#Mc POV#
#Time skip: Two weeks later#
The last couple of days were nothing but pain. In a hundred stupid little ways.
On the bright side? Harper and Zeke were closer than ever. Everyone could tell. You could see the tiny shifts every day—the shared laughs, the way Zeke scratched the back of his head with that awkward grin, the way Harper asked if her hair looked okay and pretended she didn't care about his answer.
I don't think either of them realized.
On the not-so-bright side… the nightmares kept coming. Worse every time. I'd wake empty—no images, no sounds—just that heavy, sour feeling like dread had pitched a tent behind my ribs. Alex slept beside me most nights, trying to calm me down, but it took longer each time, and it helped less.
Eventually I stopped sleeping on purpose.
I'd bite the inside of my arm just to stay awake. Little naps still slipped in, and the nightmares always found me.
So I made a decision: if I wasn't going to sleep, I was going to work.
After Alex went to bed, I studied. Every page, every margin note, every scrap of spell theory I could get my hands on. I devoured it.
Which is how I wound up here.
"Justin… how did you—?" Crump stared at me, eyes wide behind his spectacles, then at the mountain of books I'd dragged in to return.
My eyes felt sanded at the edges. My hands shook—more caffeine than water—but I tugged my sleeve down and shrugged. "Read them," I said. "All of them."
"All…?" he echoed.
"Every single one."
He reached for a random volume, thumbed to a dog-eared page, skimmed, then blinked. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. "And you understood them?"
"Enough to know potion density changes elemental-resistance modifiers. That wandless magic backfires about eighteen percent more when paired with emotional triggers—though those same triggers can boost raw output up to fifty percent. Helpful for accidental magic until it isn't. And—"
"All right, all right." Crump lifted a hand, surrendering. He glanced over my shoulder at Dad, who stood with his arms crossed, trying to look stern and failing.
Dad asked, careful, "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
Crump's mouth curved, almost a grin. He turned back to me. "Justin, you're ready."
My pulse kicked. "You mean…?"
"I'll teach you. Real spells. The ones you've been reading about." He motioned to the center of the room, where the stone floor shimmered with concentric enchantment circles. "You've earned it."
I stepped into the circle like I belonged there.
"You may choose three to start," he said. "We begin the old way—repetition, guidance, instinct."
"Go through, mow through," I said, almost reverent.
Crump's eyes warmed. "Ah. A favorite." The look he gave me said you're up to something—but also, I respect it.
He approached the wall and, with a lazy, almost bored sweep of his wand, pushed his hand forward. It slid through the stone like smoke.
My chest went light. Then it was my turn.
I breathed in. Felt the hum in my fingertips. "Go through, mow through," I whispered.
I reached for that current. Guided it. Imagined my hand slick with the idea of passing—intangible, fluid, unstoppable—as I stepped toward the same wall.
I extended my hand—
—and punched granite.
"OWWWWWWW!"
I dropped, cradling my wrist, wincing like I'd just high-fived a mountain.
Dad burst out laughing. Crump, patron saint of composure, stroked his beard and tried—failed—not to laugh. His shoulders betrayed him.
"Okay, ow," I groaned. "Maybe I didn't feel it hard enough."
"Didn't feel it?" Dad wheezed. "You nearly fist-bumped the foundation."
"Precision," Crump said, kneeling. "Subtlety. This isn't a battering ram." He tapped my wrist with his wand; cool seeped through the bruise. "Again. With less… enthusiasm."
I looked away and closed my eyes.
I pictured how he'd done it—the steadiness, the ease, the way the room itself seemed to lean toward his intent. A king's aura. A lord's. Someone who could impose his will on the world.
My thoughts slid, uninvited, to the train. The knife. Another life that wasn't mine—gunfire, heat, blood soaking through my shirt. I could feel it. Smell it.
That same dread curled cold and mean in my chest.
Not now.
I set my jaw and spoke, not just saying the words but pressing them outward.
"Go through, mow through."
And—there it was. A pushback. Not gentle. Not curious. A refusal.
I knew the limits. Even Crump had them. Who was I to expect more?
I went anyway. I swept my hand across the wall—careful, controlled.
