Lucien stared at the glitter bomb detritus like it had personally insulted his lineage.
"Is this... normal?"
Violet didn't even blink. "Unfortunately."
Rhys Nox strode through the apartment door like he owned the entire floor, which was ironic, because he'd once tried to buy it just to evict her.
He wore a sheer black shirt open to the navel, pants made of probably-illegal leather, and a smirk so sharp it could slice through self-esteem.
"Darling," he purred, arms open. "You look hexually frustrated."
Lucien stepped forward instinctively, all towering werewolf menace.
Rhys looked him up and down like he was window-shopping.
"And you must be the walking growl Violet accidentally soulbonded with. Delicious."
Lucien didn't growl.
He glared.
Rhys turned back to Violet. "You never mentioned he was tall. Or tragic. Is that real brooding or is he just allergic to happiness?"
Violet leaned against the cursed kitchen island. "What do you want, Rhys?"
"Oh, come on. I just popped by to congratulate you! Moonbonds are so rare these days. Very retro. Very 'emotional torture meets divine entanglement.' Love that for you."
"Leave," Lucien said, voice low.
Rhys raised a brow. "Oh no. He's growling again. Does he do tricks?"
"Rhys," Violet said through clenched teeth, "I will banish you."
Rhys pouted. "You used to like it when I lingered."
"You used to have self-respect."
"Untrue, darling. I never had that."
He wandered over to the bookshelf, eyeing the spell tomes and enchanted objects like they were party favors.
Lucien shadowed him.
Rhys turned slightly. "Jealousy is so sexy on you, wolfman. Do you bake angry cupcakes when you're mad?"
Lucien didn't answer.
Mainly because his fist was clenched so tightly the magical air around it shimmered.
Violet pinched the bridge of her nose. "Why. Are. You. Here."
Rhys sighed, theatrically wounded.
"I wanted to see you before you self-destruct. And maybe—just maybe—remind you there's still a demon in this dimension who knows how to make you scream without collapsing tectonic plates."
Lucien's jaw flexed.
The temperature in the room dropped five degrees.
The floating scarf curled under the couch.
Violet stepped forward before someone accidentally summoned an infernal avalanche.
"Get. Out."
Rhys leaned in, whispering just loud enough for Lucien to hear:
"You know it's only a matter of time before one of you snaps. And when you do, little witch... it won't be a question of if you want him."
He grinned, fangs gleaming.
"It'll be how many cities survive it."
Then he winked, vanished in a puff of black glitter and cinnamon smoke, and left the door hanging open behind him.
---
Lucien stood very still.
Violet shut the door.
Silence.
Then:
"He's a jackass," Lucien said, voice calm.
"You think?"
"Also correct about one thing."
She turned, sharply. "What's that?"
Lucien's eyes were darker than before. His voice was low.
"It's only a matter of time."
Lucien wore his least-threatening leather jacket, the one without magical warding runes stitched into the sleeves.
It wasn't a real date, he told himself.
More like... exposure therapy.
With someone who wasn't Violet.
Someone normal.
Someone not hexed to his libido by moonlight and questionable decisions.
Across from him, the dryad—her name was Juniper, of course it was—smiled politely over her cinnamon latte.
"I don't usually go for werewolves," she said. "Too hairy. But you seem... emotionally constipated in a charming way."
Lucien blinked. "Thank you?"
"You're welcome."
---
Meanwhile, outside the coffee shop, Violet crouched behind a potted fern in full recon mode.
"I'm not stalking," she whispered to Fiasco, who had begrudgingly agreed to be her lookout. "I'm gathering data."
The three-legged cat blinked. "You're in a trench coat. And sunglasses. At night."
"It's called mystery."
"It's called unhinged."
"I'm not jealous," she hissed, adjusting her coat. "I'm just concerned about his emotional safety. And whether he remembered to wear magical protection."
Fiasco yawned. "You mean pants?"
"I mean libido shields. I don't need to be triggered into heat because some thirsty plant girl whispers dirty tree puns."
She peeked through the window again.
Lucien laughed at something.
Laughed.
With teeth.
"Oh, hell no."
---
Inside, the date was... fine.
Juniper was nice.
Normal.
She didn't hex people for fun or eat cereal like it was a threat.
She asked about his favorite books. He mentioned old war poetry.
She didn't flinch.
Progress.
And then—
The air shifted.
A tremor ran through the floorboards.
Lucien stiffened.
Juniper looked up. "Did you feel that?"
He stood slowly. "I need to go."
"But we were just—"
"I think someone's about to hex a barista."
---
BOOM.
The doors flew open.
Violet strode in like a storm cloud wrapped in eyeliner.
