Winging it, p.10
Winging It, page 10
I leaned closer, lowering my voice into something mock-dramatic. “You were distracted because I was radiant and you weren’t emotionally prepared.”
He shot me a side-eye so dry it could’ve started a drought. But the edge of his mouth twitched—just a little. Not a smile, not really. But close enough to feel like a win.
“It’s hard to concentrate with all that sunshine bouncing around,” he said, deadpan.
“Exactly,” I said, victorious. “Let me be the emotional vitamin D in your very broody sky.”
He shook his head slowly, like he couldn’t decide whether to be exasperated or entertained.
Honestly? That felt like a bigger compliment than anything he could’ve said outright.
The dorms appeared through the trees, tall and quiet beneath the starlight. I felt the shift before he even slowed the car. The laughter ebbed, the warmth dipped, and reality came rushing back in like cold air through an open window.
But for a few blocks… we weren’t cadet and agent. Just two people in the dark, learning how not to flinch in each other’s light.
Eren pulled up outside the third-year dorms, the engine falling into a hush like even the car knew it was time to be quiet.
I unbuckled my seatbelt, the click of it louder than it needed to be in the stillness between us. My heart was still fluttering, riding the tailwind of our banter and everything it left behind. It was weird, honestly—how much I didn’t hate being around him. How much I almost… liked it.
I glanced at him. Our eyes met—brief but direct.
“Thanks for not… y’know. Reassigning me today.”
His face didn’t shift much, but his gaze held steady. A pause. Then, “You’re not done proving yourself yet.”
Not exactly soft. Not exactly harsh. Just… Eren.
But something about it settled deep in my chest like a small, flickering ember.
A smile tugged at my lips—unforced, a little shy. “Guess we’ll both find out what that means.”
I opened the door and stepped out, letting the cool night air bite at my skin. The breeze carried the faint scent of leaves and concrete, and for a second, it felt like the world exhaled with me. My boots hit the walkway with quiet confidence, and I let the rhythm of my steps carry me toward the dorm entrance.
I didn’t expect to turn around.
I didn’t need to.
But I did.
And he was still there.
Parked at the curb, one hand resting on the wheel, those fire-shadow eyes following me like a silent promise. Not watching like a warden. Not hovering like a ghost. Just… staying. Until he knew I was safe.
I blinked against the rush of something I didn’t quite have the words for.
Because Eli never stayed.
Not once.
For all his Dominion, all his passion, all his swagger—he had never made sure I got inside.
But Eren did.
And it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet. Steady. Unspoken.
Protective in a way that felt almost reverent.
I lifted a hand and gave a small wave. Just a flick of my fingers and a barely-there nod that said, I see you.
He didn’t wave back, of course. Just the faintest tilt of his chin. But I felt it all the same.
Then I turned, pushed open the door, and stepped into the familiar hum of my world—the late-night chatter of dorm halls, the distant sound of someone blasting music too loud down the corridor.
Still, a piece of me stayed outside.
With him.
Under that wide-open sky.
Where maybe… things were starting to change.
I slipped through the dorm door, exhaling like I’d been holding my breath all day. The familiar scent of lavender sachets, hand lotion, and that weird hint of old textbooks hit me instantly—and just like that, my shoulders dropped. Safe. Warm.
I leaned against the door for a second, letting it click shut behind me as I watched the dark blur of Eren’s car idling beneath the lamplight. Just for a breath. Just long enough to make sure I was really inside.
And then he was gone.
I toed off my boots and shimmied out of my jeans in record time, sighing in relief the second my pajama shorts were on. Comfort, claimed. I flopped down on the bed, letting my limbs sprawl like I was staking territory, then rolled right back up with a grin and grabbed the speaker off my nightstand.
Sabrina Carpenter’s voice filled the room, sweet and electric. I turned the volume up and let the beat take over.
I didn’t think.
I didn’t plan.
I just danced.