Stone met skin—solid, unyielding—except at the edge, where my index finger slipped forward and, for a second, disappeared past the surface.
I froze.
Then pulled back. My finger came out whole.
Crump straightened, unreadable. Dad's arms were still crossed, but he tipped his head, just a fraction.
It wasn't much. But it wasn't nothing.
I could still feel it—the flicker when the world almost said yes.
"You forced it to acknowledge you," Crump said quietly. "Not obey. Acknowledge."
A grin I couldn't suppress tugged at my mouth.
Progress. Even if it came one finger at a time.
I curled my hand into a fist.
I will succeed. Nothing will stop me.
A shiver crawled down my spine. That edge in the thought—hungry, absolute—didn't feel like me.
"Justin." Crump's voice cut cleanly through the noise. He rested a steady hand on my shoulder. "Magic isn't about the perfect wand movement or the loudest voice. Those matter, but at the core it's this: you make the world acknowledge your intent—and then you persuade it to respond."
His mouth quirked. "Not exactly reality reshaping. Close enough."
He squeezed once. "You did well. Better than most. A little too well for a second attempt."
Something like respect sat in his eyes.
Dad's tone softened. "Talent we'll sharpen. And control." He nodded. "That's enough for now. For a start?" His mouth twitched. "Good job, son."
Those three words hit harder than any spell.
We spent a while on basics—what I did right, what I butchered, what to fix—before Crump asked which spells I wanted next.
"First: 'Some are evil, some are kind, but now, all must speak their mind.'"
He lifted a brow. "A dangerous choice."
"It's basically a truth spell."
"It's more than truth. And truth cuts deeper than most curses."
"Worth it," I said.
Crump rolled his eyes, amused despite himself. "And the second?"
"'Threemetris Movetris.' Short-range teleport. Emergency use."
Dad didn't speak, but approval flickered across his face.
Crump jotted both incantations into the small black notebook he never seemed to be without. "Are you sure about the last one? It's ambitious for where you are."
I nodded, firm.
He sighed, already resigned. "Then that's your focus next week. Words. Breath work. Theory. Then we test."
He snapped the notebook shut and glanced at the wall I'd nearly body-checked. "You've got raw potential, Justin. Potential gets you halfway. The rest—" he tapped his temple "—is what you choose to become."
The lesson ended on laughter that echoed against stone as Dad and I headed up the spiral stairs from the lair. Today was already big—my first real spellwork—but it was also Alex and Maxine's birthday.
I'd been debating presents for weeks.
I finally knew what to give them.
...
"Where have you guys been? You missed all the hard work," Zeke huffed, sweat beading along his hairline as he wrestled a streamer into submission. Harper and Mom tag-teamed the living room and kitchen like a glitter-bomb SWAT unit.
I hip-bumped the door shut, bags digging into my fingers. Dad crossed the room toward me, concern sharpening his voice. "Where are Alex and Maxine?"
I took in the scene—paper stars dangling from the kitchen archway, balloons drifting like lazy planets over the couch. The air was a wall of smells: roasted chicken, caramelized ribs, sautéed carrots and mushrooms, something buttery in the oven that made my stomach do a hopeful little flip.
"You won't believe who decided to show up at just the right time… Kelbo."
The back door eased open and Kelbo slipped in sideways, clutching a cardboard box to his chest and breathing like he'd sprinted the last block. No smoke, no theatrics—just a crooked chef's hat that read KISS THE COOK in sequins and a grin that said I did a thing.
"Party emergency volunteer reporting for duty," he announced, setting the box on the counter with exaggerated care.
Mom gave him the look. "House rules," she said lightly. "No shortcuts."
"Scouts' honor," Kelbo replied, raising three fingers. "I'm only dropping the emergency kit I forgot earlier and then I'm right back out. The girls are fine—arcade two blocks over. I preloaded them a card, bribed the attendant with a five to keep them buried in skee-ball, and told them their mother needed a few more minutes to check on a surprise."
Dad's shoulders loosened a notch. "You left them alone?"
"Supervised," Kelbo said. "Ms. Brenda runs a tight ship and a mean prize wall. I've got—" he checked his watch "—twelve minutes before the photo booth spits out their third strip and Maxine demands cotton candy."
