The group chat went silent after Sophie had dropped the message.

  Sophie:

  Followed by a single ominous thumbs-up emoji from Max, a flurry of excited gifs from Neen, and Juno’s instant reply.

  Juno:

  Now the group was semi-gathered at Sophie’s place. Coats half on. Decisions half made.

  “He said to come tonight. It’s already six,” Sophie said, checking the time for the third time in five minutes.

  “I’m not biking across town in this wind,” Juno announced, examining her hair in Sophie’s mirror and adjusting her leather jacket like it was armor. “I have on. Strategic ones.”

  “We could take my bike and the cargo thingy,” Max offered, poking their head in from the hallway. “You’d just have to sit in the front like a gothic goblin.”

  “I would that,” Juno said flatly, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Also, no.”

  “We could Uber?” Neen suggested, from her perch on the arm of Sophie’s couch. She was already laced into her boots. “Or split it, Bus one way, Uber back?”

  Max gave her a skeptical look. “You trust Leif with a return plan?”

  “Good point,” Juno muttered.

  Sophie returned with a spare scarf in hand, tossing it at Max’s chest. “Put this on. You’ll catch a cold.”

  “I won’t…” Max caught the scarf midair, paused, and grudgingly wrapped it around their neck.

  “I call the front seat in the Uber,” Juno said, grabbing her eyeliner pen off the counter and tucking it into her bra like a concealed weapon.

  “No weapons,” Sophie warned.

  “This isn’t a weapon,” Juno said sweetly. “It’s for touch-ups. And threats.”

  Max tugged their coat tighter. “I still don’t get why he invited ”

  Neen stood, brushing imaginary dust off her knees. “Maybe he just wants us to feel welcome?”

  Max blinked at her like she’d spoken a different language.

  “I’m just saying,” Neen added, “He’s always been kind when I’ve seen his texts pop up on your screen.”

  “You’ve met him,” Sophie pointed out.

  Neen’s smile was as calm as it was unsettling. “Doesn’t mean I don’t get a read.”

  “Right,” Max said. “Of course. Telepath Neen.”

  “Correction, Witch Neen!” Juno stated. “But, like, the terrifying kind. The good kind. Elphaba, not Glinda.”

  Sophie slung her bag over her shoulder. “Uber it is. Everyone ready?”

  There were nods, shrugs, and minor adjustments to scarves, eyeliner, and energy levels.

  A collective breath was held between them as they stepped out into the chilly dusk air. Whatever this night was, it wasn’t just dinner. It was the kind of invitation that felt like a turning point.

  And somewhere across town, Leif was waiting.

  Leif stood in the doorway between his study and the main hall, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other absently adjusting a crooked picture frame, Max’s doing, no doubt. The house was clean, the clean that held its breath. Almost too clean.

  He didn’t like it.

  Well, he it. In theory. The sharp scent of lemon balm polish, the glint of freshly wiped picture frames, the sudden visibility of floorboards beneath where Max had strewn everything from books to empty tea mugs. It was... respectable. Hospitable.

  But it was also unsettling.

  Max’s impromptu workstation in the library—transformed into a dining room for the occasion—had been relocated efficiently and, with minor protest, to a corner by the bookshelves, now staged with just enough chaos to suggest it had always been there. A soft throw draped over the back of the armchair. A single open book (artfully chosen: , Welsh myth; dense, dramatic, vaguely ominous). A mug was placed askew in an attempt at curated disorder.

  He knew Max would clock it immediately.

  The scent of roasted rosemary and something sweet drifted in from the kitchen. The chef he’d hired had insisted on closing the door; “You’re hovering,” she’d said, not even glancing up. He liked her.

  The pastries had arrived that morning. They were mainly Dutch, with some French. A few Turkish delights were tucked into a corner of the display tray because Leif liked chaos and sugar in equal measure. He had no idea what half of it was, but everything looked overprepared. Excessive, immaculate, almost theatrical.

