Chapter Sixteen: Awkward
Arabella POV
I've been feeling it all class.
That gaze.
Burning into the back of my neck like a sunbeam turned laser.
You know that feeling? When someone's staring at you and your body just knows?
Well, mine does. And whoever it is has been at it since the moment I walked into the greenhouse for Botany class.
The scent of damp earth and enchanted compost usually relaxes me. I like this class. No one really talks, and the professor—an old dryad who mostly mutters to her plants—even at my previous academies, botany was taught by druids honestly my favorite, peace here they didn't care about the pink witch, the evil solstice girl. Seems the same with this druid.
So I come here for the quiet. For the dirt under my nails and the hum of low-level plant magic in the roots. The quiet matters.
But today? Today I can't even breathe properly because someone—someone—won't stop staring at me.
I'm kneeling in front of a thornbush that's supposed to bloom midnight blossoms if you treat it right, pruning the dead buds with my golden-glitter shears. And that gaze? Still locked onto my back.
How do I know it's a "he"?
I don't. Not really.
But I feel it. Heavy. Curious. Nervous, maybe?
Not hostile, I'm very farmiliar with hostile gazes.
Still, it goes on the whole three-hour class.
So once the bell rings and everyone shuffles out with their tools and soil-covered uniforms, I deliberately take my time packing up.
If my little stalker wants a closer look, they'll have to stay behind for it.
I wipe down my mini pink shovel—honestly the cutest thing I own after Prince—and hum under my breath as I pack my toolbox slowly, slowly—
I feel it.
Someone's standing behind me.
I zip up the box and turn around, calm as ever.
And find myself face-to-face with—
No, wait. Chest first. That's what I'm looking at. A big, broad chest. Covered in a black t-shirt clinging just right to muscle that clearly didn't come from any magic-enhancing serum.
I blink and tilt my head up.
Wow. I know I'm short, but this guy makes me feel particularly petite.
My gaze trails up and up until I meet a pair of striking blue eyes. Stormy and familiar.
The wolf.
His dark curly hair falls over his forehead in a way that's both wild and strangely gentle. Framing his face, which is—well—honestly kind of gorgeous.
"Hey," I say, casual, like I hadn't just caught him staring at me for hours.
He looks startled. As if the concept of me greeting him didn't exist in his mental universe.
"Hi," he mutters, clearing his throat. His voice is gravel and honey and something else that makes my spine straighten slightly.
Oh no. Oh no. That voice. That awkward energy. It's doing things.
He's tense. So tense. The anxious energy rolling off him could suffocate someone less fabulous.
Definitely not a people person.
"Help me with this?" I ask, motioning to my pink toolbox.
He blinks like I just handed him an ancient prophecy.
"Of course!" he says way too fast, scrambling forward.
He picks it up gently like it's sacred treasure, then grabs his own box. It's rusted blue and dented but clearly well-used.
I walk toward the storage room just outside the greenhouse and open the creaky door. He follows.
He places his toolbox down with the grace of a bear and then very carefully—so carefully—sets mine on top of it like it's made of crystal.
My lips twitch.
How cute.
"Arabella," I say, turning to him.
His head jerks like a startled puppy.
"My name," I clarify.
"Oh. Zaire," he replies, almost in a whisper.
I nod.
"Nice to meet you, Zaire."
He shifts again, like he doesn't know what to do with his hands or legs or spine. Honestly, I'm not a dog person, but I think I might like this massive, twitchy, overly gentle puppy.
"I was surprised to not find you when I woke up this morning," I say, voice soft but clear.
His eyes widen and then lower. His shoes scrape against the dirt.
"…Sorry…" he says, barely above a whisper.
I shrug. "It's okay. You're here now."
He finally looks up.
And I swear, in that moment, I feel it again—like a string pulled taut between us. Not a tug. Just the steady presence of it. Or maybe it's just my imagination.