The espresso bar hissed like a dragon that hated teenagers.

Steam rolled across the cafeteria line, catching the smell of fryer oil and burned sugar. Around me, Ravenrest Heights’s finest queued up in their pressed uniforms, each pretending that being rich made waiting faster.

I scrolled through the day’s menu on my phone — overpriced salads, “artisan” paninis, something labeled mindful bowls that looked like compost. Not a single thing Mira would actually eat.

If I didn’t bring her food, she’d run on caffeine, anxiety, and raw stubbornness until her body quit on her halfway through the next crisis. The woman could out-stare a noble council but forget lunch like it was optional oxygen.

The girls in front of me whispered too loud to be subtle.

“Did you see Bree’s hair?”

“Looks enchanted.”

“She’s doing a leadership panel, right? At lunch?”

My jaw flexed. Leadership panel, my ass. Bree was up to something, and if she pulled another hallway stunt, Mira didn’t need to see it. Not today.

The line inched forward. I ordered by muscle memory — truffle fries, iced mocha, mozzarella sticks. Mira’s unholy trinity of edible joy. Added a second mocha for myself because love required caffeine and self-preservation.

A freshman cut too close and bumped my tray. Sauce splattered onto my sleeve.

I inhaled. Counted. Exhaled.

“Congratulations,” I said sweetly, dabbing the spill with a napkin. “You’ve seasoned chaos.”

The kid blinked, mumbling an apology before bolting. I didn’t blame them. Patience wasn’t my strong suit when I was already balancing three plates, a coffee, and the weight of making sure my wife didn’t self-destruct out of perfectionism.

Across the room, the windows threw sunlight like spotlights, and there she was.

Mira Firebrand—half the reason the world spun too fast and the only reason it was worth it. She was sitting by herself at the corner table, notes and applications spread in neat chaos. Her hair caught the light like wildfire pretending to behave. Her sleeve moved just slightly, three-tap rhythm against the seam—one-two-three. Grounding. Surviving.

Saints, she was a walking goddess and had no idea.

I started moving before I realized it, cutting through the noise like gravity had shifted in her direction. Every time I saw her like that—focused, fragile, beautiful enough to break me—I remembered why I’d burned bridges to stay by her side.

She was flame. I was the idiot moth who thought fire could be managed.

I balanced the tray on one hand and dodged a pack of juniors carrying frappes like status symbols. Mira didn’t look up—too absorbed in her task—but her magic, even dulled behind the human mask, tugged at me like a current.

If I could just take some of it off her plate—food, pressure, the world—it would be worth every rumor whispered in my wake.

I set the tray down softly, careful not to startle her. The scent of truffle and chocolate cut through the air instantly, drowning out the cafeteria’s grease haze.

“Lunch,” I said, pushing the mocha toward her hand. “And no, you don’t get to say you’re not hungry.”

She looked up, eyes greener in this form, softer too. Saints, those eyes could gut me.

“Fine,” she sighed, voice small and tired. “But this counts as multitasking.”

“You’re multitasking survival,” I said, sitting across from her. “Drink before your brain melts.”

Her lips curved faintly. “Mother will be thrilled.”

“Good,” I said, leaning back. “Someone should be.”

She sipped, and some of the tension eased from her shoulders. It wasn’t much, but I’d take it.

Kael appeared a few tables away, setting up like a sniper disguised as an honor student. Typical. Always watching for threats I might miss. Which meant at least for a few minutes, Mira could focus on something other than survival.

I speared a fry, chewed, and watched my wife scan résumés like she was briefing a war council.

Saints help me, she probably was.

The noise in Ravenrest’s cafeteria had a rhythm — chaotic but predictable, like static that never learned when to stop. Mira hated that kind of noise. I could already see it in the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers found the seam of her sleeve the second someone laughed too loudly behind us.

She tried to look put-together, chin lifted like the perfect duchess playing at normalcy. Saints, she was so careful, so determined. I didn’t think she realized how impossible it was not to stare sometimes. Her hair, her focus, the soft stubborn line of her mouth when she was pretending she wasn’t stressed—

Yeah, I was feral for her. Hopelessly.