  He checked his pocket watch—not because he needed to, he already knew the time, but because it grounded him: the click of it opening, the faint glimmer of the old etched hands ticking in rhythm with something more profound.

  Still on schedule.

  He tapped the glass once, then let the watch swing closed with a snap. His fingers lingered over the chain, tracing a motion older than habit.

  The gift was ready.

  Not wrapped. Not labeled. Not even fully visible yet. But it was out there, just beyond the edges of this evening. Waiting. A nudge. A shift. A door.

  He’d made sure of it. He hoped they would like it.

  Just as he turned toward the front hall, the system chimed, soft and low, a digital chime disguised as an old bell.

  He smiled, faint and foxlike. “Showtime,” he murmured, mostly to himself.

  With the quiet dignity of a man who owned too many secrets and exactly one mildly cursed tea mug, Leif straightened his cuffs and walked toward the entry.

  The Uber pulled away, leaving the coven in front of the house. Tall, narrow, and somehow older than its surroundings, it rose like a story no one quite remembered how to tell. Red brick, green shutters, and a gargoyle perched above the door made it seem as if it had been advised, ‘ and accepted it.

  Juno tilted her head, one eyebrow already raised. “…Okay, I’m half impressed, half disappointed.”

  Sophie didn’t miss a beat. “It’s on-brand.”

  “You’re not even going to pretend to be surprised?” Juno asked, incredulous.

  “I’ve been here before,” Sophie said, adjusting her coat. “Several times.”

  Max coughed.

  Juno’s eyes narrowed. “You , didn’t you?”

  “Technically,” Sophie said with a slight smirk, “I slept . Well, ‘slept’,” Sophie said, doing air quotes and stopping herself from giggling.

  She gave Sophie that

  look

  Max muttered something unintelligible and buried their face in their scarf. “Can we not?”

  Juno pointed at the house like it had personally offended her. “You mean to tell me you’ve both had goth sleepovers in the murder mansion and is my first invitation?”

  “I do live there, you know,” Max interjected, “even though these days I all but have taken root in Sophie’s place.”

  “You’re here now,” Neen offered helpfully, already walking up the path like the door had been waiting for her specifically.

  “She’s going to get us eaten by a haunted staircase,” Juno muttered.

  “Or offered tea,” Sophie countered, following leisurely. “Depends on your aura.”

  “Mine’s a chaotic bisexual menace.”

  “That tracks,” Max muttered. “He probably invited us for narrative tension.”

  Sophie glanced back. “You live here. You

  narrative tension.”

  “I don’t even a narrative,” Max mumbled. “Just a pile of sweaters and deeply concerning coping mechanisms…”

  “…That your boss, slash landlord, slash creature of the night, now most likely rearranged,” Juno added.

  Max froze mid-step. “Wait. What?”

  “I saw the look on your face when we got out of the car,” Sophie said, far too cheerfully. “You’ve got ‘someone touched my mug collection’ eyes.”

  “He —”

  Juno grinned. “Oh, baby, he alphabetized your vinyls. Vampires are known to be Obsessive-Compulsive. And this feels like the grand opening at the opera.”

  Max let out a noise somewhere between a whimper and a war cry.

  “I’ll help you un-curate it later,” Sophie offered. “Reintroduce some cozy chaos.”

  She managed a tone that suggested there would also be other cozy chaos.

  “Thank you,” Max whispered, unsure if he should be relieved or afraid.

  Juno looked back at the house. “This your villain origin story.”

  Sophie smiled. “Or yours.”

  “Oh, I’m . I brought eyeliner and garlic concentrate.”

  Sophie’s grin was the slow, smug, dimpled thing that came with history. “Skip the garlic. He prefers his guests rare. Lightly salted at best.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Juno gave her a side glance. “You’re not even being subtle anymore.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be.”

  At the top of the steps, Neen lifted her hand to knock…

  …and the door opened before she could touch it.

