Rowan spent her last day in the human world doing the most mundane things she could think of.
She went to the laundromat.
She sat in a plastic chair and watched her clothes spin in industrial dryers, the heat baking the smell of detergent into the fabric. A kid nearby played a game on a tablet, the chiptune sounds tinny and annoying. An old man snored under a “NO SLEEPING” sign.
She folded her shirts with unnecessary precision.
Harper hovered, helping, pretending she wasn’t watching Rowan like she might vanish if she blinked.
“You know,” Harper said, holding up a pair of Rowan’s ridiculous novelty socks, “if you die over there, I’m burying you in these.”
Rowan snorted. “The ones with the sharks?”
“Yes,” Harper said. “Poetic.”
“Please don’t bury me,” Rowan said. “Gran wants me scattered on the back hill eventually. We have a family tradition of becoming fertilizer.”
“Oh, good,” Harper said. “I love continuity.”
They left the laundromat and got coffee from Honeycomb Café.
The fae barista wasn’t there.
Rowan tried not to feel relieved.
“Do you think they have coffee there?” Harper asked, blowing on her latte.
“He says they do,” Rowan said. “Their way.”
“Gross,” Harper said. “If their way is anything like their idea of consent, I don’t want it.”
“He swore,” Rowan said quietly.
“He did,” Harper agreed. “Which is why I haven’t tried to stab him with this spoon.”
They walked to the park.
Sat on a bench.
Watched a dog chase leaves.
“I feel like I should be doing something…big,” Rowan said. “Not…this.”
“You’re doing big,” Harper said. “Just…over there.” She waved vaguely toward the line of trees. “Right now, we get to pretend you’re just…going on a trip.”
“A semester abroad in hell,” Rowan muttered.
“Hey,” Harper said. “At least you’ll have a hot guide.”
Rowan glared. “I hate you,” she said.
“You love me,” Harper said.
“I do,” Rowan said softly.
Harper’s expression flickered. “Then come back,” she said. “Please. If not for you, for me. I can’t…lose you like this.”
The words lodged under Rowan’s sternum.
“I’ll try,” she said. It sounded weak. Helpless.
“Not good enough,” Harper said, eyes bright. “Lie to me. Tell me ‘I’ll absolutely come back triumphant with a magical crown and a hot wife.’ Let me have the delusion.”
“I don’t want to lie to you,” Rowan whispered.
Harper’s jaw clenched. “Then tell me you’ll *fight* to come back,” she said fiercely. “Tell me you’ll use every sharp word, every trick, every piece of stupid fae etiquette we learned from those books. Tell me you won’t just…lay down and let them write your ending.”
That, at least, she could say without choking.
“I swear,” she said. “I’ll fight. I’ll claw. I’ll…be Gran’s granddaughter.”
Harper nodded, tears leaking down her cheeks. “Good,” she said thickly. “Because if you become some tragic noble sacrifice, I will resurrect you just to yell at you.”
Rowan laughed, then cried, then laughed again.
They spent the afternoon at Ever After.
Mrs. Carrow insisted.
“You’re not sneaking off to fairyland without a proper sendoff,” she said firmly. “We may not have a portal cake, but we have cinnamon rolls.”
She’d baked them herself. They were slightly burned on the edges, too dense in the middle, perfect.
The customers got a slightly frazzled, overly affectionate bookseller that day.
A teen boy shyly asked for fantasy recs. Rowan handed him a stack, then impulsively added one of her favorite slow-burn romances.
“Trust me,” she said when he looked dubious. “You’ll like it.”
An older woman asked if they had anything “with dragons, but also kissing, but also less death.”
“Honestly, mood,” Rowan said. She found her a copy of a book with dragons, kissing, and a surprisingly high survival rate.
Every little normal interaction felt…charged. Precious.
“Are you sure I can’t come with you?” Mrs. Carrow asked for the third time, half-joking, half-not. “I’ve always wanted to yell at an immortal king.”
“You’d overthrow him in a week,” Rowan said. “You’re too dangerous.”
“Flatterer,” Mrs. Carrow said fondly. “Text me when you get there, all right?”
Rowan blinked. “I don’t…think international data plans cover fairyland,” she said.
Mrs. Carrow waved a hand. “Then text me in my dreams,” she said. “I’ll leave the window open.”
The words shook Rowan more than they should.
When closing time came, it felt…final.
She flipped the sign to CLOSED with a hand that shook.
Zia checked the wards twice. Harper “accidentally” knocked over a display and had to right it, muttering about entropy.
They walked home together.
At the apartment, Rowan stood in the doorway and looked around.
Secondhand couch. Crooked table. The plant Harper had given her that refused to die.
“Should I…pack?” Rowan asked. “Like…clothes? A toothbrush?”
Zia frowned. “We have no idea how time moves there,” she said. “What if you bring yogurt and come back and it’s 2060 and yogurt is illegal?”
“I’m not bringing yogurt,” Rowan said.
Harper perched on the arm of the couch. “Bring things that…feel like you,” she said. “Books. Pictures. Shark socks.”
Rowan nodded slowly.
She dug an old backpack from under the bed.
Slid in a battered copy of her favorite novel. A photo of her and Gran at the lake, years before the drowning incident. Harper and Zia at Pride, covered in glitter. Gran’s old lighter. A t-shirt that smelled like home.
“What about iron?” she asked. “As a…theoretical weapon.”