Zeke, already tying his third balloon, eyed the box. "If you brought a miracle, I'll take two."
"No miracles," Kelbo said cheerfully. He popped the lid: extension cord, paper fans, a balloon pump, extra tape, and two boxes of candles. "Just competence in a box."
"Bless you," Harper said, snagging the pump. "Zeke, stop testing the helium; your voice is not supposed to do that."
Zeke exhaled a squeak and coughed himself back to human pitch. "I was calibrating."
"Uh-huh." Harper looped fairy lights around the banister. They behaved because she was patient, not because anything else helped.
I slid my bags onto the counter, easing a smaller one into the back corner. Mom pretended not to notice, which meant she noticed. "Candles?" she asked.
"Two boxes," I said, handing them over. "Sparklers are for pictures; normal ones so we don't set off the smoke alarm and traumatize the toddlers next door." I hesitated. "And… something else."
Mom's eyebrows lifted. Dad cut me a sideways look—half curiosity, half warning. "If one of those 'something elses' involves a trip to urgent care, maybe loop me in."
"It involves a roof," I admitted.
Kelbo clapped, then froze at Mom's stare and converted the clap into an awkward stretch. "Great… weather… for rooftops."
"Not on the roof," I said quickly. "At the edge. Blankets. Hot cocoa. Just—stargazing."
Mom's mouth softened. "If there are blankets and hot cocoa, I'll allow it. If anyone climbs a chimney, I revoke roof privileges until you're forty."
"Deal," I said, and the word felt stupidly like a promise.
Harper pointed with the tape roll. "Present table to the left, cake to the right, banner centered. Justin, you're on star scatter. Subtle. Not a galaxy."
"Got it." I palmed a handful of glittery cardstock stars and started tucking them across the mantle, the bookshelf, the window frame. I matched the ribbon colors—green and silver for Alex's scarf she wears too often, a bright splash for Maxine's sneakers. My hands worked; my head drifted.
The plan hummed at the back of my mind: the folded blanket waiting by the attic hatch, the thermos and two mugs, the playlist I'd poured too much thought into, the letter tucked in the small bag on the counter—three pages, no crossings-out, everything I hadn't said out loud. The little pendant I'd found for Alex, a tiny star that caught light like it was hoarding it. I wasn't sure when like had become love, but it had; quiet as a breath, loud as a bell.
"Justin." Dad's voice again, lower. I looked up. He nodded toward the cornered bag. "Roof plan aside… that the main gift?"
"Part of it," I said, and felt my face go warm.
"Good," he said simply.
Kelbo busied himself with the balloon bouquet—by hand—braiding the strings into a tidy cluster and anchoring them to a chair. "Okay," he said, checking his watch again. "I've got to boomerang. Text me if you run out of tape or hope."
Mom walked him to the back door. "Thank you. And keep them until six."
"Six o'clock sharp," he said. "By then they'll have conquered skee-ball, survived the photo booth, and learned the limits of cotton-candy physics."
He slipped out as quietly as he'd come.
The kitchen filled up with the small sounds of getting ready—scissors snipping ribbon, Zeke wrestling the banner into position, Harper humming under her breath. I tucked one last star on the window frame and caught my reflection in the glass: rumpled, tired, grinning like an idiot.
My phone buzzed. A text from Kelbo: all good. photo booth round 2. alex laughed so hard she snorted. do your thing, kid.
I thumbed the message away and rested a hand on the small bag. The pendant shifted inside, a faint clink against the letter.
For a second, the gnawing dread that had been living under my ribs eased back. The world tilted toward yes. And for the first time all day, the only thing I wanted to conjure was a moment she'd never forget.
…
We stepped back from the streamers, hands glitter-dusted. The table sagged under food galore I was dying to demolish. We crowded the couch, waiting for Kelbo to show with the birthday girls.
Zeke was grinning at Harper like he'd swallowed a sunbeam. I leaned to his ear. "So, Zeke, buddy—when are you gonna… you know, ask Harper out?"
He jolted. I hoped it was my bluntness—or the shock that he hadn't clocked it yet.
"Why… why would I do that?" he whispered, fingers worrying each other.
I gaped. "We all see it, man. Just think about it."