“Budget cuts,” she muttered, deadpan, staring down at her tablet as if it were a lifeline.

I grinned. “You make budget cuts look good.”

She rolled her eyes but bit the corner of a fry. Small victories.

Kael’s voice drifted from her surveillance spot two tables away. “You’re drawing an audience already.”

I didn’t have to look to know she was right. Every second student was sneaking glances, phones half-raised. The word princess moved through the air like a virus. I tilted my chair just enough that my shoulder brushed Mira’s—my version of armor plating her from the world.

“Let them watch,” I said easily. “Maybe they’ll learn what leadership looks like.”

“Leadership looks like panic with better posture,” she murmured.

“Then you’re nailing it.”

The corners of her mouth twitched. There she was.

Kael’s warning came a moment later: “Incoming.”

I turned before Mira did, already clocking the man striding across the room like he owned the concept of cuisine. Chef whites pristine, hair slicked within an inch of its life, cologne strong enough to pickle a lung. Mira stiffened beside me the instant he stopped short of the table and bowed.

“An honor to serve Your Radi—”

I cut him off with the smoothest voice I could manage. “Titles are off the menu, Chef.”

The mortals nearby froze mid-bite. Someone whispered, Did he just say Your Radiance?

The man blinked rapidly, clearly thrown. “Ah—yes, of course.”

I kept my tone light but my smile tight. Either he was clueless or testing boundaries. Neither was going to end well for him.

Mira recovered beautifully—shoulders straight, hands folded over her tablet, voice calm but precise. “Please, sit. Thank you for coming on short notice.”

He lowered himself into the seat like the act was beneath him, every motion performed for invisible cameras. I wanted to roll my eyes so hard they’d cross dimensions.

He barely waited before launching into his résumé. “I began under Master Helrain in the Capital’s premier restaurant, The Gilded Truffle. You might have heard of it?”

“Can’t say we’ve had the pleasure,” I said, the words tasting like frost.

He missed the tone, of course. Men like that always did.

Movement at the edge of my vision — two freshmen hovering, holding up their phones. I exhaled slowly and turned their way, smiling sweet as arsenic. “The interview’s exclusive, darlings. Try again when you’re seniors.”

They bolted. Smart kids.

“Quite popular, I see,” Kole said, laughing as if any of this were funny.

“Occupational hazard,” Mira managed through gritted teeth.

He didn’t notice the strain in her voice, didn’t see the small tremor under the table where her fingers tapped—one, two, three. I did. Saints, she was hanging on by thread and sheer pride.

“My philosophy,” Kole continued, raising his voice like he was playing to an opera balcony, “is that kitchens thrive under firm control. Every dish executed precisely as envisioned. Subordinates must never improvise—”

A paper ball smacked him squarely in the shoulder.

“Oops!” someone called. Laughter followed.

I was halfway out of my chair before Mira’s hand brushed my sleeve, a silent don’t. Her jaw was tight enough to crack. The lights overhead buzzed too loud. I could feel her breath stutter next to me.

Kole, oblivious, adjusted his cufflinks. “As I was saying,” he continued, louder, “excellence is discipline. Passion is optional.”

Optional.

If he knew what that word meant to her—to someone who lived half on fire—he’d have swallowed it whole.

“Thank you, Chef,” I said smoothly before Mira could scorch him with politeness. “We’ll let you know.”

He stood, bowed again. “A delight, Miss Firebrand.”

The second he turned, I muttered, “He’d season soup with self-importance.”

Mira exhaled, just barely, tension spilling out of her shoulders like smoke. “Agreed.”

I slid one of the fries into her line of sight. “Eat, Firefly.”

Her eyes flicked up to mine. For half a heartbeat, the cafeteria noise dimmed—the clatter, the whispers, the awful hiss of the espresso machine. She reached for the fry and bit it like it was strategy instead of food.

The second candidate walked in and the whole room changed temperature.

