my mother said?" he asked, voice rough.

Olivia looked at him, wary but quiet.

"She didn’t even ask if I was okay. Just said, ‘So you finally did it.’ Like she was expecting it. Like I was a walking fire hazard finally proving her right. Then she reminded me that my cousin got the nomination—said maybe now I’d stop embarrassing myself with this ‘campus experiment.’"

He scoffed, but it sounded more like a breath catching in his throat.

"My mom’s side has always hated that I don’t play by the rules. Too loud. Too messy. Not perfect enough. Not safe enough. They want something sharp and shiny they can parade around. And I’m not that. I never have been."

Olivia’s expression softened, barely. He didn’t see it. His gaze was locked on the cactus.

"They think I’m broken. And sometimes—when things get loud in my head—I think maybe they’re right. Maybe I am the black sheep. Not the misunderstood kind. Just the kind they want to forget."

He finally looked up. "So when you said I don’t think—I didn’t flinch because it wasn’t true. I flinched because you used to be the only one who didn’t say that. And now you do."

The silence was deep. Olivia’s throat tightened.

She didn’t soften.

But after a beat, she said more quietly, "Still… that sucks."

He looked up at her. "What does?"

"Your family. Acting like your value is tied to your performance. That’s—"

"Familiar?"

She met his gaze. The air between them pulsed.

"Yeah," she said. "Familiar."

Olivia looked around her room, barely believing she was actually there—sitting on her messy rug, in the same space that had become an emotional minefield since the fire. It was a wreck: textbooks in disarray, half-dead leaves curled in forgotten pots, the scent of ash still clinging faintly to the curtains. And somehow, of all people, Orion was the one sitting here with her. The irony twisted like a knot in her chest.

They sat in it. The cactus bloomed again, a second bud now glowing faintly golden.

"I didn’t mean to hurt you," Orion said again, voice breaking this time.

"I know," Olivia replied. "But you did."

"I’m sorry."

"I believe you," she whispered. "But I’m still angry."

"I can handle that."

She tilted her head, really looking at him.

"You always acted like fire didn’t scare you," she said. "But I think it does."

"I think it always did," he admitted, soft. "But when people clap, it’s easy to forget."

They both laughed, quiet and tired.

The cactus stretched upward again. Olivia watched it in awe.

Orion leaned in slightly. "I still want to try to fix it, I don't care what people think, I want to prove you that I'm not what you think I am" he shifted "Can I go inside?"

She turned to him.

"The greenhouse?" he clarified. "To help. No pride. No power games. Just… help."

A long pause.

She looked around her room first—at the scattered notes, the forgotten teacup crusted with herbs, the piles of botany journals and unwatered pots, all of it dusted faintly with memory and ash. Her eyes settled last on Tteobokki almost gone and yet here he was, perking up at Orion's warmth like some long-lost friend. A traitor, maybe. But also… a mirror. Olivia tried not to regret what she said next. Her voice came quiet, steady. "You’ll be supervised," she said. "And you follow every order the TA's give you."

"I swear."

She stood slowly. "And you clean the algae tanks. With a toothbrush."

He blinked, then grinned. "You’re evil."

"Thorough," she corrected, a faint smile finally tugging at her mouth.

He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his hands.

"You really believe in second chances?" he asked quietly.

"I believe in accountability," she said. "But maybe… a little bit."

"Because of the cactus?"

"Because of the cactus."

They looked at it.

Orion smirked, nudging her gently with his shoe. “Guess some things really do thrive on a little heat, huh?”

"Out of my room Orion Cittadella." She chuckled involuntarily. 

"That's such a nice sound. I'm glad I can still make you laugh like that"

"Out."

Chapter Text

The following day the classroom was quiet, for once.

Sunlight filtered through enchanted skylights, casting a dappled glow on Olivia’s notes. The diagrams of root-auras and mana gradients lay untouched. Her pen hovered over the margin, unmoving.

She hadn’t written anything in twenty minutes.

The door creaked open, and without looking up, Olivia said, “Class isn’t for another—”

“ You owe everyone an explanation. ”

The voice was unmistakable.

Sunny. Clipped. Cold.

Olivia sighed and finally glanced up. Her best friend stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, braid slightly frizzed from running. Behind her, a few straggling students peeked in, but a sharp glare from Sunny sent them scattering.

“I didn’t do anything,” Olivia said, turning back to her notes. “Whatever I did, I didn’t.”

“ You allowed Orion into the greenhouse? ”

Olivia’s pen stilled.

Sunny strode in, the door slamming shut with a whispered spell. The lights flickered with the force of her entrance.

“Don’t lie. I saw your signature on the access scroll.”

“Oh,” Olivia said softly. “That.”

“Yes. That. ” Sunny’s voice cracked. “You told everyone you didn’t want him near the greenhouse ever again. You slapped him. In public. You told the principal you didn’t trust him.”

“I remember.”

“And now?” Sunny’s hands flared out, her bracelets jangling with magic. “He’s back in? Just like that?”

Olivia set her pen down, her fingers suddenly very cold. “He’s not just ‘back in.’ He’s being supervised. He’s on probation. He’s cleaning algae tanks with a toothbrush.”

“That doesn’t explain why. ”

Olivia finally looked at her. And sighed, “Because he apologized.”

Sunny raised her brows. “That’s it?”

“No.” Olivia rubbed her eyes. “Because he meant it… I think, he saved Tteobokki, turns out all the traitor wanted was warmth.”

Silence.

The air between them prickled like static.

Sunny stepped closer, voice lowered but no less furious. “Liv. He almost destroyed everything. He almost—” She choked. “He almost killed Elryn. You can’t just let that go because he gave you puppy eyes and helped with your cactus.”

Olivia stood now, slow and heavy. “I haven’t let it go.”

“Then why let him back in?”

“Because he’s trying, Sunny,” Olivia snapped, louder than intended. “And because maybe I believe in people learning from their mistakes. Maybe I’m exhausted from being angry all the time. Maybe I wanted to believe that someone could look at what they’ve done and change .”

Sunny blinked.

Olivia’s voice cracked now, quiet but aching. “And maybe… it’s because the cactus bloomed again. After everything. After the fire. It chose to lean toward him.”

Sunny was quiet.

“It bloomed,” Olivia repeated. “I didn’t think anything could grow after that, but it did. It reached for his warmth.”

Sunny’s mouth opened, but no words came.

Olivia crossed her arms tightly. “I know I said I didn’t want him near the greenhouse. And maybe I still don’t. But he asked to help. No flames. No flash. Just… guilt and soap and silence. And I said yes.”

The weight of it settled in the room.

Then, slowly, Sunny stepped forward, her voice a little softer.

“You’re not doing this for him. I need you to promise me you're not doing this for him, not because of a stupid crush and not because he's manipulating you into believing he's changed, he's not. you're not doing this for him. ”

“No.”

“You’re doing this for the greenhouse.”

“And for myself.”

Sunny looked at her for a long moment. The fight was still in her jaw, still in her knuckles. But her expression cracked—just enough to let understanding in.

“Okay,” she said finally.

Olivia blinked. “Okay?”

Sunny sighed. “Okay, but if he so much as looks at a flammable leaf the wrong way, I’ll bury him under a thousand bee familiars.”

Olivia let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Fair.”

Sunny turned to leave, then paused at the door.

“And for the record,” she added, glancing back, “I don’t think you’re wrong. Just scared for you.”

“I know.”

“And I still think Oliver’s better for you.”

Olivia groaned. “ I can’t stand you. ”

Sunny smirked. “Love you too.”

It was late afternoon when Orion showed up again.

The greenhouse had just been watered. Thin veins of enchantment shimmered faintly along the glass panels, catching the lavender light of the descending sun. The wards had been reset. The protective sigils on the arches were glowing like embers, ready to pulse if fire ever dared again.

Olivia crouched by a bed of spell-thistles, muttering soft encouragements as her hands moved through the soil like they were born there. Her hair was half pinned back, the rest falling in waves, glowing slightly from the magic-rich air. She wore a sleeveless tank and loose botanical uniform pants rolled to her calves, arms streaked with flecks of green dust and glowing pollen.

The moment she looked up and saw Orion leaning against the entryway—one hand in his pocket, casual but watching—her lips curled.

"You again."

"You let me in, remember?" he replied, his voice easy and annoyingly smooth.

"I was under duress."

"You signed a literal magical permission slip."

Olivia gave him a look. "I was trying to be… diplomatic."

Orion smiled, moving through the rows like he belonged. He didn’t—yet he never looked out of place, even when surrounded by plants that had grown wary since the fire. With his tanned skin, stark white hair falling in soft waves, and the curling ink of tattoos visible just under the rolled cuffs of his sleeves, he looked like someone carved from heat and shadow. Broad-shouldered, muscular, steady in his steps—he carried himself like someone who had nothing to prove, but still drew every gaze. The plants didn’t retreat from him now. Maybe it was her influence.

He paused beside her, lowering to a crouch. "Did you know this whole place glows differently when you’re in it?"