He risked a glance at Harper talking to Mom; the second she looked back, he looked away. He turned to me, lips parting—
A knock rattled the door.
"Coming!" Mom called as she pushed up from the couch. We jumped to our feet—snatched the confetti poppers, pulled the cake out of the fridge, and lined up behind her at the door.
She held up three fingers. One… two… three. The lock clicked, and she pulled the door open.
The door swung open to Kelbo's face—beaming, sequins brighter than the porch light. He held one finger to his lips with theatrical gravity, then stepped sideways like a game-show host revealing a prize.
Behind him, Alex and Maxine stood with their eyes covered—Alex's fingers peeking so hard it barely counted, Maxine bouncing on the balls of her feet like the floor was lava and she was winning.
"Now?" Kelbo mouthed, eyebrows doing cartwheels.
Mom gave the tiniest nod.
"Surprise!" we exploded. Poppers went off like popcorn. Confetti fanned the hallway. Two spirals landed in the frosting. I rotated the cake so the bald spot faced the wall. Again.
Alex squeaked, which she will later insist was a "battle cry," and Maxine made a noise only dogs and certain very expensive speakers can hear. Then there were hugs—messy, armful hugs that smelled like cold air and arcade tickets. Alex folded into me like we'd been holding our breath for two weeks and finally remembered how to breathe.
"Happy birthday," I said into her hair.
"You did all this?" she asked, eyes shiny.
"Team effort," I said, and tried not to stare at her mouth.
"Team Chaos," Kelbo corrected, sweeping in with jazz hands. "Led by yours truly, Lieutenant of Glitter, Duke of Oh No What Does This Button Do."
Dad cleared his throat. "House rules," he said. "No shortcuts."
Kelbo held up both palms. "No shortcuts," he echoed, then winked so hard he nearly sprained something. "Tiny, ethically-sourced, artisanal shortcuts."
He snapped his fingers. The hallway light dimmed to cozy. Jazz fizzed in from nowhere. The banner above the arch rearranged itself midair into: HAPYP BIRTHDAY.
Harper snorted. Zeke snorted, then tried to turn it into a cough and almost swallowed a confetti curl.
I walked over to Dad. "What are we gonna do about him using magic." I whispered to him urgently. He looked at me, sighed and whispered back. "He's a good magician, he prepared ahead of time… they're kids, it'll be fine… I hope."
In the corner of my eye I could see him, Kelbo squinted. "Hapyp. Hm. It's modern. European." He snapped again. The letters shuffled through three languages, emoji, and a brief, alarming attempt at hieroglyphics before settling into HAPPY BIRTHDAY with a smug little wiggle.
Dad stared. "Matches," he said, pointing at the cake.
Kelbo produced a box with a flourish, opened it to reveal… a single olive. He froze. "That's… not… okay." He shook the box. Three olives. "I can explain."
"You really can't," Dad said, deadpan.
"Plan B!" Kelbo announced. He touched his thumb and forefinger, rubbed, and a soft flame bloomed like a friendly lightning bug. He used it to light the candles one by one, face softening with each tiny glow. "See? Gentle. Responsible. Practically a PSA."
"Kelbo," Mom said in her warning-singsong.
He blew on his fingers; the flame stitched itself into the air and became a little floating spark, which started drifting toward the curtains like it had ambitions.
I snapped my hand up to cup it. It fizzled out against my palm with a citrusy pop.
Kelbo grinned at me, a little proud, a little sheepish. "Team effort," he echoed.
The girls took their spots by the coffee table. The room gathered itself around them, warm and candlelit. For a heartbeat, the dread under my ribs loosened its grip. The world tilted toward yes.
We sang. Badly. Enthusiastically. The flames wavered as we butchered the high notes.
"Make a wish!" Kelbo said, then stage-whispered, "Make two. Buy one, get one."
Alex and Maxine blew. Smoke curled up in satisfied little ribbons.
Kelbo tried to cut the first piece by levitating the knife with a flourish. The knife tilted, wobbled, and slowly spun like it was trying to decide its major.
Dad plucked it out of the air. "Non-magical skills," he said mildly, and sliced with surgical precision.