Even the lights seemed to tilt toward him—sun catching on bronze-gold skin, shirt sleeves rolled high enough to show sun-marks like runes the sky had carved. The faint hum in the air wasn’t mortal attention; it was Veil-energy, subtle and warm.

My first thought: Saints, he’s unfair.

My second: Mira’s going to forget to breathe.

He crossed the cafeteria like he’d rehearsed it, confidence in motion, and when he stopped at our table, sunlight actually pooled. I could feel half the student body staring.

“So this is the royal interview circuit?” he asked, voice a lazy coastal drawl, vowels stretched by salt air and sarcasm.

“Budget cuts,” Mira said without missing a beat.

His laugh rolled out—low, rough, pleasant. Mira’s posture softened by degrees.

Finally, someone whose ego cooked at a reasonable temperature.

“I’ve cooked in worse places,” he said. “Once made a feast for a pirate crew on a rocking deck.”

“Did they pay you?” Mira asked, wary curiosity sneaking through her professionalism.

“A barrel of rum and one eye patch. Still better than exposure.”

I bit back a laugh and tossed him a fry. “You’re hired for comedy alone.”

He caught the rhythm easily. “Careful. I charge extra for wit.”

Okay, fine—he was charming. Even I could admit that. But my brain was still half-scanning Mira: pulse at her throat, the tiny tremor in her sleeve seam. She was holding steady for now, and that was what mattered.

Mira took another sip of coffee, hiding a smile that tugged something deep in my chest. I wanted to kiss that smile. Maybe kill for it, depending on the day.

She asked, “Your philosophy in the kitchen?”

He leaned back, elbows loose, golden eyes steady on her. “Simple. Feed people. Feed them well. Feed them even when they don’t think they deserve it.”

The words hit her like gravity; I saw it happen—the small stillness, her breath catching, stim slowing to a calm rhythm.

Even then, he said. Especially then.

I hadn’t expected philosophy to sound like therapy, but apparently this man could sauté souls.

The three of us sat in a rare bubble of quiet. Mira’s shoulders finally dropped, mine followed. Kael was pretending to read across the room, but even she looked up once—probably judging all of us.

Up close, his tattoos caught the light—fine lines shaped like sunrays. Gorgeous in the way danger sometimes was. I wasn’t blind; I could appreciate beauty without wanting to die for it. Mostly.

“So,” he said, looking around at gawking teenagers, “do you always conduct royal business in food courts?”

Mira deadpanned, “Efficient multitasking. Democracy of fries.”

He grinned like sin and sunrise. “I like you. You’ve got the posture of someone who pretends she’s fine while juggling knives.”

She blinked. “You’re not wrong.”

“Balance keeps the knives spinning,” he said.

I raised my straw like a toast. “And what keeps you spinning?”

“Deadlines. Caffeine. Maybe a touch of divine spite.”

Mira laughed—an unguarded, real laugh that cracked me open every time. My whole body relaxed on instinct. When she laughed like that, I believed we’d survive anything.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “So which one of you is the scary one?”

“Excuse me?” Mira said.

“Every ruling pair’s got one who terrifies the kitchen staff and one who apologizes for them later. Should I bow or duck?”

“Why not both?” I said.

He grinned at me, then at her, like he’d found his rhythm in our chaos. Saints help me, I kind of liked him. Not enough to stop guarding her—but enough to think maybe our kitchen wouldn’t burst into flames.

And then the sound hit.

Bree’s laughter—too loud, too bright, bleeding through phone mics somewhere behind the crowd. It sliced through the air, through the warmth, through Mira.

That sound again. Too polished to be natural, too sharp to be harmless. Like charm magic dipped in venom.

I glanced at Mira. Her body had gone rigid; her sleeve-tapping turned frantic, three-beat rhythm collapsing into static. The lights above us flickered. Her eyes were unfocused, pupils too wide.

The chef was still talking, voice gentling, but she couldn’t hear him now.

My decision was instant. I set my drink down, calm mask sliding into place.