She blinked. "Excuse me?"

He gestured broadly. "The enchantments, the roots, even the air. It’s like the whole building wakes up when you talk to them. It’s… devoted."

Olivia didn’t answer for a moment. Her hands stilled on the thistle soil. "They’re alive. They remember."

"I think they’re in love with you."

She huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. "They should be. I give them more attention than I give my own reflection."

"You give everyone more attention than your own reflection."

His tone was soft, a little too honest.

Olivia froze. She looked up at him slowly. His gaze didn’t waver, just studied her face like he was memorizing it. She cleared her throat and stood, brushing off her hands.

"You’re dangerously poetic today."

"Must be the pollen. Gets into the bloodstream."

They moved quietly after that. Orion asked, "What are you working on today?"

Olivia glanced over her shoulder, brushing her hands together. "Just fine-tuning the irrigation wards and trying to revive the moonlilies. They’re sensitive to environmental magic, so it’s a bit like coaxing a cat out from under a bed with treats and soft promises."

She launched into an explanation of the magic-warded irrigation system and how she’d coaxed the stinging moonlilies back into blooming. Orion listened—really listened—sometimes asking a question, sometimes just trailing a few steps behind her, hands still in his pockets, eyes watching the way vines leaned toward her like adoring pets.

A moss patch along the west wall hummed when she passed.

"I swear, you’re a cult leader," Orion said lightly. "These plants would kill for you."

"They already do," Olivia muttered. "Some of these are poisonous if you breathe near them wrong. And they really hate sexist jokes."

He looked impressed. "So like Cairo, but with roots."

She grinned.

When the light started to fade and the greenhouse’s golden nightlamps flickered on, Olivia pulled off her gloves and flexed her fingers. Tteobboki—the cactus Orion had helped tend—was in a repotted vessel, sitting plump and luminous on a sill near the southeast corner of her working table, healthy again. Its spines glinted. It twitched slightly when Orion approached.

"Traitor," Olivia muttered at the plant, while securing it on her backpack. Then, to Orion, "Walk me back?"

He just nodded.

Three days after that and it had already become a quiet tradition. After greenhouse visits, Orion would walk her home—even if it meant crossing campus the long way. He always came up with some excuse. Usually tteokbokki.

"You owe me dinner," he’d say. Or: "I can cook but need a taste-tester. Quality control."

She knew it wasn’t really about the food.

They walked in silence through the dusky paths of campus, down the sloping hill from the greenhouses toward the older residential halls. Students milled around—some shouting in the quad, others whispering under star lanterns. But nobody stopped them.

It wasn’t until they passed the willow arch near the astronomy lawn that Olivia realized—he was willing to walk the mile just to hang out with her. Elemental students didn’t live near the older dorms. Unless you were one of them, you stayed in one of the five student towers clustered in the northern residential quad. Olivia lived on the third floor of the Ivy Tower, where most of the botanical majors stayed. But Orion, as a fire elemental, would have been assigned to Ember Hall—isolated on the opposite side of campus, designed specifically to handle fire magic accidents and temperamental flare surges.

She’d never been inside it. Almost no one outside their affinity circles had. Earth, air, and water shared the sprawling Atrion Tower beside it, twice the size of hers.

She slowed slightly, frowning. “You know, you didn’t really have to walk me. Your dorm’s the other way.”

He shrugged, like it didn’t matter. “I wanted to.”

At Olivia’s door, she hesitated with her key card. "You can come in. If you want."

"I do."

Her room was simple, but full of life. Hanging ivy, small glowing bottles, textbooks with magical thread bookmarks. She settled the tteokbokki on her side table and tossed her backpack onto the spare bed—Orion's bed, unofficially. It was the place he always sat when he came to visit her. Her cactus sat on the windowsill beside a sunstone shard.

Orion stepped inside, tilting his head at her book collection. "You have three editions of Botanica Arcana."

"They each contradict the other," Olivia said, slipping her shoes off and sitting cross-legged on the bed. "One insists enchanted moss will grow faster if you tell it secrets. Another warns it'll die if you overshare."

Orion sat in the chair beside her desk, dragging it a little closer. "And the third?"

"Says moss doesn’t give a damn and thrives on attention. Like you kinda."

He smiled again, but then his eyes drifted toward the cactus. "Hey!"

It was stretching slightly toward Olivia now, its tendrils pulsing faintly with golden veins. Its movement was subtle, but no longer weak. Something about the way it leaned felt purposeful. Protective.

"I didn’t ask," Orion said after a moment. "How’s Elryn?"

Olivia looked up sharply. Her hands stilled where they’d been fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

"Still in the cocoon," she said quietly. "Unresponsive. But the healers think she’ll recover. They say it’s just a matter of time."

He nodded solemnly. "She’s lucky to have you."

"Principal Thorne doesn’t think so," she said with a dry edge. "He catches me after hours more often than not. Says I’m bending the rules. But he knows why I’m there. I can’t just… leave her alone."

Orion watched her face, softening. "You haven’t."

Olivia moved toward the window, arms crossed. "I plant enchanted seeds near her roots sometimes. Ones I developed to help the soil stabilize. Encourage recovery. It’s the only thing I can do that feels like it might actually matter."

The quiet that followed wasn’t awkward. It held weight. Memory. Hope.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "I never wanted to her. That fight… I don’t even remember how it started. Just that Juniper said something, and I felt—watched. Like everything I did was expected."

"Because you’re Orion," she said, not unkindly. "People project things onto you."

"And then I end up proving them right," he muttered.

She tilted her head. "Well..."

He glanced up at her. "Is that why slapped me?"

"Oh you deserved that"

He cracked a crooked smile.

Olivia managed one in return. "But you apologized. And you’ve been showing up. That means… something."

Orion watched her from the chair. "Why are you being kind to me?"

"I’m not. I’m being fair." She glanced at him. "Besides, you brought my cactus back to life. That earns points."

He stood then too, and after a brief pause, he crossed the space between them. Not quickly—like he was giving her time to object, like he needed her not to. He moved with the quiet purpose of someone making a choice.

When he reached her side, he looked around her room from a new angle—at the sun-baked pots, the glass charms strung over the windows—but his attention kept flicking back to her face, like it was the thing anchoring him.

"It smells like mint and moonstone in here," he said softly. "Like… safety."

Olivia blinked. "You really are poetic today."

He stepped a little closer.

"Or maybe I just… like your space."

She turned to him, heart drumming faster.

Even after everything—everything—her crush on him hadn’t vanished. It had dulled, weathered by reality, by consequences, by guilt. But standing there beside him, that warmth pressed close, the way his voice softened just for her… it felt good. Safe. Familiar in the strangest, gentlest way.

“You can stay a while,” she said, quieter now. “If you want.”

He nodded once.

They didn’t speak for a moment.

The cactus stretched again, blooming faintly in the dark.

Olivia glanced at the tteokbokki on the table. “You’re cooking, though,” she added. “That’s the tax.”

The Field, Early Afternoon

The sun warmed the wide green stretch behind the music building, where students lounged across picnic blankets and half-zipped backpacks, clusters forming around half-finished takeout and oversized textbooks. The breeze was lazy but pleasant, trailing the faint perfume of jasmine from the enchanted hedge wall that rimmed the field’s western edge.

Oliver adjusted the collar of his structured black jacket—cropped and sharply tailored, with sleeves etched in sleek silver runes that shimmered faintly with motion. A silver chain swung from one belt loop, and the edge of a sheer black mesh shirt peeked beneath. His earrings—two in one ear, three in the other—glinted with minimal enchantments, and a slim band pierced his lower lip. He wore high-waisted trousers tucked into matte black combat boots, each step a soft thud on the stone steps as he slipped out of the cafeteria building with his phone in hand. He hadn't meant to stay so long—he had a music spell to recalibrate and a stream outline to write. Still, the fresh air hit his cheeks nicely, grounding him, even with the soft hum of whispered recognition trailing behind him.

“Hey, music-plant guy.”

He blinked. Rose.

She was perched near a patch of shaded grass, long legs crossed, a half-eaten peach in one hand and her hair in its usual half-braided halo. She squinted up at him like he was a particularly slow-moving butterfly.

Oliver offered a sheepish smile. “Hey.”

“You walking that way to float off or you wanna sit with us?”

He glanced over her shoulder. The rest of Olivia’s friend group—Cairo, Tulip, Moony, Sunny, and Aaron—were lounging on a large woven blanket beneath the old Speaker Tree.

Cairo, eccentric as ever, wore black mesh under a cropped jacket with neon piping and silver rings on every finger, high-waisted shorts and chunky boots completing the look as he lounged dramatically, spell orb balanced in one hand like a cocktail. Moony was a clean-cut study in neutrals and blacks, tactical layers paired with sharp silver jewelry and matte black boots. Tulip, always in blue, wore wide-leg pants and a translucent mesh shirt over a binder, their glittery enamel pins catching the sun as they flipped a sketchpad toward Moony. Aaron, tall and adorably nerdy, had a half-zipped tech jacket layered over a faded campaign T-shirt, rectangular glasses slipping perpetually down his nose as he listened to Sunny. Sunny, meanwhile, was the picture of woodland royalty—long cotton skirt, cropped knit cardigan, daisies woven through her braid, and bare feet tucked beneath her like she’d grown from the grass itself.

