Page 36 of Strings Attached
“Or maybe you just haven’t wanted to.”
Her lips part, then close again. “That night in the planetarium changed things for me, Dean. I thought you knew that.”
I look at her, then remember the way she hugged Jules yesterday, and something inside me buckles.
“Things change,” I say quietly. “Maybe you already have.”
The words hang between us, lingering like the last note of a song that leaves your heart aching in silence. Missy’s breath catches, and suddenly I can see the hurt beneath her anger. Hurt I’ve put there, carved from my own fears and planted in soil too fertile for such bitter seeds.
The sunlight emphasizes the gleam in her eyes, the pinch of her lips. When did I become the kind of man who wounds what he means to protect? The kind who takes something as pure and beautiful and joyous as Missy, and taints it with his own darkness.
“I’m sorry.” The words feel inadequate, hollow as magicless ward lines. Behind us, festival preparations continue on with their cheerful cacophony, oblivious to the quiet devastation in our corner of the world. “That was… I shouldn’t have said that. This is about me and my insecurities, not you.”
Some scars run too deep to heal with simple apologies. I should know—I’ve spent a decade regretting the ones I gifted my sister. And maybe I’ve done this on purpose. Maybe I’m pushing Missy away before I can hurt her too. After all, she has another option. Someone whose hands create music instead of magic, whose smile comes easily instead of breaking through years of careful control.
I’d be a fool to not recognize the way Jules looks at her. The way his eyes follow her movements like she’s a melody he’s trying to memorize.
He’d be a foolnot tolook at her like that. The only actual foolishness here is me letting my feelings get hurt. Missy was summer sunshine. But winter’s just around the corner.
She crosses her arms, but her voice softens. “Meet me at the studio tomorrow morning early? Please?”
“Of course.”
The agreement slips past my defenses before I can stop it. Maybe because I’m weaker than I pretend. Maybe because endings deserve proper punctuation, even painful ones. Or maybe because some part of me still hopes I’m wrong about all of it—about Jules, about her inevitable departure, about my own capacity for happiness.
Some lies we tell ourselves echo louder in autumn air, when everything beautiful is preparing to fade.
Missy nods, then turns back toward the festival grounds where Jules waits. I watch her walk away and wonder if this is how Nell felt, watching her carefully constructed future crumble.At least Missy won’t need memory magic to forget me. Time will do that just fine on its own.
Missy
Stars still pepper the sky as I make my way to Rachel’s studio, Giuseppe’s familiar weight against my back matching the heaviness in my chest. The autumn air carries a sharp coastal bite that wasn’t here yesterday, as if the weather itself is marking how quickly things can change. How a life carefully arranged in familiar patterns can spiral into chaos with one unexpected arrival.
Jules has somehow charmed his way into every corner of my world in less than twenty-four hours—sharing stories over dinner with Alex and Ethan, touring the town with infectious enthusiasm, keeping me up late reviewing his ‘improvements’ to our compositions.
He’s always been like this, demanding attention like a spotlight, leaving no room for shadows or subtle variations. I’d forgotten how exhausting it could be until he swept back into my life, rearranging everything to suit his tempo.
At least his infamous night owl tendencies mean I have these early morning hours to myself. To think. To breathe. To try to untangle the mess I’ve made of things with Dean.
Yesterday’s anger has faded, leaving behind a clearer understanding of what I saw in his eyes at the cafe. The uncertainty. The hurt. He’d told me once, voice low in our lighthouse sanctuary, that he’d never allowed himself to date anyone in Magnolia Cove. His role demanded too much isolation, too much control. And then there was Jules, touching me with the casual possessiveness he’s always shown, acting like I was just an extension of his artistic vision—as he always has.
I pull open the studio door, barely setting Giuseppe down before I register Dean’s presence. He’s wearing his signature black leather jacket, every inch the stern warlock I first met. But when our eyes meet in the pre-dawn light, I see past the walls to the man who gave me music beneath constellations and who sees me for who I really am.
“Dean,” I whisper, my voice carrying all the words I haven’t said.
He crosses the room and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Missy, I’m an idiot.”
“Yeah, you are.”
His body tenses, and I can’t help but laugh. He tries to resist, his lips pressing into a firm line, but eventually, a chuckle slips out. The sound warms the space between us as I wrap my arms around his waist.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs into my hair.
“I owe you an apology too.” I close my eyes and breathe in the scent of cinnamon and autumn leaves that clings to him, suddenly aware of how right this feels. How the chaos in my mind settles just by being near him. “Jules is… he’s a lot. I know how it looked in the cafe, but he’s always been like that. Too much, too close, too convinced he knows what’s best for everyone. And I’m realizing there’s a lot about my past life that doesn’t fit anymore.”
“Missy—” He protests, but I press my fingers against his lips.
“Let me finish. I’ve been so caught up in avoiding confrontation that I’ve made everything worse. Just give me a few days. Let me get Jules sorted out, and then I’ll tell Alex everything. God, I haven’t had time to tell her I know about magic yet.”
