Violet woke up drenched in sweat.
The room pulsed with something heavy—like gravity got tipsy and was trying to seduce her.
She peeled off her cursed duvet (which was clinging suspiciously) and sat up, blinking through the haze.
The air shimmered.
The walls shimmered.
Even the potted plant in the corner looked vaguely aroused.
"Oh no," she whispered. "It's happening."
---
In the living room, Lucien was lying shirtless on the couch, glowing faintly like a furnace in a Calvin Klein ad for disaster.
His breathing was slow. Controlled.
But his jaw was tight. His eyes were closed.
And his arm twitched every few seconds like he was holding back a very large wolf—or a very dirty thought.
He heard her step in and didn't move.
"Don't come closer," he said, voice raw.
Violet froze. "You too?"
"Temperature's up three degrees. Moon's full. Bond's flaring."
"Coolcoolcool," she said, backing up slightly. "Do you want ice water? A magical cold compress? A tub of cursed sorbet?"
He opened his eyes.
Wrong move.
Because his gaze was molten.
And it landed on her like a sin.
She'd just thrown on a big shirt and shorts, but the way he looked at her? You'd think she'd walked in wearing nothing but a single thought and a bad idea.
She cleared her throat. "Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Looking like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you want to make a disaster sandwich with me."
Lucien's throat bobbed.
Outside, somewhere in the distance, a fire alarm went off.
They both looked up.
"Did you hear that?" she asked.
Lucien stood, slowly, muscles flexing like the universe was testing her on purpose.
"I think the magical weather net is responding to the heat phase," he said. "We need to cool down. Fast."
"Emotionally or physically?"
"Yes."
---
They ended up in the bathroom.
Fully clothed.
Standing in the bathtub.
While the shower blasted arctic water down on them both.
Lucien stood perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
Violet glared at the tile wall like it owed her money.
"I blame you."
"You kissed me first."
"It was a fake ritual!"
"You still used tongue."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
Pause.
The water pounded down.
Her shirt clung. His hair dripped.
Their bond shimmered like a wire pulled taut.
Violet said, "If you look at me right now, I swear I'll hex your abs off."
"I wasn't going to look."
"Good."
"...But now I want to."
"Lucien."
"Yes?"
"Don't."
The Moon—visible through the bathroom skylight—flickered once.
And whispered, smugly:
"Y'all are so close to spontaneous combustion."
The shower hadn't helped.
Oh, it had helped the weather. The temperature had dropped. The walls had stopped pulsing. The nearby fire alarm had shut up.
But Violet's brain?
Still molten.
Her skin buzzed like static magic, tingling with every inch of Lucien not touching her. Which was all of them. Unfortunately. Painfully.
Lucien, meanwhile, stood like a statue of self-restraint—dripping wet, steaming, jaw set like he was personally at war with his own libido.
The shower was off.
The silence was unbearable.
Violet reached for the towel rack.
Her hand brushed his.
They both froze.
Lucien slowly, so slowly, withdrew. "You take it."
She cleared her throat. "No, no. You first."
"It's fine."
"Lucien."
"I insist."
They both grabbed the same towel.
It slipped.
And fell.
Right onto the floor, where it exploded into a puff of magical steam and a faint, taunting giggle.
Violet stared down at it.
Then up at Lucien.
"You're cursed," she whispered. "You radiate towel-dooming energy."
Lucien exhaled. Hard. "We're going to need new ground rules."
"Rule one: no towel sharing."
"Rule two: no bending over when the moon is watching."
They looked up.
The moon, visible through the bathroom skylight, winked.
Again.
Lucien grabbed a backup towel from the rack and handed it to her without eye contact.
She took it, wrapped herself up, and marched out of the bathroom like the walls had insulted her.
---
Back in the bedroom, Violet sat on the edge of the bed, hair damp, skin humming, pulse somewhere near "impending magical misfire."
Lucien emerged moments later, also towel-wrapped, looking like the cover of "Tragic Werewolf Monthly."
They avoided eye contact like it owed them money.
The bond thread between their wrists pulsed once.
Then glowed.
Then sparked.
Violet stood up.
Lucien stepped back.
And then—BOOM.
A distant tremor.
They both whipped toward the window. Streetlamps flickered. A fire hydrant two blocks down exploded like it'd been edging for hours.
Violet snapped. "This is unsustainable."
"I'm not touching you!"
"That's the problem!"
Lucien stared at her. "...Excuse me?"
Violet flailed toward the window. "Our bond wants something. We're trying so hard not to touch, not to feel, not to admit anything, and it's making everything worse."
He stared at her.
Her cheeks flushed.
Then:
"Not that I want to touch you."
Lucien's voice was low. Dangerous. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely."
"You don't think about it?"
"Not once."
"Not even when I was baking shirtless?"
"Okay, maybe once."
The thread between them glowed bright pink.
Then—
CRACK.
The closet door blew off its hinges.
The floating scarf reappeared, slapping them both lightly on the back of the head.
Get it together, it seemed to say.
Violet sighed. "We need a new plan."
Lucien stepped closer.
The thread pulsed.
The temperature rose.
"I think," he said slowly, "we either try the Perfect Denial ritual…"
"Or?"
He met her eyes.
"Or we stop pretending this is just magic."
They cleared the living room.