Oliver hesitated. He hadn’t actually hung out with them outside of Olivia being there, but they didn’t seem guarded anymore. They didn’t flinch around him or glance with skepticism. It was subtle, but he noticed. The welcome had shifted—from tolerance to something that almost looked like appreciation.

And anyway, if Olivia loved them, they had to be worth something.

Rose lifted an eyebrow. “Come on, you’re already internet famous. Don’t be a coward too.”

That made him laugh. “Alright.”

He stepped across the sun-dappled grass and sat cross-legged beside Aaron, who immediately leaned over to offer him a swig of his mango elixir. “Welcome to the chaos,” Aaron said warmly.

“Thanks,” Oliver replied. “I think.”

“Nice to see ya kid” Moony gave him a quick wave. “Hey, congrats by the way.”

“Huh?”

“1.6 million?” Cairo chimed in, winking. “We saw it this morning. Big number. Big influence.”

“Oh.” He flushed a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, thanks. It’s just… numbers.”

“Spoken like someone who’s dangerously humble,” said Rose, tossing her peach pit into a biodegradable pouch. “You planning on using those numbers for anything cool?”

“Actually,” Oliver said, “I’ve got my midterm project showcase tomorrow. Olivia's helping with one of the pieces. She agreed to be on stream with me after.”

Rose's eyes lit up in a way that meant she already knew, but now it was confirmed. Sunny clapped softly.

"Aw," she cooed, eyes sparkling. "She’s trying to act like it’s no big deal, but I swear she’s been glowing all week."

Oliver blinked. “She… has?”

Tulip looked up sharply. "Wait. She's going on stream with you?"

Oliver blinked. "Yeah. Didn’t she tell you?"

Cairo practically sat up. "No?! That’s huge—why didn’t she say anything?"

"Probably because she didn’t want us to make a big deal out of it," Moony said, though their smirk betrayed they definitely were making a big deal out of it.

"She asked me and Sunny to help pick an outfit," Rose admitted, clearly enjoying the rising surprise.

"It’s gonna be so cute," Sunny added.

Oliver’s smile tilted lopsided. "Now I’m nervous."

Aaron chuckled. "You’ll survive. Probably."

Rose crossed her arms. "Olivia’s not the type to fangirl. But she had your stream minimized on her crystal tablet once when I visited her room. And I mean minimized in the way that meant ‘I was watching this for hours.’ Also, we totally convince to wear something killer. You're welcome, also if it were me, I’d be thoroughly distracted by her beauty. So—good luck focusing tomorrow."

His ears turned pink.

Before any more teases could form, Cairo tilted his head and muttered, “Oh no.”

Gloria and Stefan were approaching, strolling across the field with the casual confidence of students who knew exactly how much influence they wielded. Gloria, dark-skinned and always impeccably braided, moved with the light grace of an air elemental—like she could float if she wanted to. Stefan, part-mermaid, had iridescent skin that shimmered faintly in the sunlight and long, glossy blonde hair that swayed behind her like a cape. She radiated a kind of effortless arrogance, the kind that came from always knowing she could command attention with a look.

“Brace yourselves,” Rose said under her breath.

Stefan gave a lazy wave. “Hey there, team greenhouse. Or should I say team love triangle?”

Gloria’s grin was all teeth. “Hope we’re not interrupting.”

“You are,” Rose said flatly.

But the populars plopped down anyway, uninvited. Gloria immediately scanned the group until her eyes settled on Oliver. “Well if it isn’t our golden boy.”

Oliver kept his smile pleasant, neutral. “Gloria.”

“Didn’t expect to see you here. Shouldn’t you be prepping for your big midterm showcase?”

Stefan leaned back on his elbows. “Yeah, heard some actual producers are coming to watch. Very elite. Is Olivia still your plus one, or did that change since Orion moved into her dorm?”

The group went still.

Moony’s hand froze mid-sketch. Cairo’s potion can hissed with residual magic as it dented slightly in his grip. Aaron and Tulip exchanged a glance. Sunny’s eyes narrowed.

Oliver, however, didn’t flinch. He folded his hands over his knee and looked up at Gloria. “That’s a strange thing to say.”

“Oh come on,” Stefan snorted. “Half the campus knows he’s been spending every night there. You can’t be that naive.”

“They’re working on greenhouse repairs,” Rose cut in, voice low and pointed. “Which you’d know if you were in literally any of your classes.”

Stefan held up his hands. “Just saying, if I had a girl like Liv inviting me over every night…”

“You’d still be pathetic,” Cairo finished.

Gloria ignored them, eyes now locked on Oliver like a cat watching a flicker of movement. “Honestly, I just assumed you and Olivia were a thing.”

Oliver tilted his head. “Why’s that?”

“You’re always around each other. You talk like you already know what she’s going to say. You keep showing up to things no music student normally cares about.”

“I’m working on a project with her,” Oliver replied evenly. “We’re both interested in the crossover between sound and plant-based magic.”

“But see,” Gloria leaned forward conspiratorially, “I heard you're able to bring a plus one. So I assumed it’d be Olivia.”

Oliver remained composed. “That’s a surprise.”

“Ohhh,” Stefan grinned. “Well, if it’s not her yet, maybe it could be me. What do you say, golden boy—need a new plus one?”

A ripple of offense spread through the group. Cairo sat up straighter, eyes narrowed. Moony muttered something under their breath. Even Tulip looked like she was restraining herself.

Oliver didn’t flinch. “It’s already arranged.”

“Come on,” Gloria teased, nudging him. “You can’t expect us not to be curious. The most beautiful freshman on campus is single, working closely with Olivia who just publicly got involved with a Cittadella—of course everyone’s watching.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Oliver said with a slight smile, and leaned back on his hands. “All that watching. Don’t you have better things to do?”

That earned a snort from Rose and a cough-laugh from Cairo.

Gloria’s smile twitched. “Okay, Mr. Calm. But we’re just saying—if Orion’s spending all his nights there, we bet they’ve already done the nasty.”

“You should stop talking,” Moony said bluntly.

“Seriously,” said Aaron. “Gross.”

Gloria threw up her hands. “Fine, fine. I was joking—mostly.”

But the damage had landed. Everyone’s attention drifted back to Oliver.

He still hadn’t reacted. Not really.

Just an unreadable expression, like the shimmer of light over deep water. But his knuckles were white where they pressed into the grass, and his jaw was just slightly too tight.

The others noticed—Moony tilted their head. Cairo frowned. Even Rose's gaze softened for a beat.

But Oliver didn’t look at them. His eyes stayed fixed on the sky, like he was listening to something only he could hear.

Then he stood.

“Thanks for the drink,” he said to Aaron.

“Anytime, man,” Aaron replied.

“I’ll see you guys later."

There was a long silence after Oliver disappeared from view.

Then Moony said, “Did anyone else know Orion moved into Olivia’s dorm?”

Cairo blinked. “Wait—what? That’s not a thing. Is it?”

Tulip looked to Aaron, who looked to Rose, who looked genuinely thrown.

“Maybe we should talk to her,” Rose said finally. “Like… actually talk. This is getting weird.”

“An intervention?” Moony asked dryly.

“I’m just saying,” Cairo muttered, rubbing the dent in his potion can, “we don’t know what’s going on. And she’s our friend.”

They all sat with that, uneasily quiet.

Near the Conservatory Path, Late Afternoon

Oliver’s shoes hit the stone path with quick, rhythmic steps, but his mind wasn’t moving nearly as fast.

He walked past the ivy archway that marked the edge of the conservatory gardens, ignoring the golden whisper of chimes tangled in the vines above. His face was calm—placid even—but something in his chest wouldn’t stop curling tighter.

He spotted them near the reflecting pool. Pete was lying on the grass with a sketch tablet across his chest, Mako beside him, tapping rhythm patterns on Pete’s knee absentmindedly. Erika sat cross-legged under a maple tree, reading a thick novel with one earbud in, and Violet, poised and graceful as always, was applying clear gloss to her lips like the sky might stop turning if she didn’t.

“Hey,” Oliver said, a bit more quietly than usual.

Pete looked up. “There’s our golden boy.”

Mako gave him a lopsided grin. “You look weird. Are you weird today?”

“I—” Oliver exhaled and flopped down beside Erika. “I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not,” Erika said without looking up from her book. She didn’t even blink. “That or your definition of fine needs updating.”

Violet twirled the gloss tube in her fingers. “Something happen?”

Oliver ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “It’s just… school stuff.”

Pete and Mako exchanged a silent glance but didn’t press.

Erika finally closed her book and took out her earbud. “School stuff, or Olivia stuff?”

Oliver stared at the rippling pool surface across from them. “Is that a category now?”