Twisting in place, arms thrown wide, laughing as my body remembered how to move without purpose—without pressure. Just for the joy of it. I spun across the room like a storm of sleep shorts and tangled hair, and for a second I felt fifteen again. Untouchable. Undeniable.
The pull came naturally—familiar, soft at first. I closed my eyes and let my Dominion stir.
With a flutter, my wings unfurled.
The stretch at my shoulder blades hit like a breath of fresh air after being underwater too long. My feathers caught the lamplight and shimmered faint gold, soft and bright. They weren’t at full strength yet—I could still feel the echo of everything they’d endured—but they were mine.
I arched back into a spin, wings slicing gently through the air, brushing the edges of my posters and knocking a notebook off my desk. I didn’t care.
Every movement was a reminder: I had survived.
I had rebuilt.
And no matter what happened tomorrow—whatever Eren Thorne said or didn’t say, whatever ghosts he saw when he looked at me—I still got to have this.
Me.
Music.
Motion.
Magic.
The world outside could wait.
For now, I danced in my little lavender-scented sanctuary, heart open, wings spread wide, and laughter spilling like sunlight through the cracks.
I had just spun into a glorious final twirl—arms wide, wings trailing like a comet—when a knock shattered the beat.
I froze mid-laugh, breathless, hair a mess, and glowing like a post-battle seraph. My wings folded instinctively with a faint shhhht, feathers settling across my back like a silk cloak. My heart was still dancing, even if the music had stopped.
“Open up, sunshine!” Zadie’s voice rang through the door like a warhorn dipped in glitter.
I hit pause, flipped my hair off my forehead like I was stepping onto a stage, and flung the door open with dramatic flair.
And there they were.
Zadie, barefoot and already halfway in my room with a giant bag of kettle corn under one arm and judgment in her eyes.
Briar, deadpan and devastatingly comfy in an oversized hoodie, strolling in like this was her apartment lease renewal.
Lyra, gentle and glowing, carrying a delicate tin of lavender cookies like they were sacred scrolls.
“We brought snacks and emotional damage,” Zadie declared, throwing herself across my beanbag chair like a starlet in a noir film. “Tell me everything. Did Agent Tall, Dark, and Burny make you cry?”
Briar tossed me a bag of chips with sniper precision and dropped onto my bed like gravity owed her rent. “He probably didn’t even speak in full sentences. I bet he just stared and expected her to burst into flames.”
“Did he say anything about keeping you on?” Lyra asked softly, slipping into the desk chair and tucking her legs beneath her like a ballerina in the library.
I flopped beside Briar, wings half-vanished into shimmer, and sighed. “Oh, you know. Just the classic ‘you’re not done proving yourself’ monologue. Very stern. Very ‘I’m secretly impressed but constipated about it.’”
Zadie gasped. “That’s Thorne-code for I’ve never met anyone like you and I’m spiraling.”
“Right?” I grinned, cracking open the chips. “Also, he said I wasn’t as distracting as he thought I’d be.”
“Oh, he’s gone,” Briar muttered, snatching a handful. “She said sunshine, and he said not distracting. That man is already scheduling his emotional crisis.”
Lyra’s soft laugh sparkled like windchimes as she passed around cookies. “And you? How are you feeling?”
I paused, letting their presence settle into my bones like warmth after cold. “Honestly? It was… weirdly good. We worked a case. Had coffee. Didn’t murder each other. It felt…”
“Like a dynamic duo cop show where one of you has a tragic backstory, and the other heals him with cookies?” Zadie offered.
“Exactly that,” I said through a laugh. “Only replace cookies with chai and add emotional whiplash.”
I told them everything—about the case, about Pulse, about the strange woman no one remembered and the suppressant residue. About Tawny and Maddox and Misa and the café with its sleepy orange cat and the steam curling from our drinks like something sacred.
And Eren.
How he stayed outside. How he didn’t flinch when I needed room. How his silence didn’t feel like judgment tonight—it felt like something steadier.