Kelbo clutched his heart. "Assassinated. By competency."
We passed plates. Harper slid one to Zeke; their fingers bumped. Zeke made a noise like a malfunctioning flute, then tried to cover it with, "So! Frosting."
"Classic," Harper said, dimples out. "Bold choice."
Kelbo twirled back into the center of the room with a new armful of party nonsense: paper crowns, star stickers, a handful of glitter that I prayed was biodegradable.
"Okay," he announced, "I have prepared three enhancements, all regulation safe, no smoke detectors involved, and Jerry-approved."
Dad crossed his arms. "I have approved nothing."
Kelbo's grin widened. "I pre-cleared them with Theresa." He glanced at Mom.
Mom lifted a brow. "I said 'if it doesn't stain.'"
"Which, legally speaking, is a yes," Kelbo said, and clapped.
Enhancement One: a cluster of floating bubbles drifted up, each one holding a tiny word that unfurled as it popped. The words were compliments. Not generic ones, either. They were scarily specific.
One burst over Maxine: SNEAKER QUEEN. She shriek-laughed and kicked up her neon high-top.
Another popped over Alex: BRAVER THAN YOUR BAD DAYS. Her cheeks went pink. She caught my eye across the candles, and I felt like someone had opened a window inside me.
A bubble drifted toward Dad and popped: MASTER OF THE SIDE-EYE. Zeke nearly dropped his plate.
Dad tried not to smile and failed.
"Harmless," Kelbo said, "and uplifting! Enhancement Two!"
He snapped. The paper crowns hopped out of his hands and landed on heads. Mine was crooked. Harper's tilted like a halo. Zeke's tightened a little too much and he squeaked again.
"Uh—Kelbo—" Zeke said, as the crown squealed a friendly "Wheee!" and then released.
Kelbo winced. "Focus is a journey. We're learning."
Dad sighed, but it was the fond sigh he only uses on two people: Mom and his brother. "Last one," he warned.
Kelbo pressed his hands together like he was about to pray to the god of good decisions. "Enhancement Three." He blew into his cupped palms. A soft breeze pushed through the room. Star stickers peeled themselves from their sheets and drifted like leaves, settling on shoulders, sleeves, the tip of Maxine's nose. When one brushed Harper's cheek, Zeke reached up without thinking and smoothed it into place. His hand hovered a second too long. Harper didn't move. The sticker glowed faintly, as if in approval.
"Okay, that one was cute," Mom admitted.
Kelbo preened. "Cute is my brand."
"Your brand is 'Don't do this in the house,'" Dad said, but he was smiling now, the edges of it sneaking up like they'd been waiting for permission.
"Kelbo is so cool, he is so good at magic… can I learn?" I heard Zeke ask throughout all the chatter. Boy oh boy. You have no idea.
This was the thing about my uncle. He was the living embodiment of everything Dad told me not to do—levitate the scissors, charm the broom to sweep itself, add sparkles to beverages ("it's edible glitter, Jerry!")—and somehow he made the world feel lighter just by being in it. Dad never said it out loud, but I began to understand why he'd let Kelbo keep the power: without it, Uncle Kelbo was a puppy in oven mitts. With it, he was… Kelbo. Necessary in a way you didn't measure with skill.
"Presents!" Maxine announced, clapping with frosting fingers.
"Presents," Alex echoed, softer, like the word was a fragile thing you had to hold with two hands.
We migrated to the coffee table. Harper and Mom ran logistics like a pit crew, Zeke read cards in an announcer voice ("To the incomparable Maxine, destroyer of skee-ball records—"), Dad kept the wrapping paper from eating the dog we still did not have.
Kelbo perched on the arm of the couch and very carefully did not use magic to speed anything up. His foot bounced. His fingers twitched. He looked like a kid trying not to open a cookie jar with telekinesis.
When Alex opened a small box from Mom—a set of paintbrushes wrapped in a scarf—Kelbo made a tiny, delighted noise and had to physically restrain his hands by sitting on them.
"Don't," Dad said without looking.
"I wasn't going to," Kelbo said. He absolutely was.
My gift bag waited on the counter like a pulse. Not yet. Rooftop later. Stars later. The letter later.