Mako hummed. “Considering you spend more time in the greenhouse than we’ve ever seen you spend in class, yeah.”

Pete smirked. “What, did the class rep finally break your heart?”

“No,” Oliver said immediately. “She didn’t—It’s not like that.”

Violet tilted her head. “It’s not?”

Her tone was sweet, but there was a trace of judgment beneath it. Erika shot her a sideways glance.

“It’s fine to say if you’re into her,” Erika said calmly. “You don’t have to act like it’s some forbidden spell.”

Oliver chewed the inside of his cheek. The breeze shifted. He could still hear Gloria’s voice echoing, “Honestly, I just assumed you and Olivia were a thing.”

Erika nudged him gently with her shoulder. “You want to talk about it?”

“I don’t even know what it is,” Oliver admitted.

“You like her,” Pete said casually. “That’s the ‘it.’ The whole school can tell.”

Oliver gave him a flat look. “The whole school thinks a lot of things.”

“Like that she and Orion are hooking up,” Violet added with an unreadable smile.

Oliver didn’t answer. His jaw tensed.

Erika watched him for a beat longer, then reached out and pulled a maple seed from his hair. “Look, just because everyone’s obsessed with the drama doesn’t mean you have to be in it.”

“I’m not in it,” he said, too quickly.

Violet’s gloss clicked shut. “Sure doesn’t sound like you believe that.”

Pete shot her a look but said nothing. Mako rolled his eyes.

Oliver didn’t look at her. Erika didn’t either—none of them really liked Violet. They just tolerated her because she was Oliver’s friend from sound major.

Erika leaned back on her hands. “So what’s the actual problem?”

He paused, then sighed, watching a petal float across the pool’s surface.

“I don’t want to get involved,” he said slowly. “Not with anyone. Not now.”

“That’s fair,” Pete said, sitting up. “College dating sucks.”

“I mean it,” Oliver added, brows knitting. “I’m still figuring things out. I’ve only just gotten used to being here, and the streams, and the classes—and Olivia, she’s…”

“She’s leaving,” Erika finished.

Oliver blinked, and the words hit harder than they should have. He already knew it—had always known it—but hearing them aloud settled differently in his chest, like something tightening. A truth made real.

She was leaving. That was the logical center of all this. That was what made everything complicated. He should feel relief, clarity.

But he didn’t.

Because even now, even after all the gossip and the rumors and the slow, careful way he was trying not to fall, being around Olivia still felt like standing somewhere safe. She grounded things. She made things quiet. She was one of the only people who treated him like he wasn’t an act.

And that… that made it harder to keep pretending he didn’t care.

He nodded.

“In like six months,” Oliver murmured. “She’s graduating. And she’s already being recruited by multiple investigation teams—real botanical magic research. Her life’s mapped out in vivid ink. Mine’s barely even scribbled on the edge of a napkin.”

“And you think she wouldn’t want something real because of that?” Erika asked softly.

“I think,” Oliver said, voice tighter, “that if I start hoping for something with her, and it does mean something, and then she leaves, it’ll—” He stopped himself.

“Worth it?” Pete offered.

“Or hurt like hell,” Mako added.

Oliver didn’t answer.

For a moment, the only sound was the wind picking up through the trees, stirring the scent of cut grass and blooming sage.

Erika reached over and gently bumped his knee with hers. “It’s okay to be unsure. But don’t lie to yourself just because it’s easier.”

Oliver looked at her, and for a brief second, the weight of everything—his own heart, the stupid field comments, Olivia’s blank expression when she brushed past Orion—seemed to press down on him all at once.

Erika offered a quiet smile. “You’re allowed to like her, Oliver. Even if you’re scared.”

Violet’s voice was airy and distant. “Just don’t forget how many people are watching.”

Oliver stiffened.

There it was—that reminder again. That everything he said or did could be clipped, captured, commented on. That even here, in a patch of shade among people who knew him best, he couldn’t really exhale.

Pete let out a slow breath through his nose, glaring at Violet. “Real helpful, Vi.”

Mako made a face. “You know, sometimes I wonder if you even like any of us.”

Violet only shrugged, unapologetic. “I like Oliver.”

“Yeah,” Erika muttered, “we know.”

Oliver didn’t say anything. He knew Violet meant well in her own twisted, backhanded way. But it never landed right. Not lately.

He looked up at his friends—Erika’s steady gaze, Pete’s frustration, Mako’s quiet loyalty—and for the first time in a while, he felt it. The way they were holding space for him. The way they were letting him unravel without pushing too hard. They didn’t always get it, but they cared. That was enough.

He glanced back toward campus, where the greenhouse dome glinted faintly under the early evening sun.

“I’m not forgetting,” he said, just barely audible.

He didn’t say anything else.

And none of them asked.

Tuesday, morning.

The sun was gentle that early afternoon, casting lazy gold through the lattice windows of the greenhouse wing. Olivia sat inside Elryn's recovery room, hands folded in her lap, gloves still streaked with earth and pollen. The dryad's cocoon glowed faintly at the center of the chamber, surrounded by softly rustling ivy and carefully warded blooms. The air was thick with silence, not empty but reverent, like even the plants knew not to disturb the stillness.

She wasn’t working today. Just watching. Just waiting.

Elryn hadn’t stirred in weeks, but Olivia still came every afternoon, whispering through the soil, feeding it with her magic, slipping enchanted seeds into the roots beneath the floorboards to help the soil strengthen and renew. Principal Thorne didn’t always approve, but he never stopped her.

Olivia exhaled slowly. The magic in the room felt steady but subdued, like breath held too long. And in the quiet, she let herself feel everything she tried to ignore outside these walls.

Hope. Worry. Guilt.

And the ache of something else she didn’t want to name.

“Liv!”

She glanced up, brushing a curl away from her face. Pete and Mako were walking toward her, backpacks slung over their shoulders and half-empty iced tea bottles in hand.

“Shouldn’t you two be in Magical Mycology?” she asked, arching a brow, already rising to her feet and brushing soil from her gloves. Her tone was even, but there was an edge of warning in it.

She stepped toward the door and gestured for them to follow. “Come on. Not in here.”

Pete and Mako exchanged a quick glance but obeyed, trailing her out of Elryn’s room and into the corridor just beyond, where the enchantments didn’t hum quite so intimately.

Only once the door had sealed behind them with a faint shimmer did Olivia speak again, quieter. “This space is for healing. Not gossip.”

“We skipped.” Mako grinned sheepishly. “We’re ahead on the final project.”

“Because it’s your final project,” Pete added, nudging Mako. “Not mine. I’m just the assistant.”

Olivia snorted and leaned back on her heels. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Pete gave her a look that was unusually serious. “We were hoping to talk. About Oliver.”

Her fingers froze over a tangle of ivy. “What about him?”

Mako glanced around, then sat cross-legged in the grass. “Look, we know everyone’s in your business lately, and it sucks. But we’re not here to pry. Promise.”

Pete joined her. “We just... we see how much time you’re spending with him. The project, the midterm, everything. And it’s great. You’re kind of the only person he opens up to lately.”

Olivia didn’t respond right away. Her chest tightened with something cautious and unfamiliar. “I’m helping him with a project. That’s all.”

Mako tilted his head. “Is it, though?”

She shot him a look, sharp and wary.

“We’re not accusing you of anything,” Pete said quickly. “It’s just... Oliver’s different from how most people see him. You know that, right?”

Of course she knew. She paid attention—to how his voice shifted when he was tired, to the way he sometimes overcompensated with jokes when he felt unsure. She noticed the small things, catalogued them quietly like rare blooms she didn’t dare name aloud. But she wasn’t about to say that. Not to them. Not out loud.

Olivia’s brow furrowed. “I guess.”

“He’s a people pleaser,” Mako said softly. “Always has been. He thrives on attention and being liked. It’s not fake, not exactly, but it’s... curated. What you see on the streams? The confidence, the humor—that’s a part of him, but it’s not the whole story.”

Pete nodded. “He’s softer than people expect. Frailer, even. And when someone gets too close, it rattles him.”

Olivia tried not to let that land where it hurt. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because,” Pete said, voice gentle, “we want you to like him. Not the version that everyone else sees, but him. The one who sings to your plants like they’re old friends. The one who gets quiet when you talk about soil conditions and still listens.”

Mako leaned in slightly. “He likes you. More than he wants to admit.”

Olivia stared at them, mouth dry.

“But he’s scared,” Pete added. “You’re older, you’re powerful, respected. And you’re leaving in six months. That kind of thing messes with a guy like him.”

“I’m not planning my next six months around anyone,” Olivia said, though it came out flatter than intended.

They nodded. Neither pushed. But then Mako hesitated and asked, “So… the Orion rumors. Are they true?”

Olivia blinked. “What rumors?”

Her tone was neutral, but truly—she had no idea what they meant. The rumor mill usually spun too fast for her to keep up, and she didn’t exactly go looking for it. People talked, sure, but she was too buried in the greenhouse and her research to hear most of it.