As I spoke, their teasing softened, laughter curling into comfort. We sprawled together in that tiny room, wrapped in snacks and stories and the kind of friendship that rebuilds you without asking for thanks.
For the first time since my wings burned out, I didn’t feel like I was trying to prove anything to anyone.
I just felt… home.
I sprawled across my bed, legs tangled in my comforter like a soft trap, while Zadie decimated a bag of kettle corn with the fury of someone personally wronged by carbs. Every bite sounded violent. Briar had already claimed her corner of the mattress like a lounging cat, and Lyra sat neatly on the floor, her back straight and her container of cookies perfectly centered in her lap.
“So,” I said, stretching like I’d just returned from battle. “First day in the field. Spill.”
Zadie threw a piece of popcorn in the air and caught it without breaking eye contact. “I got paired with Agent Vesari. You know—the one who looks like he models knives in his spare time?”
I snorted. “The one who doesn’t believe in smiling?”
“That’s the one. He tried to make me run a tactical perimeter analysis without even a hello.” She put a hand to her chest dramatically. “I said, ‘Sir, I’m charming, not clairvoyant. At least buy me coffee before you ruin my self-esteem.’”
Briar groaned. “You’re lucky. My agent is ex-military and currently believes emotional repression is a team-building exercise.”
Zadie perked up. “Did you yell at him?”
“No. I outpaced him,” Briar said with a smug little smile. “He made a comment about strategists being slow. I made him eat gravel on the training track.”
I cheered. “That’s my girl!”
Briar tossed a chip in my direction. “Then he made me write a thirty-point breakdown on what I could’ve done better. While timing me.”
“Oh. So, a light day,” I said dryly.
Lyra raised her hand just slightly, as if waiting her turn at story time. “I spent most of the day shielding civilians from a staged Dominion detonation scenario. My agent wanted to test precision under pressure.”
“And?” I asked.
Lyra blinked calmly. “I passed. She smiled. Briefly.”
Zadie gasped. “A smile? Lyra, that’s the equivalent of a handwritten letter of recommendation!”
We all burst out laughing, the sound warm and easy as it filled the room.
“And you?” Briar asked, poking me with her foot. “Did Hellfire burn you to ash or just medium-rare?”
I sighed dramatically, flopping backward. “He said I did better than expected. Which I’m choosing to interpret as glowing praise.”
Zadie cackled. “That’s practically a love letter from Eren Thorne.”
Lyra nibbled her cookie and said gently, “It sounds like you held your own.”
I smiled—because I had. And because despite everything, despite how the day started and how it ended, this? Right here? With them?
This was my safe place.
My winged chaos. My battlefield recovery.
My girls.
Chapter
Fourteen
The morning sun poured through my window like a slow exhale, golden and gentle, stretching across my floorboards like it had nowhere better to be. I blinked into the light, still half-lost in the glow of last night’s laughter and kettle corn. Something about it lingered—a quiet, buzzing energy beneath my skin, like the universe had nudged me forward an inch.
After a quick shower and my usual routine—braid tight, blacks fitted, jacket slung over my shoulder—I found my boots moving on autopilot toward Cinders & Steam. I wasn’t exactly stalling, but… okay, I was totally stalling. Facing Eren without caffeine felt like a dare I hadn’t signed up for.
The bell above the door chimed as I stepped inside, and just like that, the world slowed down. Warmth, cinnamon, and that earthy note of black tea wrapped around me like a hug. This place always smelled like stories and secrets and second chances.
Tawny glanced up from the counter, her silver bun slightly askew and her smile effortless. “Morning, Auri,” she called, already reaching for the chai blend like she’d read my mind. Or my soul. Honestly, same thing.
“Morning.” I grinned, sliding onto my favorite stool.
“The usual?”
“Yes, please!” I hadn’t realized I had been here often enough for a usual, but I’d take it.
As she worked, I let my gaze wander. Familiar faces, the soft clink of ceramic, the quiet jazz playing under the noise—it all made me feel steadier. Like I could walk into the fire and still find a place to breathe.
