Page 11 of Witch's Wolf

Sunday morning in the Catskills feels like a blessing wrapped in sunlight and birdsong. The kind of morning that presses pause on the heaviness of real life, where for just a moment, it’s possible to believe that everything is exactly as it should be.

I stir beneath the blanket, my muscles soft and languid, stretching like a cat that’s found a perfect patch of warmth. The chirping of birds filters through the open window, a symphony of flutters and trills that blends with the whisper of leaves rustling in the breeze. It’s a melody that feels older than time itself. A gentle reminder that the world keeps spinning no matter how tangled my thoughts are.

Sunlight spills through the wooden slats of the blinds, casting warm stripes across the room. The rays dance over the surface of my nightstand, turning the rich brown wood into something golden, like the light itself is trying to paint the world prettier. My blue blanket catches the sunlight, its color impossibly vibrant, as if the morning has scrubbed it clean of yesterday’s shadows.

I toss the blanket off, my movements slow and deliberate, savoring the simple sensation of the fabric slipping over my legs. The coolness of the morning air against my skin is a small thrill, a wake-up kiss from nature itself.

A tune rises unbidden in my mind, soft and familiar, like an old friend. Louis Armstrong’s gravelly voice fills the quiet spaces of my memory,What A Wonderful World…I hum the melody under my breath as I pad across the room, the wooden floors cool on my bare feet.

In the bathroom, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, cheeks still flushed from sleep, hair a riot of waves that defies gravity. The soft light filtering in through the tiny, frosted window paints my reflection with a gentler palette than usual. Even the shadows under my eyes look less pronounced, as if the morning itself is conspiring to make me feel better.

The cool water from the faucet shocks me out of my half-dreaming state, and I laugh softly, shaking off the remnants of sleep. At moments like this, it’s easy to forget the weight of everything I’ve been carrying. It’s easy to imagine that the only thing that matters is this quiet, simple, stolen joy.

Walking back to the bedroom, the familiar strains of the song linger in my mind. It’s a sweet balm. A reminder that life is made up of mornings like these, of fleeting beauty and the smallest of wonders. And for a moment, I let myself believe it.

“Someone’s in a very good mood,” Monica says in a sing-song voice as I shuffle into the kitchen, still humming the tail end ofWhat a Wonderful World.She waves a spoon like a conductor, her smile lighting up the room and reminding me why she’s my best friend. Her energy is infectious, but it does catch me off guard.

“It’s the birds,” I say, vaguely gesturing toward the window. “And the sunshine. And maybe the fact that I haven’t had to fight for a spot on a packed subway in two days.”

“Sure, sure. Or maybe it’s a certain someone? Did Sam drop by in the dead of night?” she asks, her grin stretching from ear to ear.

I freeze mid-step, her words hitting me like an electric jolt.

“Shhh…” I hiss, spinning to glance at the closed bedroom door. “You’ll wake Stacy. And no, he didn’t.” Seeing Stacy’s door is safely closed, I give her an evil grin. “Besides, if he had, I doubt we’d still be here.”

“That’s true,” she says, her laughter warm and unbothered. Monica never takes anything seriously before her second cup of coffee. “I’ve got strawberry or apricot jam and creamy peanut butter. What’s your pleasure?”

My pleasure? Licking that creamy, sticky mess off Sam’s washboard abs…

“Watch it, Mon,” I warn, shoving aside the image that bursts into my brain uninvited. “You’re dangerously close to ruining my good mood.”

She tilts her head, pausing the waving spoon with which she is conducting her imaginary orchestra mid-air as curiosity twists her features.

“How?” she asks, wide-eyed but with a flicker of mischievous suspicion behind the word.

“Nothing,” I say, waving my hand between us. “My hyperactive imagination, forget it,” I sigh, running my hands through my curls.

“Huh?” she asks, lowering the spoon, knitting her brows together.

“I just… thought about… eating peanut butter off Sam,” I blurt, heat crawling up my chest and onto my cheeks. “Crunchy peanut butter, if you must know. So I could bite the chunks off his abs.”

The silence that follows stretches for a single, mortifying beat before the spoon slips from Monica’s fingers. It clatters loudly onto the counter as her eyes widen. Then, like a dam breaking, her laughter crashes through the stillness and fills every corner of the room. She clutches the edge of the table, tears welling in her eyes as her whole body shakes.

“Oh, God…” she manages between gasps, her cheeks flushed. “I wasn’t ready for that.”

“Neither was I,” I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest, though the corner of my mouth betrays me with a twitch. “My brain is a traitor.”

Still laughing, Monica straightens and wipes her eyes.

“Traitor or not, it’s got excellent taste.” She grabs the spoon and points it at me like a gavel. “Samdoeshave great abs.”

I groan, flopping into the nearest chair.

“Don’t remind me. I’m doing everything I can not to think about him. And now I’ve got this image permanently etched into my brain.”

“That’s on you, not me.” Monica shrugs, entirely unapologetic, before her devilish grin returns. “But you’re welcome.”

Her teasing makes me laugh despite myself. The tension in my chest remains though, an ache I can’t ignore. It’s not just thememory of his abs, or the way his hand brushed mine. It’s how he manages to occupy so much space in my mind without even trying. I shake the thought away and focus on Monica as she slides a jar of jam across the table.

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