If something had reached Oliver and not her... it meant she’d missed something big. And the thought unsettled her more than she expected.

Pete winced. “About you letting him into your dorm. That you’ve been spending nights with him.”

“What?!” Olivia stared at them. “Where did you even hear that?”

Mako looked uncomfortable. “Oliver told us. After the... field incident with Gloria and Stefan. He didn’t seem mad, just—confused. Said he didn’t want to make assumptions, but it felt weird, like he missed something.”

Olivia sat down in the grass, heart ticking unevenly. “I didn’t invite him. He followed me.”

She looked between them, confusion knitting her brow. “Wait. What field incident?”

Pete blinked. “You didn’t hear?”

Mako grimaced. “Gloria and Stefan came over to the quad the other day and stirred up drama. Said Orion moved into your dorm. In front of everyone.”

“What?” Olivia’s voice was sharp now, disbelieving. “That’s not even true.”

Pete held up his hands. “We know. But Oliver didn’t. It caught him off guard.”

Mako nodded. “It kind of... looked bad. The timing, the way Gloria said it. People definitely ran with it.”

They waited, sensing there was more.

She paced a step, hands on her hips. “We’re not— I’m not— It’s not like that. He’s been around, yeah. A few nights. After the fire... we’ve been talking. He helped me with my cactus.”

Mako gave her a look that was almost soft. “So he has been there.”

“Yes, but not like—ugh.” She let out a noise of frustration. “Gods. I can’t believe people think I’m—what? Hooking up with him behind some enchanted tapestry? That I’d invite him over for what , steamy post-fire therapy? He wouldn’t leave, so I let him stay long enough to calm my cactus down.” She rolled her eyes. “Not a euphemism.”

Pete chuckled despite himself.

“He apologized,” she added. “For a lot. It was weird. But no, nothing happened.”

Mako looked relieved. “Good. Not because we think you can’t do what you want—just… he’s not the one losing sleep over you.”

Olivia looked down at her dirt-covered gloves. “That's just so not true.”

But she still looked confused, as if the dots weren’t quite connecting. Like she didn’t understand why it mattered. Why any of it would get to Oliver the way it clearly had.

Mako exchanged a look with Pete, then back at her, a touch of something fond and exasperated in his voice. “Oh, you poor little thing.”

The breeze ruffled the leaves overhead. Olivia didn’t speak again for a moment, but her voice was softer when it came.

“Thanks for telling me.”

They nodded, stood, and wandered off, leaving her alone in the quiet—surrounded by ferns and guilt and a heartbeat she didn’t want to name.

The gardens buzzed gently in the late afternoon. Bees hovered over the wildflowers, the air was thick with pollen, and Olivia sat low in the grass near the greenhouse, knees drawn up, fingers buried in the earth. Every so often, a pulse of magic ticked through her veins, pressing at her skin like it wanted out.

The grass around her had started to thicken, growing faster than it should. She was holding it back. Barely.

When Cairo, Moony, and Sunny approached, she didn’t look up. She felt their steps through the roots instead.

“Hey,” Moony said, voice tentative. “We’ve been kind of... worried. You’ve been hard to find lately.”

“You okay?” Cairo added.

“I’m peachy,” Olivia muttered.

“Olivia.”

She let out a breath, tugging up a clump of weeds by their roots. “Fine. Just tired of being the topic of conversation for people who don’t even like me.”

“Is this about the rumors?” Moony asked carefully.

Olivia’s hands stilled. Her chest tightened. So they knew. They all knew.

Before she could answer, new voices approached. Indiana’s loud laugh. Orion’s quieter footsteps.

“Great,” Olivia muttered under her breath. “Just great. The circus is here.”

Indiana plopped down in the grass like he belonged there. Orion offered Olivia a faint, friendly smile—tentative but warm—before sitting nearby, not too close, but not distant either.

“Guess what,” Indiana announced. “Huge event coming. Like, official event. Midnight Fountain Swim. Seniors only.”

Olivia gave him a dead-eyed stare. “You’re joking.”

“Nope,” Cairo said. “It’s a real thing. Council voted this morning.”

“You’re class rep, right?” Indiana asked Olivia. “How did you not know?”

“I’ve been busy putting out metaphorical fires.”

“Sounds like you’ve been lighting some too,” Indiana joked, and Moony elbowed him.

“I’m sorry,” Olivia said, standing up. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The group went quiet.

Her voice cracked as she kept going, rising with each word. “You’re all sitting here pretending we’re just classmates—like this is some cute, casual hangout—but you’ve been talking about me. Behind my back. For weeks. Gloria and Stefan said I’ve been sleeping with Orion and no one told me? No one?”

Her magic surged, curling the grass around her calves, hot and trembling.

“Liv—” Moony tried.

“No,” she snapped, whirling on them. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears, her voice raw. “I want to know. Why didn’t any of you tell me that was going around? You all knew. You knew and said nothing.”

There was a beat of silence—thick, awful.

Cairo finally said, softly, “We didn’t want to bring it up. We thought it would make things worse.”

Olivia barked a laugh. “Worse than finding out by accident? Worse than feeling like the last person to know her own name’s being dragged through the dirt?”

Moony winced. “We just—”

“Just what?” Her voice cracked again. “Thought I couldn’t handle it? Thought it’d be easier to let me walk around blindfolded while everyone whispers behind my back?”

Then she turned on Indiana, shaking. “And you. Why are you and your friends so fucking stupid that you feed on making shit up to hurt people? What is it, boredom? Envy? Do I make that good a target, or is it just fun watching someone fall apart?”

“Okay, stop it.” Sunny said, tone sharp. “Liv. That’s not nice.”

Olivia whirled on her. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sunny, would you like me to say it in botanical terms so it’s more palatable? Because right now I feel like I’m rotting from the inside out and no one is doing a damn thing about it!”

Sunny reeled back, stunned.

Indiana sat forward, suddenly serious. “Alright, that’s enough.”

Everyone looked at him.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” he continued, “but Sunny’s right. You don’t get to torch everyone just because you’re hurting.”

Everyone looked at him.

He kept going, more serious now. “You don’t get to explode at everyone because you’re upset people noticed you. You’re the class rep. You slapped someone in public. You’ve got Oliver—Oliver—trailing you around campus like a stray cat. And now you’ve got Orion camping out in your dorm. Did you think no one would notice?”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“You didn’t not ask either,” Indiana said. “You’re not exactly hiding.”

That hit her square in the chest.

Orion shifted, but didn’t speak. He was watching her now, carefully.

“Why is everyone so obsessed with me?” Olivia snapped, voice cracking. “Why is it always me in the middle of every rumor? Me, again? There are hundreds of students here.”

Her fists clenched at her sides. “But sure. Let’s focus on the girl who dares to make friends. The one who’s trying her best. The one who’s trying not to drown in it all.”

She blinked hard, her breath catching. “I didn’t want any of this. I never wanted to be...” Her voice broke completely. “I didn’t mean to be the problem.”

“Because you’re not just making friends,” Cairo said gently. “You’re making headlines.”

Olivia stared at him like he'd just slapped her.

Then she laughed. Once. Bitter and stunned. “Wow. Okay.”

She took a sharp breath, stood up, brushing grass from her hands with too much force.

“You know what?” she said, her voice tight. “I’m done. I can’t keep pretending this is fine, like being treated like this is normal just because I happen to stand next to people who draw attention.”

“Liv—” Sunny started.

But Olivia was already turning, walking away from the group and toward the greenhouse.

“Olivia, wait!” Sunny stood to follow.

Before she could take a step, Orion reached out and lightly grabbed her wrist. His hand was warm, grounding.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Give her a minute.”

Sunny blinked at him. “She’s upset.”

“I know,” Orion said, letting go. “But if you go after her now, she won’t talk. She’ll just explode again.”

There was a beat of silence. The group watched Olivia disappear between the greenhouse hedges, her shoulders tight with restraint.

Moony folded their arms. “So… were the rumors actually true?”

Indiana, chewing a long piece of grass, glanced sideways. “I mean, she didn’t deny them.”

“No, they weren’t,” Orion said, eyes still on the path she’d taken. His voice was flat, but there was a tension behind it. “Nothing happened. Not like that.”

“Huh,” Indiana muttered, genuinely surprised. “Really?”

Orion turned, his voice colder now. “Yes. Really. She asked for help with her cactus. We talked. That’s it. Sorry the truth’s not as fun as the gossip.”

“Then why not shut it down?” Cairo asked. “Why let people think—?”

“Because she didn’t even know the rumors,” Orion snapped. “Because no one told her. Because she’s obviously barely holding it together and maybe, just maybe, she shouldn’t be expected to fight every stupid rumor while pretending not to care.”

He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his hair.

“I’m used to that shit. People say stuff about me every week. I learned to tune it out or laugh it off because I had to.” His voice dropped a little. “Same with Indiana.”

