Chapter Two: He Keeps Flirting (Which Is No Excuse)
I settle back onto my rune-etched towel, the salt-stiff sand pressing lightly through the enchanted silk at the hem of my swimsuit. The sun dives lower, painting the water in molten copper, and the tide's hymn softens into a hush. Rowan Graves remains exactly five feet away—no closer, no farther—knees drawn up, arms resting on his thighs. He's already blinking sandy flecks from his hair, and I can sense the turbulence in his emotions: excitement warping into self-consciousness, hope buoyed by nerves.
He scrubs at the back of his neck and offers a crooked grin that falters under my stare. "Feyri," he begins, voice wavering, "your skin—it's… luminous. Like polished riverstone in moonlight." His eyes flick to the curve of my legs, lingering on the slender plane between thigh and knee, then dart up again as though he's been caught. I clear my throat. "Magic amplifies light. I ward my suit to reflect sunlight rather than absorb it. Practical—nothing mystical."
Undeterred, he shifts forward on his heels, careful to keep the five-foot vow. "Still," he murmurs, "you're ethereal." His gaze travels half a foot higher, registering the line of my waist and the slope of my belly. I snap a glance at the runic ward beneath me, pulsing faintly. "Focus on the sand," I say. "Practice drawing glyphs. We'll start with a basic ward-reinforcement seal."
His hand hovers over the damp sand, fingers trembling. I explain: "Find the center point. That's your anchor. Draw four equidistant lines radiating outward—no more than four inches long. Each line ends in a tiny hook that curls back toward the center. That shape locks a ward's energy in place." He nods, drawing the first radiating stroke. The line glows silver, then fizzles. He sighs.
"Each hook needs emotional calibration," I add. "Imbue each one with stability—steady intent, not fervent desire." I press my fingertip to his palm, transferring a pulse of calm. The line twitches, steadies. When he finishes the four hooks, the ward glows with a soft heartbeat. He exhales in relief. "Thank you," he whispers. "I keep… getting distracted."
I fold my arms, gazing at the rune. "Distraction comes with excitement. Next." I point at the small hooks. "Overlay these with cross-hatches—tiny Xs at every junction. Those glyphs neutralize interference." His brow furrows as he adds the Xs. Each time his fingertip nears the line of my waist, I feel the swell of his focus shift away from magic and back to me. He pauses, flush creeping across his cheeks.
"You're… teaching me," he says, voice raw. "I—appreciate that." His eyes trace the shield of energy forming in the sand. Then, unable to resist, he glances at the gentle swell of my chest. "And your swimsuit—those runes on the strap are—" He stops as if he's realized how forward he sounds. I quirk a brow.
"Wards for modesty and warmth," I say evenly. "Swimsuits aren't my usual attire." I twist a strand of my silver hair from behind my ear, revealing the pointed tip of my ear beneath. "Sorry. Anatomy lecture." I shoot him a dry look. "Next step: ground the ward. A single downward sweep from the center to the edge. That anchors it in the earth's ley lines."
He exhales and draws the final stroke, careful and methodical. The ward pulses brightly for a heartbeat, then dims to the gentle glow I expect. His relief is palpable. He sits back on his heels, brushing a hand through his hair again. "It's perfect," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Like you."
I stand, dusting sand from my suit. "I taught you how. It's your work." I reclaim the stylus from him. He watches the weaponized simplicity of the tool disappear into my satchel, shoulders slumping. I kick my feet in the sand once, let the grains shift. "Anything else you wanted to ask before the tide brings back the boardwalk crowds?"
He stands too, almost bumping into my five-foot boundary. "Yeah," he says, voice cracking with sincerity. "Can I… can I take a closer look at your technique? On something less… revealing?" His flush deepens when he adds, "I mean—less distracting."
I study him in silent appraisal: chestnut hair falling just above his brow, lashes that hover over hazel eyes, lips parting with that awkward honesty. He's earnest. He respects distance even as he flirts. "All right," I say. "Finish your ward, then we'll move to a memory-binding exercise. Sit down, Graves. Five feet."
He does, carefully seating himself on the dry sand. I crouch beside my ward, pick up the stylus, and carve a small spiral at its center. "Memory binding," I explain, "works on two levels: weave and anchor. The spiral weaves—think of it as threading the memory—and the ward lines anchor it so it doesn't slip." I pause to let him watch the spiral glow and fade. "Choose a memory you want to strengthen. Not too traumatic."
He closes his eyes, lips pressed tight as he searches his mind. I sense a beat of fear ripple off him. When he opens his eyes, they're glassy. "My grandmother's laugh," he whispers. "She used to… hummingbird laugh. I've almost forgotten how it felt." He draws a spiral in the sand, careful but trembling slightly. "Is that—good?"
I nod, resting a hand on the spiral's edge. "Yes. Now overlay it with two concentric circles—thin, even. Each circle is a layer of protection so the memory doesn't fracture." He traces the first circle, then the second, breathing steadily. His gaze flicks up—briefly—to my face, meeting mine with wonder. "You make it look easy," he says.
"Decades of practice," I reply flatly. I watch the circles pulse, then fade into a stable glow. "Seal it with a downward stroke that crosses both circles. Imagine sealing a jar." He adds the final stroke and collapses onto his forearms, eyes wide. "I can…" His voice breaks. "I can hear her laugh."
I rise and dust sand from my knees. "That's because you remembered the feeling and wove it forward. Memory isn't a photograph. It's a force." I tuck the stylus away again and fold my arms. "Lesson over?"
He stays prone for a moment, as though reluctant to leave that direct connection. Then he props himself up on one elbow and grins shyly. "Not quite." He straightens, glancing at my legs as I cross one in front of the other. His eyes linger. "You—you're a natural teacher."
I arch a brow. "I don't advertise that skill." I close my eyes, tasting the last of daylight in the salt air. "And lessons have limits." When I open my eyes, they sweep over the beach's length: the last of the sunbathers packing up, a gull gliding overhead, and Graves—remaining, hopeful. He remains exactly five feet away.
He clears his throat. "You—thank you. For the runes. For… for sharing your magic." His voice is raw sincerity, dripping with unfinished sentences. "I—would like to learn more. If you'd let me."
I study him. The sun dips behind the clouds, casting us in soft twilight. Magic hums beneath the sand, through the runes, beneath my skin. I sense his devotion like a gentle current tugging at the ward around my heart. He's sincere, clumsy, hopeful. And for once, I wonder if I might need a reminder of courage, too.
"In two days," I say finally. "Back here, same time. And Graves—five feet."
His grin is radiant, equal parts relief and anticipation. "Five feet," he echoes.
As he gathers his things, I turn away, letting the tide whisper against the shore. The runes fade beneath my towel, but the quiet glow of possibility lingers.
And for the first time in a long while, I don't mind.