  Max stiffened. Juno shifted her weight, ready for anything.

  Sophie just tilted her head.

  Neen, of course, smiled like this was all exactly as it should be.

  The door creaked open with dramatic restraint, as if it were rehearsed.

  Leif stood in the doorway like a man who treated time as a polite suggestion. He wore a dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, a gray vest with threadbare edges, and a corduroy jacket that looked older than most of the house. His eyepatch gleamed faintly in the hallway light.

  He smiled.

  “Ah. The coven arrives.”

  Max groaned softly. “We’re not calling it that.”

  Leif’s smile widened. “Of course we are. I even had the chef prepare a spread suitable for a mid-tier moon ritual.”

  “That’s not a real thing,” Max hissed.

  “There’s a chef?!” Sophie whispered in the background.

  “It is now,” Leif said, then stepped aside with a sweeping gesture far too theatrical to be casual. “Do come in.”

  Neen moved first.

  Sophie opened her mouth to warn her.

  Max tried to make a grabbing motion.

  Juno hissed, “Don’t—”

  But it was too late.

  Neen stepped into the hall, smiled brightly at Leif, and folded him into a hug without hesitation.

  Leif, to his eternal credit, did not combust.

  He did, however, stiffen like someone unsure whether he was being embraced or assassinated.

  Max audibly winced. “That’s like hugging a hungry polar bear. Don’t!”

  Sophie shook her head. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

  “She knows,” Juno muttered, horrified. “But she’s sure she is holding four aces versus his full house. Sidenote. play poker with Neen.”

  Neen held for a good three seconds, and when she finally stepped back, Leif stood frozen with one arm half-raised, the other hovering in polite confusion near her shoulder—like a Victorian gentleman attempting to pat a ghost.

  Then, he gave the faintest of bows. “Miss Koster. A pleasure.”

  “You’re warm,” Neen said, delighted.

  “One of those heating vests,” Leif replied, returning to his usual theatrical composure. “It should wear off by dusk.”

  Max cleared their throat loudly. “Uh. So. Yeah, Hi. I live here.”

  “You do,” Leif agreed. “And your corner has been lovingly relocated, sterilised, and fireproofed. A forensics team will be unable to retrieve DNA even if they tried.”

  “I’m going to ask what you think I was doing in that corner.”

  Leif nodded. “That is wise.”

  Sophie stepped in, chin up, coat draped perfectly over one arm.

  “Sophie Meissonier,” Leif greeted. “Still as punctual as your threats.”

  “And you’re still using my full name,” she said, breezing past him.

  “It commands respect.”

  “It makes me feel like I’m in trouble.”

  “You usually are.”

  Behind her, Juno stalked into the hallway, every movement full of lean, deliberate disdain. Her boots clicked ominously against the floor.

  Leif’s expression didn’t change.

  “Miss van Tuyll,” he said, with the careful pronunciation of someone who had done their homework and was trying hard not to seem like it.

  “Mr. ?lfson,” Juno replied, calm as ever. “You clean up nice. Shame about the soul-crushing aura.”

  “I do try to maintain a certain standard.”

  “Your door tried to eat me.”

  “That means it likes you.”

  She gave him a look that could have sliced through granite, then swept past into the hall.

  Sophie leaned into Max and whispered, “Well, that went better than expected.”

  Max nodded slowly. “He didn’t even offer her tea laced with metaphor.”

  “Yet,” Sophie said.

  Leif led them through the hall with the quiet gravitas of someone escorting royalty, perhaps hostages, past the velvet ropes of a museum he secretly owned. He paused only to gesture dramatically toward the double doors of the study, repurposed for the evening as a dining room, which swung open with a soft hiss of hydraulics that hadn’t been there before.

