Grey spent the morning at the University.
It was uneventful, which in itself felt like a small blessing. The lecture hall smelled of chalk dust and roasted chestnuts drifting in from the street stalls outside. Grey sat near the back, notebook open, though she spent more time twirling her pen than writing. Professor Essel droned on about symbolic thresholds and the law of anchored veils, his voice so rhythmic she nearly drifted off. She didn't speak to anyone. Most didn't speak to her, not unless they had to. It was easier that way.
Still, there was something soothing about the repetition—the murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs, the rattle of enchanted quills against parchment. A normal day. A mortal kind of day. For a little while, Grey let herself pretend that was all she was.
By noon, the last lecture ended, and she gathered her things in silence. The sun had risen higher now, cutting through the morning's frost. Her breath no longer clouded. She walked the familiar path home, hands tucked in her sleeves, lost in thought.
It was the kind of autumn afternoon that smelled like apples and woodsmoke.
Crisp air bit at Grey's cheeks as she stepped into the courtyard, now changed into a soft cropped long-sleeve shirt the colour of peaches and a pair of loose sweatpants that swished lightly with every step. Her coat was tucked close around her, but the sleeves of the peach top peeked from beneath, catching the sunlight like faded blush. Frost clung stubbornly to the cobblestones, crunching beneath her sneakers like brittle parchment.
The sky was an impossible blue—the sort of colour melodramatic poets always used to describe heartbreak—and somewhere in the hedgerow, a robin chattered like it had something important to say. She had agreed to meet Alaric in the courtyard for defensive combat training.
Alaric was already waiting.
He stood like a fever-dream someone had dared to write down. His coat hung open, wind playing at the hem, revealing a sleeveless black shirt that clung to him in ways that did very little to hide the sculpted lines of his body. His hair—long and wild—spilled over his shoulders in waves of midnight silk. She made a mental note to ask him what shampoo he used, and then immediately wondered Do Fae even use shampoo? Another mystery to be unfurled and recorded in her diary.
He was barefoot. Of course he was. He always did things like that, inexplicable and untamed, as if rules were for creatures who couldn't command the weather with a smile.
He was humming a tune she didn't recognise under his breath. Flexing his fingers like he was tasting the wind for magic. His eyes snagged briefly on the sliver of skin between her cropped top and the edge of her pants, and his face darkened, brows drawn. A flicker of something unreadable passing through them before his gaze drifted away again like it had never landed there at all.
Grey swallowed, hard.
Oh no. No, no, no. Not the throat. Anything but the throat. I am not thirteen with a doomed crush and a diary full of bad poetry.
Her eyes innvoluntarily dropped to the exposed column of his throat before she yanked them firmly back up. He knows exactly what he's doing. That was the problem. He always did.
"You're late, pet," Alaric called, flashing a lazy grin that somehow managed to be both teasing and dangerous. "I was beginning to worry you'd grown more fond of scholarship than survival."
Grey raised an eyebrow and crossed her arms, mostly to keep from fidgeting. "I'm not sure I need self-defense when I've always got you skulking around."
Alaric's smile curled at the edges, amused. "And what if I'm the one you need defending from?"
Grey tilted her head. "Then I suppose I'll just have to weaponise my thesis. Death by footnotes."
He chuckled. "Tragic. And here I thought I'd go out dramatically. Blood, roses, betrayal."
"Footnotes can be dramatic," she said with mock offense. "One almost broke my spirit last semester."
"Oh, I sincerely doubt that it's that fragile," he said softly.
She froze for a half-beat too long.
His words had been teasing, sure—but there was something in his eyes that didn't quite match the grin. And maybe it was ridiculous, but beneath all her training and sarcasm, she still wanted to believe someone like him could see the shape of her spirit and think worthy. Just once.
Was he joking? He had to be joking. That was his entire act, wasn't it? Smooth, reckless, glinting with something unspoken—but never quite serious. Never quite real.
"You may be dangerous , but I think I'll take my chances," she said dryly, voice just a little too tight. "You're all bark and far too much smirk, Fen."
Before he could answer, a dramatic sigh interrupted them.
"Must we really turn violence into foreplay before dinner?" Wickham sauntered into view with a blanket over his shoulders and an armful of apples like an autumn-themed grandmother. "Some of us are trying to live our lives without witnessing erotica disguised as calisthenics."
"Then don't watch," Alaric growled with an unsettling grin, removing his coat with deliberate movements, never looking away from Grey. His gaze lingered a moment too long—like he was waiting to see if she'd flinch or blush or rise to the bait. He'd already dropped into a stance—loose and casual, but charged with potential, like a bow half-drawn. "Now, pet. Come here."
His voice was low and smooth, but it curled at the edges with challenge. Grey hesitated for a heartbeat. Was that a dare in his tone—or something else? Her feet moved before she'd made the decision, drawn as if on instinct, even as her mind scrambled to catch up.
Why does he always sound like he's halfway between seduction and swordplay? she wondered, irritated by how breathless she felt and how her own pulse tripped. And why am I always the one walking into it like a moth to the proverbial candle?
Grey stepped forward, cautious but trying not to look it. The stones felt uneven underfoot, and her palms were already clammy inside her gloves. The distance between them suddenly felt far too short.
"We'll start simple." His voice had shifted—slightly lower, more focused—but the mischief still danced in his eyes. He raised one hand. "Strike me."