Indiana didn’t interrupt. For once, his lazy smirk was gone, and he looked oddly serious. “Yeah. It’s kind of the tax you pay for being visible, I guess. People don’t see you. They see whatever version of you makes a better story.”

Orion gave a short, humorless laugh. “You learn to stop trying to correct them. Because if you react, it just feeds the fire.”

Moony, who’d been quiet, frowned. “But Olivia didn’t sign up for any of that.”

“No,” Orion agreed. His tone sharpened, more pointed now. “She didn’t. She wanted peace. She wanted her greenhouse and her projects and her little circle. But she got dragged into the spotlight, and when she started drowning, no one threw her a rope. Not even the people who claimed to care.”

There was a long silence.

Cairo glanced around the group, suddenly uncomfortable. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

“She’s always been private,” said Moony. “And proud. Like, in a protective way. I guess we assumed she’d brush it off.”

“But not everyone’s built the same,” said Sunny, her voice gentler now. “It’s easy to think people can handle what you’ve gotten used to... but not everyone has the armor for it.”

Cairo looked back toward the greenhouse, worry etched deep in her brow. “We should’ve told her sooner.”

Orion shrugged. “It’s not about the timing. It’s about trust. If the people who care about her don’t say anything, how is she supposed to feel safe?”

No one answered.

Chapter Text

Olivia hadn’t spoken in hours. Not to anyone. Not even to her cactus.

The dorm was quiet, too quiet—the kind of quiet that only existed when you’d made a point to turn off every charm, every ward, every notification spell that might remind you the world was still spinning outside your walls. Even the enchanted windows, usually displaying sunlight or clouds, now hung dim and grey like a room in mourning.

She sat cross-legged on the floor in front of her desk, a mug of cold tea forgotten by her side. The cactus sat on the windowsill, its small spines illuminated by the late afternoon light. She watched the way the golden glow caught in the fuzz around its base. It was thriving, apparently, despite everything. Or maybe because of everything. Maybe it was doing better than her.

Her eyes ached. Not from crying—she was past crying, past yelling, past unraveling in public—but from exhaustion. Bone-deep, soul-twisting exhaustion. Her limbs felt heavy, like they were being pulled downward by something invisible and ancient.

It was all too much.

Being the class representative.
Managing the greenhouse.
Tutoring underclassmen.
Graduating in six months.
Keeping up with job applications.
Keeping up with friends.
Keeping up the version of herself that looked put together when everything underneath was chaos and fatigue and a very real, very sharp loneliness.

The vines in the greenhouse knew the truth before she did. The moment she stepped inside earlier today, they'd curled up to greet her, sensing something in her heartbeat. A fray in the edges. She hadn’t even told them to hush—just let them hum in worry as she stood in the sun, quiet and disconnected.

And now… this.

The fight. The rumors. The way her friends had looked at her in the garden, like she was some live wire sparking too close to the water.

She rubbed her temples. The shame sat heavy in her chest. Sunny’s voice echoed back to her—“That’s not nice.” Not cruel, not sharp. Just disappointed.

“I didn’t mean to,” Olivia whispered. To no one. To the cactus. To herself.

She didn’t mean to push everyone away.

Didn’t mean to let things spiral like this.

She was just trying to hold it together. Just trying to be good at everything.

But she wasn’t. Not anymore. She’d dropped every ball in her juggling act, and now she was sitting in the aftermath, cold tea and all, surrounded by the very silence she had once craved.

Her fingers reached for her phone. Her thumbs hovered over the screen. She’d already written and deleted a dozen messages today. Long apologies, weak excuses, half-hearted plans to ghost everyone forever and live among the carnivorous herbs in the East Greenhouse.

But this time, she just… typed.

No second-guessing. No rewriting.

olivia:
if you’re free tonight, i’d like to talk. my place.
i want to say something
no pressure. just. come if you can.

She stared at the message a moment too long. Then hit send.

There. Done.

It was quiet again. But different now. Not so hollow. Like maybe she’d opened a window somewhere inside her ribcage.

She set the phone down, stood up, and walked to the windowsill. The cactus tilted faintly toward her as she reached out and gently touched one of its tiny arms.

“Thanks for not leaving,” she whispered.

And for the first time that week, she meant it.

Later that day, Olivia sat hunched on the edge of the guest bed in her room, knees pulled up, the room dark except for the gold-glow of the grow-lamps and the faint pulse of bioluminescent moss trailing down her bookshelves. Her plants rustled gently around her, their soft noise the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.

She had sent the message, then thrown her phone face-down onto her desk. Her throat still burned from crying. She hated how small she felt. How stupid. She kept replaying her outburst, every word she regretted, every expression on her friends’ faces. The guilt bloomed ugly in her chest.

Eventually, she made herself move. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve and sat up straighter, though everything in her wanted to stay curled on that bed and disappear into the soil. Her gaze flicked to the empty second bed, covered in coats and notebooks and one of Cairo’s hoodies he’d left behind weeks ago. Even the plants around her seemed quieter than usual, as if they were listening.

She dragged her legs off the mattress, stood on unsteady feet, and crossed the room to check her phone.

One reply. Then another. Then more.

They were coming.

She rubbed her face again and sat back down in the middle of her room, knees drawn in, wrapped in the familiar green breath of her living walls. She didn’t trust herself to stand.

A knock came at the door.

She stood fast, brushing her palms on her pants, expecting Moony. Maybe Cairo. But it was Oliver.

He was alone, and for a moment, they both just stared.

“You’re early,” Olivia said quietly.

He gave a small shrug. “I don’t know exactly what happened,” he admitted. “But your message sounded urgent. I just... came.”

Her breath caught a little, her eyes darting away.

He stepped closer, keeping his voice gentle. “You okay?”

“No,” she said. “But I think I want to be.”

He nodded like that was the only answer he expected. “Then we’ll start there.”

Olivia let out a slow breath and sank down onto the bed again, motioning for him to sit if he wanted. Oliver stayed standing for a second, then dropped his bag by the door and crossed the room. He didn’t sit, not yet. He hovered near her desk, glancing once toward the plants climbing the far wall.

“I need to tell you something,” Olivia said. Her voice came out raw. “You might already know parts of it. I don’t know.”

Oliver tilted his head slightly, giving her space.

“There’s been a rumor going around,” she said, staring at the floor. “That I’ve been... sleeping with Orion. That he’s basically living in my room. That I moved on fast from slapping him to fucking him. Also, that I do it because I trill on the attention, and that is also why I started being friends with you.”

Silence settled in like fog.

Oliver didn’t say anything, but she could feel it—the shift in the room, like the tension in a violin string pulled tight. She looked up. His jaw had gone sharp, shoulders coiled in a way he clearly thought he was hiding. But he didn’t interrupt.

She kept going.

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “Not until today. Everyone else knew. Even my friends. And they didn’t tell me.” She took a breath, forcing herself to look at him. “And none of it’s true, Oliver. Orion’s been here, yes—but not like that. He helps with the cactus, sometimes we eat dinner, sometimes we just talk. That’s it. Nothing else has ever happened. And I’m so deeply sorry that I soiled your name, I don’t know if you’ll believe me but the truth is that I truly enjoy being friends with you, I never cared about you being famous, and since I’m being honest here I knew of you but noy you-you, and I like knowing you-you. Not that it matters to anyone apparently as long as the lie feeds more gossip the truth fades in the dark like a ghoul.”

Oliver finally sat on the other bed. “That’s... awful.” His voice was steady, but a flicker of something eased across his features—shoulders loosening just slightly, as if the confirmation had let him breathe again. He looked away for a second, jaw unclenching. “Okay,” he said, more quietly this time. “I’m glad you told me.”

“And then,—I snapped,” she said, her lips quivering, voice flat now. “I yelled at everyone. Moony, Cairo, Orion even Sunny. Indiana tried to step in and I told him off too. I couldn’t stop myself. It was like the anger had claws.”

Oliver stayed quiet. She sat on her bed and hugged the pillow Cairo gave her on her birthday. 

“I shouldn’t have done it,” she said. “But it hurt. Knowing they didn’t say anything. Knowing they let people think those things about me and didn’t stop it.”

Oliver nodded slowly, like he understood.

She looked at him then. “I’ve been trying to keep up with everything—classes, council work, the greenhouse, you, Orion—and I think I hit some kind of breaking point. And I hate that it all came out like that.”

There was a beat.

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” Oliver said. “But I’m listening.”

Olivia swallowed hard.

“I care about you,” she said. “And I care about Orion. And being friends with both of you has brought so much into my life, but it’s also brought chaos. Attention. Judgment. Rumors. And I haven’t handled it well. I haven’t always known what to do.”

Oliver looked at her carefully, unreadable.

“But I don’t regret it,” Olivia said. Her voice cracked. “Not any of it. Because I care about you both so much. And I think... I think I’m just scared of losing what I have with all of you. Now I know I wasn’t ready to be so consciously popular.”

She paused, arms tightening around her knees and the pillow. “I know I need to apologize to them. I will. I think I'm grateful that you came here first, Oliver. I just realized I needed someone who wasn’t already part of the fallout. Someone who wouldn’t look at me like I’m about to break again.”