I stood slowly, leaving my drink half-finished. “Stay here,” I told Mira, already watching the panic start behind her eyes. My wife was brilliant, powerful, and half a heartbeat from sensory overload. I brushed my fingers against her wrist. Breathe for me, the touch said.

Her pulse jumped.

I started walking toward the noise, every step measured.

Halfway across the room I glanced back. The chef—Saints, sunlight himself—was leaning forward, voice low, calm, absolutely steady. Mira’s gaze locked on him. Her breathing slowed. I felt a flicker of gratitude so sharp it almost hurt. Whoever he was, he understood grounding better than most healers I’d met.

Thank you, I thought, then turned back to the battlefield.

Bree stood in the center of a knot of students like she’d been crowned their new god. Cameras were out. Streams live. She glittered—literally glittered—under the lights, skin gleaming with the faint, wrong shimmer of Veil-magic.

A sophomore boy near the edge of her crowd shoved another. The smaller one stumbled hard, tray clattering. Laughter erupted. Mean laughter.

“Enough,” I said.

My voice wasn’t loud, but it carried. The same tone that could silence a training field. The crowd’s noise faltered, uncertain.

Bree turned toward me, syrup-sweet smile already in place. “Just school spirit, Princess. You know how it is.”

“Spirit doesn’t shove people,” I said flatly.

She blinked, slow and deliberate, and for a split second her eyes flared wrong—too bright, mirror-sharp, Veil light reflecting where it didn’t belong. The hair on my arms rose.

Magic. Not aura, not perfume—real magic.

Whatever she was channeling, it wasn’t natural.

I took a step closer, keeping my expression smooth for the cameras. “Whatever trick you’re playing, drop it.”

Her grin widened, too many teeth for something human. “You can’t control everything, Cassandra.”

The crowd’s laughter hit again, perfect and synchronized, like someone pressed play on a sound file. My stomach twisted. This wasn’t charisma—it was manipulation.

And there were phones everywhere. If I started a real confrontation, we’d be viral by dinner.

So I smiled—thin, dangerous, the kind that made full-blood fae step back. “Enjoy your lunch, Bree.”

Her gaze tracked me as I turned away. The crowd parted just enough to let me pass, still laughing on cue behind me.

By the time I reached the corner table again, my pulse was a steady thrum of fury.

Mira was sitting straighter now, color back in her cheeks. The chef had one hand resting lightly on the table, talking her through something—gentle voice, grounding rhythm. I caught the tail end: “Chaos is loud, but it can’t cook. You can.”

And she laughed. A small, cracked sound, but real.

Relief hit me like air after drowning.

Whoever you are, sunshine boy, I thought, you just bought yourself a permanent place in our kitchen.

Now if only I could figure out what, exactly, Bree Halden was becoming—and how fast I’d have to burn it out before it reached Mira.

By the time I made it back to the table, the sunlight man was gone.

The shimmer by the service doors had already closed, leaving behind the faint scent of citrus and salt and a warmth that didn’t belong in this over-air-conditioned cafeteria. Mira sat exactly where I’d left her—papers stacked like armor, coffee half-gone, color back in her face. She looked… steady again. Fragile in the way glass is fragile: gorgeous, transparent, and strong enough to cut.

I exhaled and dropped into the seat beside her. “Please tell me we hired the hot one.”

She didn’t even look up. “We hired the brilliant one.”

“Same difference,” I muttered, because honestly, it was.

The cafeteria around us finally breathed again. The noise had thinned, the air less electric, as if the space itself was still trying to adjust to Gorgan’s absence. The man had walked through chaos and somehow made it behave. I envied that.

Mira’s fingers twitched as she gathered her notes. Her hands always shook a little after sensory crashes; most people never noticed. I did. I noticed everything about her.

“Handled?” she asked quietly, eyes on the papers but voice soft enough that I knew she was asking about more than Bree.

“Handled,” I lied, smooth as sugar. I could feel the crack in it but kept my tone light. She didn’t need to know what I’d seen in Bree’s eyes or how wrong the laughter had sounded. Not when she was finally breathing again.