Moved the couch. Banished the scarf. Lit the ritual candles. Disabled the mood lighting (it kept flickering pink every time Lucien sighed).
And now they were sitting cross-legged across from each other on the floor, surrounded by magical runes and dangerously repressed feelings.
"Remind me why this ritual sounds like emotional edging," Violet muttered, eyeing the glowing grimoire open between them.
Lucien, shirt clinging slightly to his chest from their earlier steam fiasco, read aloud from the book:
"'The Perfect Denial requires partners to channel desire into magical stasis. A ritual of restraint and reciprocal vulnerability. Eye contact, breathwork, and non-physical intimacy required. Duration: 10 minutes. Optional enhancement: spoken truth.'"
Violet snorted. "Truth and edging? Sounds like a therapy kink."
Lucien looked up at her, serious. "We only have to practice. Just get used to the rhythm."
"Ten minutes of arousal and honesty. How hard could it be?"
Lucien's eyebrow arched. "Is that a challenge?"
"Don't start with me, shirtless cinnamon roll."
"You're the one calling me baked goods again."
"Focus!"
---
They began.
First: eye contact.
That was the easy part.
Until it wasn't.
Until she saw the way he breathed when she bit her lip.
Until he saw how her eyes softened every time he looked like he might feel something.
Second: breathwork.
They inhaled together. Exhaled. Matched rhythm. Pulse syncing.
Lucien's voice came low.
"Tell me something true."
Violet hesitated.
Then:
"I sleep better when I know you're in the apartment."
Lucien blinked. Slowly.
She continued, softer now. "I've never shared space like this before. I usually push people away."
Lucien leaned forward an inch.
"That's not pushing," he whispered.
"That's because I'm trying not to ruin it."
The air grew thick.
The bond thread between their wrists pulsed like a heartbeat.
Lucien exhaled shakily. "My turn."
"Hit me."
"I think about kissing you every time you talk shit."
Violet's throat bobbed.
"You think about kissing me constantly."
"Exactly."
They both laughed. Soft. Wrecked.
The kind of laughter that was just shy of a confession.
Lucien leaned in closer.
They were inches apart now.
Breath to breath.
Not touching.
The air between them crackled.
Violet's voice came out as a whisper:
"If I kiss you right now…"
"You can't," Lucien said. "That's the rule."
"I want to."
"I know."
Her lips trembled.
He reached out—just barely—hovering his palm near her cheek.
Not touching.
But gods, it felt like touching.
Violet's voice cracked. "I'm scared it's not just magic."
Lucien's came out like a prayer:
"I hope it's not just magic."
The bond flared.
Candles blew out.
The lights exploded.
A crystal figurine on the shelf burst into glitter.
They both sat there in the dark.
Panting.
Not touching.
And utterly, irrevocably wrecked.
The next morning, Violet tried to cast a basic hex.
Just a simple get-out-of-this-HOA-surveillance spell.
But instead of cloaking the apartment in anti-detection mist, it turned her entire coffee table into a sentient, blushing cactus.
The cactus looked embarrassed.
"Godsdammit," she hissed, waving smoke out of her face.
Behind her, Lucien emerged from the bedroom in sweatpants, yawning. His hair was an absolute war crime of attractiveness.
"Why is the table... red?"
"It's experiencing secondhand lust," she muttered, pointing at the sigil circle that was now radiating pink.
Lucien blinked. "Is this because of last night?"
"Apparently," she said. "Our bond is now synced. Magic is echoing. I can't cast anything without it pulling on my—"
POOF.
A bookshelf burst into sparkles behind them.
Violet froze.
Lucien held up his hands. "That wasn't me."
"You thought something horny, didn't you?"
"I was remembering how you almost kissed me."
Violet glared.
The floating scarf spiraled past them carrying a tiny sign that said:
"Just Kiss Already."
She threw a pillow at it.
The pillow turned into a tiny heart-shaped cloud.
Lucien stared. "This is getting out of control."
"No. You're out of control."
"I haven't even touched you."
"That's the problem."
BOOM.
The toaster exploded.
Lucien jumped. "I didn't even touch the toaster!"
Violet pointed at him accusingly. "You were thinking about me eating toast naked again, weren't you?"
He turned red. "...It was just a visual. Not a spell."
"I hate that you say things like 'just a visual' while looking like a sexually repressed war god."
A knock at the door cut them both off.
They froze.
Violet opened it slowly.
On the doorstep: a familiar banshee HOA officer with a clipboard and a very tired expression.
"Oh no," Violet said. "Not again."
The banshee sighed. "We logged seven separate magical interference complaints from your unit. Your bond is leaking emotional magic into the building's ley lines."
Lucien stepped forward. "We're practicing restraint."
The banshee raised a brow. "Is that what you call mutual magical edging now?"
Violet groaned. "We're working on the ritual!"
"Well work faster," the banshee said, flipping her clipboard. "Because your emotional field is triggering mood-based plumbing shifts in the vampire unit downstairs. Their entire toilet system is running off your unresolved tension."
She looked at both of them.
Then down at their glowing wrists.
"Also," she added, "your thread's pink-to-gold shift means you're entering phase two of the bond."
Lucien blinked. "Which is...?"
"Shared emotional bleeding. You'll start feeling each other's feelings."
Pause.
Violet looked at Lucien.
Lucien looked at Violet.
Then, simultaneously:
"Oh hell no."