“You’re glowing,” Tawny said, eyes sharp with amusement. “Let me guess—you’re finally going to burn that Hellfire agent of yours down to a simmer?”
I laughed, covering my face for a second. “I’m just picking something up for him. Muffin truce.”
I reached out and gave Toast a pat on the head. He opened an eye before closing it again.
“Hellfire Thorne accepting a peace pastry?” Her brows lifted like this was the juiciest gossip she’d heard all week. “You’re either very brave or very charming.”
“Hopefully both,” I murmured, and she gave me a wink.
While my chai steeped, she bagged a fresh blueberry muffin and folded the top like she was wrapping something sacred. “He acts like sweetness offends him, but he always finishes every crumb. And you…” Her voice softened as she handed it to me. “You’re good for him.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I smiled and clutched the warm paper bag like it might answer all the questions I was too afraid to ask.
Then I took my chai, squared my shoulders, and headed into the lion’s den—with cinnamon, caffeine, and sunshine in tow.
I practically floated into the office, wrapped in the scent of spiced chai and quiet triumph. The caffeine hadn’t even kicked in yet, but I was already running on a dangerous mix of optimism and blueberry muffin smugness.
Eren was already at his desk, looking like he’d wrestled the morning and lost. His eyes were locked on his datapad, brow furrowed in that signature “I’m about to destroy someone’s entire argument” way. If brooding was a Dominion skill, he’d have gone platinum years ago.
“Good morning!” I sing-songed, breezing past his wall of tension like it wasn’t trying to set off my anxiety. I placed the warm paper bag down next to his mess of reports like I was planting a tiny flag of hope in enemy territory. “I come bearing peace. And muffins.”
He looked up—slowly. Like I’d just spoken a foreign language he hadn’t decided whether to learn or ignore. His eyes flicked to the bag, then to my overly cheerful smile.
“Fuel for the grumpiest field agent this side of Dominion Authority,” I added, tapping the bag with a flourish.
There was a long beat of silence. I could practically hear the gears grinding in his brain, trying to decide whether to engage or ignore. Classic Eren. All slow burn and clipped edges.
“Grumpy?” he said finally, voice gravel-smooth. “I’m focused.”
“Mmhmm,” I replied, crossing my arms and leaning against the edge of his desk like it was our usual sparring ring. “Focused or sulking? There’s a line, and you are aggressively toeing it.”
His mouth twitched—barely. The kind of almost-smile you had to earn with blood, sweat, and maybe a well-timed pastry.
“Not all of us wake up coated in sunshine and sugar,” he muttered, eyes narrowing slightly. “Some of us have real work to do.”
“Excuse you,” I said with mock offense, pulling the muffin from its wrapper like I was presenting a holy artifact. “This isn’t just a snack. This is strategy. Muffin diplomacy.”
He stared at it like it was a trap. But I saw the hesitation, the softening around his mouth. He wanted it. He just didn’t want me to know he wanted it.
“Fine,” he grumbled, snatching it from my hand with a speed that betrayed his supposed indifference. “But this doesn’t change anything.”
I beamed. “Of course not. Just means your blood sugar won’t tank while we dig into whatever mystery the universe throws at us today.”
He didn’t reply, but he bit into the muffin like it had personally offended him—which, from Eren, might actually be a compliment.
Progress, I thought, sipping my chai with a satisfied smile. Muffin: 1. Brood: 0.
“Oh! I also have this,” I said, with the kind of triumphant flair usually reserved for stage magicians or toddlers with glitter glue. I slid the to-go cup across the desk like it was a peace treaty written in steam and cardamom. “For you.”
Eren didn’t look up right away. But his gaze did flicker down to the cup—like it had personally offended him—before drifting back up to me with one raised brow and a full serving of that signature dry, skeptical energy.
“I don’t drink chai,” he said flatly.
I leaned on the edge of the desk, chin lifted, smile unwavering. “Sure you don’t. And yet somehow, this just happens to be from your favorite café. What a mystery.”