Her shoulders eased. “Good.”

I watched her pick at a fry, the motion grounding her back into her body. Gods, she was beautiful when she came back to herself—fire dimmed to embers, focus settling like gravity.

Kael appeared a heartbeat later, tray in hand, composed as ever. “You hired a swearing fae chef in a public cafeteria,” she announced, like a headline.

Mira rubbed her temple. “He was the only one qualified.”

Kael nodded, solemn. “Fair.” She stole one of my fries—no shame at all. “I’ll notify security that future interviews require fire insurance.”

“Add patience to the list,” I said dryly.

“You’ll need both.” She chewed, utterly unbothered. Then, with that eerie calm of hers: “Also… was it just me, or did our new chef look like the sun decided to manifest in a man’s body?”

Mira blinked. “What?”

I nearly choked on my drink. “Oh, she noticed.”

Kael grinned. “Please. Everyone noticed. Half the cafeteria melted. Including you, Duchess.”

“I did not melt.”

“You definitely melted,” I said, leaning my chin on my hand.

“I was overwhelmed.” Too defensive to be believable.

Kael’s tone turned clinical. “Overwhelmed by biceps, maybe.”

“Kael,” Mira groaned.

Kael stood, smug as a cat. “If you hadn’t married her first, Cass, I’d have worried he’d leave with both your numbers.”

I smiled, slow and wicked. “You assume he didn’t.”

Kael snorted and walked off, victorious.

When she was gone, I nudged Mira’s mocha toward her. “Drink, Duchess. You look like you’re thinking too hard.”

She obeyed, taking a long sip. The corner of her mouth softened, and for the first time all lunch, I saw a ghost of the girl I’d fallen in love with—messy, brilliant, trying so hard to hold everything together.

She set the cup down, color blooming in her cheeks again. I knew that look. She was replaying the sunlight man in her head. I didn’t even have to ask.

Her eyes flicked toward the shimmer that wasn’t there anymore, then away too fast. Saints, I couldn’t blame her. The man radiated charm like heat, and she was human enough now to feel it.

Still, it made something wild in me curl its tail.

“Stop it,” she muttered suddenly.

I blinked. “Stop what?”

“Nothing.” Too quick, too guilty.

Oh, I knew exactly what. But I let her have her dignity. “He’ll be good for the kitchens,” I said instead, pretending to study the empty fry basket. “He’s got the kind of backbone nobles need to meet.”

“Backbone,” she repeated, dry as desert air. “Right. That’s what you noticed.”

Her attempt at indignation was adorable. I smirked. “Oh, I noticed more than that.”

“Cassie.” Her groan was half scandal, half laugh.

That laugh loosened the last of the tension coiled in my chest. I’d fight every god in the Veil to keep that sound in the world.

Mira pulled out her phone and started typing, the glow reflecting in her starlit eyes. I glanced just long enough to catch the message to the seneschal—formal, efficient, perfectly Mira. She ended it with: Also—tell him to bring his knives.

I couldn’t help but grin. “That’s my girl.”

She flipped the phone face-down and leaned back, exhaustion settling in the space between us. I leaned my head against hers, our hair tangling the way it always did when we forgot who was supposed to move first.

“You did it,” I murmured. “First day of duchess duty and senior year. No fires, no broken crowns.”

“Yet,” she said automatically.

Across the cafeteria, Bree’s laugh sliced through the low chatter again—too sharp, too rehearsed. The lights above her flickered once, twice, like something feeding on attention.

Mira tensed. “Something’s changing.”

I found her hand beneath the table, fingers sliding into place like they always did, my thumb tracing one slow circle across her skin. “Then we’ll change faster.”

Her pulse steadied under my touch, the noise around us fading into background static. She drained the rest of her mocha, the caffeine humming through her like light finding focus.

I watched her, quietly awed.

She didn’t see it—the way the world bent around her when she breathed again.

Her Mother would probably be horrified.

But me?

I was proud enough to burn the whole cafeteria down for her if I had to.