"Okay," Harper said, fishing out a flat, glitter-sprinkled envelope. "This one says 'For both. Open together.' No confetti promises, which is suspicious."
Kelbo wiggled. "Oh, that might be—"
"Save it," Dad said.
They opened it together. Two movie tickets slid out, along with a handwritten coupon: ONE FREE RIDE TO ANYWHERE YOU WANT (WITH ADULT SUPERVISION) (AND SNACKS). Maxine gasped. Alex smiled so hard her eyes went watery.
"Who—?" Alex started.
Kelbo raised a hand, then slowly lowered it when Dad coughed.
"From all of us," Mom said quickly, rescuing us both. "But mostly Kelbo's idea."
Alex leaned over the table and hugged him. Kelbo froze like a squirrel being hugged by a bear, then melted into it, patting her back like he'd been given a baby he wasn't qualified to hold.
"Happy birthday, kiddo," he said, voice rougher than usual. "You deserve… y'know. Nice things."
"Thanks, Kelb," she said, and his whole face did that sunshine thing.
The room softened into chatter and cake seconds. Zeke tried to be helpful and ended up taping his sleeve to the streamer. Harper untaped him, smiling the whole time. The music shifted to something slower without anyone touching a speaker. I glanced at Kelbo.
He lifted his hands. "Not me," he said.
He was lying. He was also right.
"Hey," he stage-whispered to Zeke as he passed. "Ask her to dance."
Zeke turned the color of a tomato and pretended he had to wash a fork. Harper pretended not to see and somehow saw everything.
Kelbo drifted back to Dad. "For the record," he said, sotto voce, "that was extremely restrained magic."
Dad eyed the floating bubbles, the still-glittering air, the banner that was now occasionally winking. "For the record," he said, "I noticed."
They bumped shoulders. It was as close to an arm-around as those two got in public.
"Okay," Mom clapped, "photos before we all look like we've been rolled in a craft store."
We squished together on the couch. Maxine made bunny ears over Zeke's head. Harper leaned in, warm against my side. Alex slipped a hand into mine where no one could see. Kelbo set the timer on the camera, then, because he cannot help himself, cast the gentlest of spells: a shimmer that caught the light just so and turned everyone's eyes into the best versions of themselves.
The first photo fired. In the second, Zeke blinked. In the third, everyone was laughing because Kelbo tripped over nothing, windmilled, and recovered with a bow like he meant to do it.
"Ten out of ten," he said, peeking at the screen. "Would family again."
"Careful," Dad said. "You're getting good at this."
Kelbo looked at him. Really looked. Then he smiled smaller, softer. "I'm good at the easy parts," he said. "Lucky for me, those are the best ones."
He flicked his fingers and the banner over our heads spelled, just for a second, WE LOVE YOU. No flourish that time. No wink. Just the truth.
Mom pretended to blink something out of her eye. Dad cleared his throat like he'd swallowed a pebble. Harper squeezed Zeke's hand, and he didn't let go.
Alex leaned her head on my shoulder, star pendant still secret in its bag across the room, the roof waiting, the letter waiting, the whole night opening like a door I couldn't wait to walk through.
Kelbo clapped once, very quietly, as if to seal it. "All right," he said. "Who's ready for rooftop cocoa?"
"Rooftop cocoa?" Kelbo chirped, already half-rising like he'd been waiting his whole life to say those two words in that exact order.
Dad pointed a warning finger. "Blankets. Mugs with lids. No heroics."
"Scout's honor," Kelbo said, raising three fingers. "Also, I was never a scout." He looked around, then clapped once. "Logistics! We only have two travel mugs left—tragic dishwashing shortage. Solution: advance team." He pivoted to me, then to Alex. "You two—quality control. Go make sure the stars are cooperating. We'll send the rest up after we, uh…" He looked at Mom for an excuse.
"After we wrap the last present and find Maxine's other shoe," Mom supplied.
Maxine checked under the couch and held up a mitten. "Close enough?"
"Close enough," Kelbo said, already herding Zeke and Harper toward the kitchen. "Zeke, come help me not accidentally boil the cocoa. Harper, supervise the supervision."
Dad gave me a look that translated to: Don't do anything stupid. Then he softened. "Blankets. Lids."