"Oh, hello, Juniper," she said, sugary sweet. "Sorry to interrupt your little arboreal fantasy."
Juniper blinked. "Do I... know you?"
Violet ignored her. "Lucien, we need to leave. Now."
Lucien stepped between them. "What happened?"
"I didn't hex anything!"
Pause.
"I hexed the espresso machine. But it started it!"
A nearby milk steamer exploded.
Juniper stood. "Okay, this seems like a lot."
"You're not wrong," Lucien muttered.
Then: the Moonbind thread between his wrist and Violet's flared.
Everyone saw it.
It pulsed pink.
Juniper's mouth dropped open.
"Oh," she said. "You're Moonbound."
Violet coughed. "It's not what it looks like."
"It looks like soulbond dysfunction with a side of hormonal disaster."
"That's exactly what it is," said the barista, now covered in caramel foam.
Lucien grabbed Violet's hand.
"We're leaving."
The thread flared brighter.
Juniper glared. "You could've just said you were cursed and horny."
Lucien sighed. "That's basically my autobiography."
---
Outside, Violet yanked her hand back. "Don't drag me."
"You nearly turned a coffee shop into a geothermal event."
"You were flirting with a ficus!"
Lucien stared at her. "Are you jealous?"
She scoffed. "Please. I've met succubi with more emotional availability than you."
"Then why are you shaking?"
She looked down.
Her fingertips were glowing.
The bond pulsed again.
A low rumble echoed under their feet.
Lucien stepped forward.
She stepped back.
And then—a low whistle from across the street.
A banshee HOA agent leaned against a lamppost with a clipboard.
She called out, deadpan:
"FYI, your bond's about to trigger a minor sinkhole. Maybe... kiss or kill already. We've got places to be."
"Let me get this straight," Violet said, voice flat.
"You want me to sit across from him, stare into his traumatized lumberjack eyes for sixty seconds, and not spontaneously burst into a shame geyser?"
Dr. Wailen, their banshee therapist, adjusted her horn-rimmed glasses. Her voice was a soothing scream wrapped in a TED Talk.
"That's correct. The Council requires you to complete a minimum of five Compatibility Exercises. Today is Exercise One: Nonverbal Emotional Resonance Through Gaze Holding."
Lucien blinked. "That sounds fake."
"It's from a Fae therapy model," Wailen replied. "It's extremely effective. And sometimes ends in emotionally-induced orgasms. But you won't technically be graded on that."
Violet raised a hand. "Can I be excused on account of overwhelming sass and sexual regret?"
"No."
They were seated on meditation cushions across from each other in a tiny magically warded office that smelled like lavender and existential dread.
Wailen clapped her hands. "Begin."
---
They locked eyes.
The first ten seconds were just... awkward.
Lucien cleared his throat. Violet squinted.
He looked away.
She looked harder.
"You're blinking too much," she muttered.
"You're staring like you're trying to astral-project through my soul."
"That is the assignment."
"Fine."
"Fine."
Silence.
More blinking.
More not blinking.
Then—
Something shifted.
Around second 17.
Violet's face changed.
Her sarcasm softened. Her mouth parted slightly.
Lucien's breath caught.
Her eyes weren't just brown. They had streaks of copper, like lightning frozen in molasses.
They burned.
And saw everything.
---
Around second 24, Violet's stomach dropped.
Lucien wasn't brooding.
He was hiding.
There was something so... unfair about how gently he looked at her.
Not like she was chaotic. Or dangerous. Or a walking disaster wrapped in lipstick and hexes.
But like she wasn't too much.
Like she was exactly the right amount of sharp.
It made her want to scream.
---
Around second 38, the bond flared.
Their wrists glowed. The air turned thick.
The couch, back at home, sneezed somewhere through the bond connection.
Neither noticed.
---
Second 51.
Lucien leaned forward a hair.
She didn't move.
He whispered, "Do you always hold eye contact like it's a knife fight?"
Violet smiled.
"Only with people I might fall for."
The lights flickered.
Dr. Wailen scribbled furiously.
---
Second 60.
The timer chimed.
Violet looked away first.
Lucien exhaled like he'd been holding it for a year.
Wailen cleared her throat with the softness of an avalanche.
"Good," she said. "Very good. Your bond strength just increased by 7%. Which is… deeply concerning."
Violet stood up too fast. "Great. Done. Never doing that again."
Lucien was still watching her.
Quiet.
And dangerous.
And a little undone.
Wailen added, helpfully:
"For homework, please share a bed tonight. Skin-to-skin contact stabilizes magic. Pajamas optional."
Violet threw her cushion.
---