Her voice dipped. “Because I’m scared. I’m scared I ruined everything. That they won’t forgive me.”

Oliver’s brows knit, not in confusion, but in something close to protectiveness. He leaned forward.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said, low and certain. “We’re not going anywhere. I’m not going anywhere. I knew about the rumors, well the one involving Orion at least, I don’t really like him, so it pinched to think that you and him may have that kind of relationship, specially after the fire incident, I want you to be with someone who is always going to support you not burn you to the ground. And can’t say I’m not relieved that the rumors were a lie. And for you using me, well, I never believed that, you never once asked or talked too deeply about my events or lives or even my music outside my assignment, so I didn’t consider that you were too interested in the spotlight, I know it's a lot to bear.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Thank you,” he said. “For telling me.”

She blinked at him.

“That’s a lot to carry,” he added. “But you didn’t have to carry it alone.”

Olivia didn’t trust herself to speak. She just nodded, eyes stinging again.

And still—Oliver didn’t press, didn’t pry, didn’t judge. He just sat with her, steady and real, his side flushed to hers not really a hug just a reminder, like maybe the world wasn’t entirely falling apart after all.

A quiet knock came next. Then another. The sound of feet shuffling outside the door.

Oliver stood, just as Olivia did. She crossed the room slowly and opened it.

Moony entered first, followed closely by Cairo and Aaron. Sunny hovered in the doorway before stepping in, her eyes scanning Olivia carefully. Then Rose and Tulip appeared—less expected, but clearly intentional. Each person moved into the room with cautious awareness, settling along the edges: Cairo perched on the windowsill, Moony leaned against the wardrobe, Rose and Tulip found a quiet spot beside the second bed. Even Aaron didn’t crack a joke. The room filled slowly, deliberately. Sunny remained still.

Last came Orion.

He paused in the doorway, gaze flicking first to Olivia, then Oliver. The air changed. Just slightly. Tension coiled for a breath.

But Olivia didn’t flinch. She gave a tiny nod. And for her sake, no one said anything.

Orion stepped in and found space near the far wall, not quite sitting, not quite standing. He didn’t look at Oliver, and Oliver didn’t look at him.

There was a long moment of silence, the only sound was the faint hum of the grow lamps and the rustle of leaves.

Olivia sat in her desk chair, legs pulled close again, hands clutched together in her lap.

No one seemed to know how to begin.

But they were here. And maybe that was enough—for now.

The quiet kind of still.

The quiet was warm, watchful. It made her throat ache.

“I’m so tired,” she whispered at last.

No one moved.

“I’m—” Her voice caught. “I don’t think I’ve stopped to breathe in months. I keep pretending I can handle everything. That I’m fine. But I’m not.”
Her voice trembled, not loud but raw.

“I’ve been trying to be good at everything—student, rep, TA, friend—and somehow it’s never enough. There’s always another thing to fix, to manage, to smile through like it doesn’t hurt.”

Her hands shook. She pressed them together until her knuckles went white.

“I thought if I worked harder, if I just kept saying yes, things would stay in control. But they didn’t. I didn’t. And I think I broke somewhere along the way.”

Still, no one interrupted.

“I know I’ve been snapping. Avoiding things. Avoiding people who didn’t deserve it. And I let the rumors grow because I thought ignoring them would make them disappear.”
She looked down. “It didn’t.”

Her breath shuddered. “Now everyone thinks… things about me. Things that aren’t true. And I hate that I’m even saying this, because it sounds pathetic, but I didn’t realize how far it spread until too late.”

Her voice fell quieter. “I know some of you probably heard the same things. Maybe didn’t know what to say. I wish someone had. But I understand why you didn’t.”

She glanced at them—at Orion, at Sunny, at the rest. There was no accusation in her eyes, only hurt. “It’s not your fault. I just… I wish I’d seen it coming.”

She sank onto the edge of her bed. “I wanted to believe this time was different. That I was different. But it’s the same. No matter how hard I try, people still twist it.”

Her shoulders curled in. “And I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted. For taking it out on you. For pretending I was fine when I wasn’t. You didn’t deserve that.”

She let out one small, trembling breath. “I just didn’t know what else to do.”

A beat passed.

Then the first sob hit.

It wasn’t quiet.

It ripped out of her chest like something had burst open inside her, and once it started, it wouldn’t stop.

She tried to hide it at first. Hands over her mouth, shoulders curled in, trying to keep it small—but it wasn’t small. It hadn’t been small for a long time.

She cried in hard, aching bursts that left her breathless. She cried until her face burned and her arms shook and all the things she hadn’t said in weeks spilled out through every tear. All the fear. The pressure. The exhaustion. The loneliness.

No one interrupted. No one tried to touch her too fast.

It was Cairo who first moved, gently placing a box of tissues by her knee and sitting on the floor near her feet without a word. Then Tulip came around the bed and perched on the floor beside him. Rose crossed the room and stood behind Olivia, brushing a light hand across her shoulder, just enough to say I'm here without asking for anything in return.

Sunny didn’t move at first. She looked like she was holding herself back from climbing into Olivia’s lap and hugging her until she stopped crying. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve.

Olivia sobbed harder.

“I feel like I’m failing everything,” she hiccupped. “I feel like I’m not… enough. I keep trying to be everything and I just—can’t anymore.”

“You don’t have to,” someone whispered.

She didn’t know who. It didn’t matter.

The room shifted slowly. Nobody said anything heavy. No advice. No interruptions. Just quiet presence, the weight of everyone staying even though she was messy, even though she was undone.

That was the part that made her cry the most.

She’d spent months believing she had to hold it all together or she’d lose the people around her. But here they were. Watching her fall apart. And not one of them left.

Even Orion—quiet in the corner, face unreadable—looked like someone seeing her for the first time. Not the version he grew up with, not the girl who slapped him, or the student rep, or the hardass in the greenhouse. Just… her.

And Oliver… his brows were drawn, hands resting on his knees, as if he didn’t know how to offer comfort without being too much. But his gaze never wavered. He saw her. And didn’t flinch.

The sobs quieted, eventually.

Not because she felt better. But because there was nothing left to give.

She curled forward, nose to her knees, wrapped in the quiet hum of people who still sat beside her anyway.

The silence after Olivia’s crying wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was the kind of silence that settles like warm rain — soft, full, and necessary.

Her head still rested on her knees, eyes puffy, breathing uneven. But she was no longer trembling. She was just… quiet.

No one spoke right away. Cairo leaned back against the base of her dresser, long legs stretched out like a cat in the sun. Rose had pulled a blanket over Olivia’s shoulders without asking. Moony was tracing circles in the air with a glowing fingertip, magic weaving shapes that disappeared before they settled. The room, for once, held still.

Then, softly, Sunny spoke.

“I don’t think you’re failing anything, Liv.”

Olivia didn’t lift her head, but her shoulders twitched.

“I know it feels like you are,” Sunny added gently. “Because you’re tired and everything got tangled. But… failing would mean you gave up. And I don’t think you’ve given up once. Even when you probably should have.”

A few soft laughs flickered around the room. Olivia huffed through her nose — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

“You do this thing,” Moony said next, stretching her arms over her head, “where you keep moving forward like a goddamn freight train. Like, no offense, you’re one of the most competent, intimidating people I’ve ever met.”

“Thanks?” Olivia said weakly.

“No, but hear me out. You’re so good at being in control that sometimes you forget you don’t have to be.” Moony tucked her legs up under herself. “You didn’t let any of us know what was going on. We would’ve helped. But you didn’t let us.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” Olivia muttered.

“You wouldn’t be,” Aaron said suddenly.

Olivia blinked. She hadn’t expected him to speak.

“You’re not a burden. You’re someone we care about. And if you care about people, you don’t just want their perfect days. You want the mess, too. You want all of it.” He looked at her steadily. “And you deserve that from us.”

There was a long pause. Then, Cairo lifted his head, voice thoughtful.

“I think… sometimes you forget you’re not the only one holding things up. Like the world’s going to fall if you don’t manage every little thing.”

“Because it might,” Olivia said, voice raw again.

“No,” Cairo said, smiling slightly. “It won’t. It feels like it will. But that’s just pressure talking. If you let go for five seconds, it won’t all burn down. I promise.”

He met her eyes. “You don’t always have to carry it alone. That’s what we’re for.”

Olivia looked around the room slowly. All of them were watching her, but none of them were expecting her to bounce back. No one looked uncomfortable. No one seemed to need her to say anything yet.

Then Rose spoke.

“You’re allowed to be overwhelmed,” she said simply. “It doesn’t make you weaker. It just means you’re human.”

Her voice was like her sketches: precise, a little wistful.

“But I also think you need to stop apologizing for existing. For taking up space. For having feelings. You do so much, Olivia. And still, somehow, you apologize for not being perfect.”

“I don’t want to be perfect,” Olivia whispered.