"Got it," I said, grabbing the thermos and the two mugs that matched in spirit if not in pattern.
Alex's fingers brushed mine as she took one. Warm. Steady. "Lead the way, Star Boy."
We slipped up the attic steps, ducked through the hatch, and climbed onto the flat bit of roof Dad had grudgingly pre-approved in the Treaty of No One Dies Tonight. The air bit our cheeks; city sounds floated up in soft layers—distant cars, someone laughing on the sidewalk, a dog telling the moon its feelings.
I kicked the folded blanket open. It puffed into a nest like it had been waiting too. We flopped down shoulder to shoulder. Breath turned to little ghosts in the air and then vanished.
"Ten out of ten ambiance," Alex said, bumping my knee with hers. "Less glitter than downstairs. I feel safe."
"There's emergency glitter in the thermos," I deadpanned, pouring cocoa. Steam curled up, and for a heartbeat I swore it glinted—just a little—like someone we know can't resist seasoning joy.
She cradled her mug, blew across the top, then pretended to gasp. "Oh no. It's… good."
"Tragically," I said. "Kelbo might be an agent of chaos, but he can whisk."
We giggled, the kind that slips out easier in the cold, when everything feels sharper and more honest.
For a while we just sat, watching a plane crawl across the sky like a slow spark. A star winked. Then another. The kind of quiet that isn't empty settled over us. It felt… right.
She spoke first, soft. "You looked lighter tonight. Around the edges."
I stared into my mug. The cocoa had made a ring like an eclipse. "I felt it. For a bit."
"The nightmares?" she asked. Not prying. Just leaving the door cracked.
"Yeah." The word ghosted into the cold. "They're… weird. It's not even images half the time. It's just—" I pressed a fist against my sternum. "Like something heavy is sitting here. Waiting. And if I fall asleep, it wins."
She shifted, shoulder grazing mine. "I hate that." A beat. "I hate that for you."
I laughed once, small. "I've been trying to outrun sleep. Which is not a good long-term strategy. Spoiler: it catches up."
"And then you dream on the couch upright like a haunted house plant," she said, and her mouth tilted, but her eyes were careful. "You know you don't have to do that alone, right?"
The automatic response—"I'm fine"—got as far as my tongue and hit a stop sign. I swallowed. "I know. I just… I don't want to make my bad your bad."
She nudged my shoulder with her forehead in a head-butt that somehow counted as tender. "That's not how bad works. Or good. We're… us." She exhaled. "You mean a lot to me, Justin. Like, a lot-a lot."
Something unknotted low in my chest. I put my mug down so I wouldn't spill it being a person.
"You mean… a lot-a lot to me too." Smooth, I know. Shakespeare shakes. But she smiled like I'd nailed a sonnet.
We sat with it, the truth of it, letting the cold and the cocoa and the sky do their thing. My heart was doing a different thing entirely; I'm pretty sure it had six legs and a tambourine.
"Okay," I said, pulse in my ears. "Before I combust, I have something for you."
Her eyes went big and bright. "Is it a llama?"
"Smaller," I said, and fished the little bag from my pocket. The pendant chimed against the letter—a tiny sound like a spoon tapping a star.
I handed her the bag.
She opened it slowly, like unwrapping a spell. The star pendant slid into her palm and caught the rooftop light like it was hoarding it. "Oh," she breathed. Just that. Oh.
"I know you don't need a thing to be a thing," I babbled. "You're already… you. But I saw it and it reminded me of you and also of how you keep finding light even when you don't want to and I—"
"Justin." She touched my wrist and my brain blue-screened. "It's perfect."
Words stopped tumbling. Relief washed through me like warmth after cold.
"There's… also this." I held up the envelope. Three pages. No cross-outs. All the things I hadn't said out loud because sometimes my mouth is a clown car and sometimes it's a locked safe.
Her throat worked. "Can I—?"
"Now or later," I said. "Whatever doesn't explode you."
She slid one boot under her, tucked the blanket tighter around both our legs, and eased the letter open. The paper sounded loud up here. She read, eyes moving, stopping, moving again. I watched the way her expression changed—a smile, a bite of lip, a tiny crease, a little watery blink she pretended was wind. She got to the last line and put her hand over her mouth like it might leap out.