Grey blinked. "What?"
"Right here," he said, tapping his chest. "No magic. No tricks. Just try."
She hesitated. Her stomach did a peculiar flutter. Was this supposed to be part of the lesson? Or some strange Alaric-flavoured ritual of flirtation disguised as training? She'd never been particularly good at telling the difference.
Still, she drew in a breath and swung—tentative, uncertain, more gesture than threat.
Alaric caught her wrist mid-air, his fingers a firm band of warmth. He looked personally offended.
"That," he declared, eyebrow raised in warning, "was not a strike. That was a handshake from a damp noodle."
Grey laughed despite herself. "I was trying to be polite."
"I don't need politeness, pet. I need to know you'll break someone's nose if you have to."
He stepped closer, his hands already adjusting her shoulders, her stance, the angle of her hips. Her breath snagged as one palm skimmed across the small of her back. Not indecent. Not quite. But… lingering.
"Like this." He guided her arm. "You don't strike from the arm alone. You strike from your centre. Let the rest of you follow."
She nodded, biting the inside of her cheek. Focus. But it was difficult when every touch sparked against her nerves like static. Was he always like this with people? Or just with her? Gods, what if this was just a game? What if she misread everything?
But then again, a 13 year old inner-voice she was desperately trying to ignore whispered, what if you're not misreading it at all?
The hour passed in a blur of soft impacts and half-laughed curses. Alaric was surprisingly patient—always correcting, always instructing—but never cruel. He guided her through every slip and stumble, grounding her posture, coaxing the strength from places she hadn't realised she held it.
His hands were always right there.
A nudge to her knee. A brush against her hip. His hand briefly pressed against her lower back as he corrected her balance. "Root your weight through the ball of your foot," he murmured. "You want to pivot cleanly, not topple like a winded deer." Then a guiding press against her elbow. "Keep this tucked. You're giving away your intention before you strike."
The casual touches frayed at her nerves bit by bit. Which is probably exactly what he intended them to do, she thought morosely, even as she adjusted exactly the way he asked. Her pulse thudded in her throat. Gods, was it the heat or just him?
"Keep your centre low," he murmured once, leaning close enough for his breath to tickle the edge of her jaw. "Good. You're stronger than you think."
Her breath hitched. She nodded stiffly, pretending not to notice how warm her ears were. He didn't mean it like that. Probably. Hopefully. Did he?
From the steps, Wickham snorted.
"If this turns into a bodice-ripper, I demand royalties," he announced, biting into an apple in mock-despair.
Grey groaned, one wrist wiping the damp from temples. "Get lost, Wick."
From the hallway, his voice floated cheerfully back: "Don't mind me, lovebirds. Just giving you your privacy!"
A door shut. A cackle trailed off.
Eventually, she and Alaric sank onto the sun-warmed bench that ran the length of the courtyard wall. Her chest rose and fell with the rhythm of spent energy. A good kind of tired. A warm ache.
Alaric's arm brushed hers. He didn't move it.
The silence stretched long and comfortable. The wind stirred the last of the leaves. A small bird flitted by overhead, uncaring.
"You did well," Alaric said quietly, his voice absent of its usual flirtatiousness. Soft. Real.
Grey turned to him, surprised. She'd half-expected a wink, or another teasing remark—but he just looked at her. Like she was a person. Like he was… proud? A strange knot formed in her throat. She couldn't think around him, damnit.
Instead, to cover her consternation, she asked, "What exactly are we preparing for?"
Alaric's smile faded. His gaze dropped to the stones at their feet.
"If the Seelie King's gathering loyalists, then he's not planning peace. They'll come. Not all of them to talk."
Grey stiffened. "You mean… for me."
"You're not some thread dangling anymore," he said, quietly. "You're part of the pattern now. Threads like you don't go unnoticed."
Grey looked down at her hands, still curled loosely in her lap. The same hands that had once clutched chalk and ink and borrowed gloves too big for her fingers. They looked no different. But something had shifted. Something had begun to matter.
Without really thinking about what she was doing, she reached out. She lifted a strand of his hair between her fingers. It was softer than she'd expected. Like something meant for gentler creatures. Light caught on it like a thread of night spun with starlight.
Alaric went very, very still.
For a moment, it felt like the air between them held its breath. His gaze met hers, something dark and unreadable flickering in the amber. His usual smile didn't come. No quip. No deflection. Just… stillness.
When he finally spoke, it was low, a little strained. "Careful, pet. Touch a Fae like that, and we're bound to feel it in places we've spent centuries pretending didn't exist."
Grey didn't look away. Her voice was quiet. "You're not just any Fae."
He didn't reply. She didn't let go of the strand.
Alaric's throat moved as he swallowed thickly. Then, finally, his mask slipped—not entirely, but enough. Enough to show the edge of something real and trembling just beneath.
"Then you'd better mean it," he whispered, almost a breath. "Because once I feel it… I won't stop. Not this time."
Grey's heart was a thunderclap in her chest, loud enough she was sure he could hear it. Her throat worked around a thousand unsaid things—warnings, wants, wisdoms. What did it mean to mean something, when the very shape of her world kept shifting beneath her feet? She didn't know what she was stepping toward—only that something in her wanted to step anyway.
And wasn't that the most dangerous part of all?
And in the space between that sentence and the next heartbeat, Grey still didn't know if he was warning her off—
—or asking her to stay.