“Then stop punishing yourself for not being,” Rose said. “We wouldn’t be here if we didn’t love the version of you that already exists.”

That was when Olivia’s tears started again, slower this time — the kind that slipped quietly from the corners of her eyes, not explosive but full.

“I’m really sorry I yelled at all of you,” she whispered. “Especially Sunny.”

Sunny sniffled immediately.

“Oh, don’t—don’t make me cry again,” she said, wiping under her eyes.

“You’re allowed to yell,” said Moony, already handing her a tissue. “You’re not allowed to bottle it all up and then self-destruct.”

“She didn’t self-destruct,” Rose said gently.

“No,” Moony agreed, “but she got close.”

Tulip cleared their throat. “And for what it’s worth… I think you being vulnerable now says more than any breakdown ever could. It means you trust us. That you’re not just trying to be the version of yourself that wins votes or grades or compliments. You’re being you. Finally.”

Cairo lifted a hand. “Seconded.”

Olivia smiled weakly at that, and then slowly, finally, she lifted her head.

“I should’ve come to you sooner,” she said.

“Yes,” Cairo said immediately. “You should’ve.”

“But we’re glad you did now,” Rose added, nudging him with her elbow.

Olivia’s gaze moved to Orion next. He was still by the window, arms crossed loosely, expression unreadable.

She hesitated.

“I’m… especially sorry for the way I blamed you,” she said softly. “It wasn’t fair.”

Orion shrugged, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“I probably deserved some of it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Olivia said. “You really didn’t. You’ve actually been… there. And I took that for granted.”

Orion didn’t answer at first. Then, with a deep breath, he pushed off the windowsill and walked closer.

“I’ve seen you cry twice in my life,” he said. “Once when you broke your arm in third year. And now.”

She flinched a little.

“And both times,” he added, voice gentler, “I thought you were brave as hell. Because holding it in? That’s not strength. That’s just fear.”

His voice softened further. “You’ve always been strong, Liv. Now maybe you can be something else, too.”

“Like what?” she whispered.

“Real,” he said.

There was a long silence.

And then, very quietly, Oliver spoke.

His voice was soft but clear. Everyone turned to him as he shifted forward on the floor.

“I didn’t know what to say at first,” he admitted. “Because I don’t really… know what it’s like to be you. But I think I get it a little now.”

Olivia stared at him, heart skipping.

“You don’t let people see you until it’s already too late. Until you’re too tired to hide anymore.”

He met her eyes.

“I do that too.”

Olivia’s throat closed.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. “You got dragged into all of this because of me.”

“I didn’t get dragged into anything,” Oliver said gently. “I walked into it. I wanted to know you. I still do.”

A quiet, shared heartbeat passed between them.

“And I think,” he added softly, “you’re more than worth knowing.”

For a second, Olivia had no idea how to respond. The words sat in her chest like something glowing and heavy.

Then Tulip broke the silence.

“Well, this is stupidly emotional,” they said, voice rough. “Someone hug her before I do it and make it weird.”

“I got it,” Sunny said, already launching across the bed and wrapping Olivia in a tight, warm hug. “Mine.”

Olivia let herself sink into it. The first hug she'd fully received in weeks.

Then Cairo leaned in from behind, sandwiching her gently. “I’ll just—group hug protocol, sorry.”

Moony tumbled in next, yelling “incoming!” and knocking into them like a rugby player, followed by Aaron very carefully wrapping an arm over them with an awkward but genuine “I’m also participating.”

Rose leaned her head on Olivia’s shoulder like a cat. Tulip set down her sketchbook and slid an arm around them all, pressing her cheek into the mess.

Even Orion leaned in to squeeze her knee.

And Oliver?

He didn’t move right away.

But Olivia looked up at him through puffy lashes and opened her arms wordlessly.

He joined.

The group hug eventually broke apart, but no one left.

They rearranged themselves across Olivia’s small dorm, sprawled on floor cushions, blankets, and the edges of furniture. Someone put on soft music — barely audible, just enough to quiet the silence. The light from the window had dimmed into gold, late afternoon shadows stretching long and soft across the room.

Olivia leaned back against her pillows, her face raw but steadier.

She felt... wrung out. Hollowed, but clear.

She had cried in front of them. Apologized. Been completely and irrevocably human.

And somehow, they’d stayed.

Now, it was time for the aftermath — the quieter, heavier work of figuring out what came next.

Cairo was the first to speak again, voice easy but intent.

“So… what do you need from us, Liv?”

Olivia blinked. “What?”

“Yeah,” Moony said, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “Like. Tangibly. You can’t keep doing everything. So what do you want help with?”

Olivia hesitated. Her first instinct was to say nothing. That she’d figure it out. That she’d get better at balancing things, or staying quiet, or pushing harder.

But she didn’t want to lie anymore.

“I need help saying no,” she admitted. “I keep agreeing to everything because I think I have to, and then I just spiral.”

“Alright,” Rose said, voice calm. “Let’s practice.”

“What?”

“Say no to me,” Rose said, folding her hands.

“Um… no?”

“Louder,” Rose insisted.

“No,” Olivia said, a little firmer.

Rose nodded. “Now say, ‘No, I’m too busy.’”

“No, I’m too busy.”

“Now say, ‘No, I actually don’t want to do that.’”

Olivia winced. “No, I—um…”

Cairo grinned. “Come on, Liv. You’ve told off councilmen before.”

Olivia groaned into her hands, then mumbled, “No, I don’t want to do that.”

“Good.” Moony pointed at her. “You’re allowed to not want things. Let’s build that muscle.”

“Can I also opt out of party organizing?” Olivia added, peeking over her fingers.

“YES,” most of them said at once.

“Oh thank gods,” she whispered.

“Delegate, girl,” said Cairo. “You have a full team of brilliant misfits here. Let us misfit professionally on your behalf.”

“Also,” Aaron added, “maybe you can set actual hours for greenhouse tutoring. You keep letting students interrupt your off time.”

“Sorry.” said Oliver looking shamed.

Olivia nodded slowly. “That’s a good idea.”

“I’ll help you draft a schedule,” Rose offered.

“And we’ll make a little sign,” Moony added. “Like: Nope, Not Today.”

“The Greenhouse is Closed to Shenanigans.” Cairo grinned.

Olivia couldn’t help but laugh. Her face still hurt from crying, but laughing felt like letting light back in.

Then Oliver cleared his throat softly.

“I don’t want to overstep,” he said, voice careful, “but… is there any other thing I should do differently?”

She looked at him, surprised. “What? No, you—no. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I just… I didn’t know if being around me made things worse for you,” he said gently. “With the rumors and all that.”

“No,” Olivia said immediately. “None of that was your fault. People were going to talk either way. And… I like having you around.”

Oliver’s eyes softened. “I like being around.”

“Just maybe,” Olivia added with a half-smile, “we stop being alone together in public places for a bit? You too Orion, sorry.”

“Fair.”

“But don’t stop talking to me,” she said, quieter.

“Never.”

There was a short, comfortable pause before Orion spoke.

“And I’ll tell my friends to shut up,” he said.

Olivia raised an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” he continued. “Some of them don’t even know they’re being assholes. But that’s not your problem. I’ll handle it.”

“That’d be appreciated,” she muttered.

“Also,” Orion said more seriously, “don’t let what happened between us—any of it—convince you that you can’t trust people. Especially yourself.”

“I wasn’t really trusting anyone,” she admitted. “Even me.”

“You’re allowed to change your mind,” he said. “About people. About how much space you take up.”

Sunny, who had been quiet for a while, leaned forward now, elbows on her knees.

“Can I say something slightly mean but very loving?”

“Oh boy,” muttered Moony.

“Go for it,” Olivia said, already bracing.

Sunny’s voice was calm, not harsh. “You’re not the only person who works hard, Liv. And you’re not the only one people talk about.”

Olivia frowned.

“You’re not wrong to feel exhausted,” she continued. “Or upset. But you also don’t get to act like you’re the only one on this campus carrying pressure.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“I know you didn’t,” Sunny said. “But when you exploded, you acted like no one else understood. Like we’re all just extras in your movie. And that’s not fair.”

Olivia’s breath caught.

But Sunny added, more softly, “You’re important. You’re so important. But you’re not alone. Not in your pain. Not in your stress. We’re all living in this same mess, okay?”

Olivia nodded slowly, throat tight again — but not from anger. From something like relief.

“I hear you,” she said. “And… you’re right. I’m sorry.”

“We forgive you,” Sunny said. “Just don’t freeze us out again.”

“I won’t,” she said, and meant it.

There was a long silence, not heavy but deep. The kind that made everything feel real again.

Then Rose stretched and said, “So. Group dinner?”

“Please,” Olivia said. “Can someone else decide. I can’t make another decision today.”

“Pizza,” said Cairo.

“Pasta,” said Moony at the same time.

They glared at each other. Olivia laughed.

Oliver stood and offered Olivia a hand. “You don’t have to carry it all. Remember?”

She took his hand, rising to her feet.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Let’s try this again.”