"I said a lot," I apologized, because of course I did.
She set the pages on her lap, very careful, like they were a living thing. Then she turned and climbed a little into me, one hand finding my jaw.
"Justin?"
"Yeah?"
"Shut up," she whispered, and kissed me.
My brain did fireworks and then politely unplugged. The world narrowed to her mouth and the way she made a tiny surprised sound when I kissed her back and the way her fingers slid into my hair like she'd been meaning to for a while. We grinned into it a couple times because we're us, then kissed again because oh.
When we finally remembered oxygen, she kept her forehead against mine, breath warm and ridiculous. "Okay," she said, sounding like laughter. "Hi."
"Hi," I said back, eloquent as ever.
"Important question," she said, shifting enough to look me dead in the eye. "Will you go out with me?"
My heart did a parkour move I'm pretty sure isn't legal. "Yes," I said, immediate. "Yes, yes."
"Excellent," she said, and then her eyes went wide and unhinged in the best possible way as she launched into a bit so fast I nearly choked. "Because I was going to ask again. And again. And then I was going to show up outside your homeroom with a boom box playing your letter set to whale song. And I was going to change my last name in your phone to 'Alex, Your Future' so every time I texted you'd get a preview. And I was going to haunt your locker like a very loving ghost—bing!—until you gave in."
I started laughing, helpless. "A loving ghost?"
"A devoted specter," she said solemnly. "A clingy polter-bae. I would be the post-it note on your soul. I would tap the window at night, but only in a respectful, HOA-compliant way."
"You're very terrifying," I said, wiping at my eyes.
"It gets worse," she warned, leaning closer like a villain. "I would make matching playlists with titles like 'We Breathe In Sync (Probably).' I would draw our initials on a napkin and then frame it. I would become the gremlin who reminds you to hydrate and stretch and also wear a helmet while walking."
"A helmet while walking," I repeated.
"Your safety is my kink," she said, then clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes huge. "Oh my gosh I said that out loud."
I lost it. She did too. We folded into each other, shaking with giggles that turned into that quiet, breathless almost-laughter you only get when you're stupidly happy.
When it calmed, she sobered just enough to thread our fingers. "For real, though," she said, voice soft again. "I choose you. Not in a glittery joke way—okay in a glittery joke way also—but for real. Even when the nights are garbage. Especially then."
Something in me, something tight and tired and braced for impact, eased. "I choose you," I said. "Even when my brain tries to write horror fanfic at three a.m. Especially then."
She squeezed our hands. "Deal."
We sat there a while longer, letting being together be the whole event. The pendant lay in her palm, catching stars it had no business catching. She lifted it, and I helped fasten it around her neck with fingers that didn't want to cooperate. When the charm settled against her skin, it glowed—not magic, just reflections and the fact that everything felt like it was lit from the inside.
Below us, a window opened and Kelbo's head popped out like a whack-a-mole. "Not to interrupt, but to interrupt," he whisper-shouted. "The cocoa has unionized and we're all out of whipped cream. Also Zeke just tried to waltz into a bookshelf, so if you hear a thud it's romance."
"Two minutes," I called back, not taking my eyes off Alex.
Kelbo squinted at us, clocked the pendant, the letter in her lap, the way we were basically magnetic. His grin softened into something I didn't have a word for. "Good," he said, nodding like he'd planned the stars. "Okay, I'm leaving before Jerry senses joy and bans it."
He disappeared. A beat later: "Also, Maxine found her shoe. It was on the dog we still don't own."
We burst out laughing again. When it faded, Alex leaned in and kissed me, quick. "Boyfriend," she tested, tasting the word. "Mine."
"Girlfriend," I tested back. "Mine."
"Obsessively," she said, mock-menacing, then tucked under my arm like she'd been designed to fit there. "In the very cutest, least restraining-order way."
"Perfect," I said, because it was.
We watched another plane move slow across the dark and pretended, for now, it was dragging a banner that said exactly what I felt: The world, finally, says yes.
That's when I finally remembered, after such a long day, the sleep deprivation, it completely escaped me until now... She's my sister. We can't… what have I done.