Zia shook her head. “You can’t hold it,” she said. “It’ll burn you worse there. Let the witches handle the iron.”
Harper rummaged in her bag and pulled out something wrapped in cloth.
“Here,” she said. “For luck.”
Rowan unwrapped it.
A small, carved wooden charm. Not quite any animal. Not quite any symbol. Lines etched into it glowed faintly when she turned it in her fingers.
“I asked my aunt,” Harper said. “She said it’s…for ‘finding your way back to where you’re loved.’”
Rowan swallowed hard. “Does it…work?” she asked.
Harper’s smile was wobbly. “We’re about to find out,” she said.
She hung it on a cord around Rowan’s neck.
It lay just above her sternum. Warm.
“Okay,” Zia said. “One last thing.”
She took Rowan’s hand.
With the other, she pulled a small knife from her bag. The blade wasn’t iron. It gleamed greenish, like old copper.
“May I?” she asked.
Rowan eyed the knife. “That’s not ominous at all,” she said.
“It’s a simple ward,” Zia said. “My aunt uses it when people go into surgery. A little blood, a little ink. It…it makes it harder for things that don’t love you to get a grip.”
Harper nodded. “It’s…like magical hand soap,” she said.
“That’s a terrible analogy,” Zia muttered. “But yes.”
Rowan took a breath. “Do it,” she said.
Zia nicked Rowan’s palm lightly. Just enough to bead red.
Rowan hissed.
Zia murmured under her breath, words Rowan didn’t understand but felt. Warmth pooled in her palm. The blood didn’t drip. It swirled. Then sank into the lines of her hand, leaving behind a faint, intricate sigil that faded as she watched.
“There,” Zia said. She bandaged the cut. “You’re…stickier now. In a good way.”
Harper blinked. “I will not think about that too hard,” she said.
Time stretched and snapped.
Eight p.m.
Nine.
Ten.
Rowan paced.
“Do you think he’ll be…early?” Harper asked.
“He’ll be on time,” Rowan said. “He has a flair for punctual chaos.”
At eleven-fifty, the air in the apartment changed.
Thickened.
Rowan’s skin prickled.
Harper grabbed her hand. Zia stepped closer, shoulder brushing Rowan’s.
A soft knock on the door.
Three taps.
He could have appeared in the middle of the room. Stepped out of the closet. Materialized from the shower steam.
He knocked.
The absurd courtesy steadied her.
“Showtime,” Harper whispered.
Rowan walked to the door.
Her heart beat so hard she felt it in her fingertips.
She opened it.
Caelan stood there.
No glamour now.
His full, unsettling, fae self.
His hair seemed darker indoors. His eyes glowed faintly, picking up the lamplight. His clothes were the same as at the store, but somehow…more. The air around him smelled like cold wind and faint spice.
He looked at her.
His gaze moved briefly over her backpack, the charm at her throat, the bandage on her hand.
Emotion flickered in his eyes.
“Rowan,” he said softly.
“Fox Boy,” she said, because if she didn’t make it a joke she’d start crying.
His mouth curved.
Behind her, Harper made a strangled noise. “Oh, he’s *very* pretty without the dimmer switch,” she whispered to Zia.
“I know,” Zia whispered back.
Caelan’s lips twitched. Fae hearing, apparently.
He stepped inside at Rowan’s nod.
The wards Zia and Harper had laced around the doorframe buzzed as he crossed. Sparks danced briefly along his coat.
“Impressive,” he said.
“Don’t flirt with our magic,” Zia said. “It knows it can do better.”
He smiled. “Noted.”
He looked around the apartment. Took in the couch, the chipped table, the cluttered bookshelf.
His expression went strangely soft.
“This is…you,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she said. “Messy.”
“Real,” he said.
Harper cleared her throat. “House rules,” she said briskly. “No glamouring the plants. No making bargains without us present. No eating anyone’s soul in the bathroom.”
“I can abide by two of those,” Caelan said dryly.
“Which two?” Harper demanded.
He ignored her.
He stepped closer to Rowan.
“You’re sure,” he said. Not quite a question. More like a final out.
“No,” she said. “Yes. I’m…going.”
He nodded once.
“Then,” he said, “we go.”
Harper surged forward and hugged Rowan so hard she wheezed.
“If you die,” Harper whispered fiercely, “I will summon you back with a ouija board and punch you.”
“I’ll haunt you,” Rowan whispered back.
“Promises,” Harper said, voice breaking.
Zia hugged her next. It was quieter. Heavier.
“Remember what we practiced,” Zia murmured. “Don’t say ‘thank you’ unless you mean it. Don’t eat anything you didn’t watch being prepared. Don’t agree to anything when you’re scared.”
“I’m scared all the time,” Rowan said.
“Then say ‘I’ll think about it’ instead,” Zia said.
Rowan nodded, tears spilling.
Caelan held out his hand.
Palm up.
Waiting.
She wiped her face.
Took it.
Warmth.
Firmness.
Right.
“Close your eyes,” he murmured.
She did.
The world tilted.
She felt movement—not of her body, but of the space around her. Like someone had grabbed the room and twisted it.
Her stomach flipped.
The air thickened, then thinned, like passing through layers of water.
She heard Harper swear.
Zia’s voice, low and rapid, chanting something.
Then—
The smell of their apartment—dust, coffee, cheap soap—dissolved.
Something else flooded in.
Smoke.
Apples.
Cold metal.
She opened her eyes.
And stared.
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