  Inside, the long table gleamed under the golden light of an overhead chandelier that looked both antique and suspiciously LED-lit. The table was already set, equal parts meticulous and glorious, with linen napkins folded like swans, crystal glasses arranged with mathematical precision, and place cards in an elegant looping hand that somehow managed to be smug.

  And standing just behind the table was a whole catering team.

  Three people in sharp black uniforms, hair tied back, moving like shadows as they arranged platters, adjusted cutlery, and fluffed napkins with the kind of professional disdain that suggested they could throw down with a Michelin-star kitchen if needed.

  Max blinked. “Is that—did you a catering team?”

  Leif stepped aside with a faint smile. “Of course. I wasn’t going to ”

  “But you don’t eat…” Max realized, too late, that he was talking loudly around strangers. Again, they tried to be more subdued. “You know....”

  Leif spread his hands. “Doesn’t mean I can’t be an excellent host.”

  They took cautious steps forward, eyeing the uncovered dishes: roasted vegetables nestled in fragrant herbs, delicate stacks of beetroot and chèvre, and glazed tofu that looked like something a Renaissance master might have painted. A lush breadbasket held a mix of focaccia, braided spelt, and something Max immediately identified as rosemary cornbread. There were sauces in tiny copper bowls—fresh pomegranate seeds scattered like punctuation. A soft lavender steam rose from a tureen of leek and potato soup.

  “Is this all… vegan?” Neen asked softly, brows lifting.

  “One must respect sacred boundaries,” Leif said, gesturing toward her place with theatrical reverence.

  “I have venison,” Sophie said in a surprised whisper, “

  seared.”

  Juno sat down slowly, narrowing her eyes. “...I have lamb. Medium rare. With mint and saffron. And what smells suspiciously like truffle oil.”

  “That’s a compliment,” the chef said flatly as she passed, setting down a final dish with the precision of a ritual.

  Juno stared at her plate. “Are we food?”

  Leif didn’t answer. He just smiled.

  Max leaned over, chin resting on their hand. “She means like… food. Fae rules. Eat this, and now you owe him a favor, your name, your firstborn, or something.”

  “I’m not joking,” Juno said, narrowing her eyes. “This is

  my taste. Like accurate. I’m just saying—don’t drink the wine.”

  Leif wandered over to the sideboard, retrieved a cut-glass decanter, and poured himself a generous two fingers. The amber liquid caught the light like honey and chaos.

  Max side-eyed him. “Wait. You’re drinking?”

  Leif sniffed, swirled, and pretended to sip like a man performing for his own amusement. “It’s ceremonial. And I like the fragrance. My dietary restrictions don’t mean I cannot good food. I just can’t sample it.”

  Juno cast Leif a sidelong glance. “I swear. Any second now, he’s going to baste us in marinade.”

  Max rolled their eyes. “You came home tipsy yesterday. You reeked of juniper and shame.”

  Leif looked unbothered. “I sampled. It was for work.”

  “You fed on someone who had ” Max accused, poking a roasted carrot with their fork.

  “Well-aged. Artisan brewed. Slight notes of elderflower,” Leif said dreamily. “Like a Norse spring morning.”

  “There hasn’t been a Norse spring morning since 1164,” Max grumbled. “And weren’t you from Denmark?”

  “…And I want mead now.”

  Juno had stopped mid-bite.

  She stared at him.

  Leif caught her look and raised his glass in her direction. “Suspicious, Miss van Tuyll?”

  “You’re smiling. You fed recently. You’ve cleaned your house. You That’s three red flags and a personal apocalypse.”

  Leif tilted his head. “Or perhaps… this is my birthday party.”

  “You don’t have a birthday,” Juno snapped. “You have ”

  Neen sipped her soup, unbothered. “Well, whatever this is, I’m eating this soup. It’s divine.”

  Sophie nodded solemnly and speared a perfectly roasted shallot. “This is how we die. Full and emotionally confused.”

  Juno hadn’t touched her wine. But her fork kept moving. And her eyes? Still firmly locked on Leif.

  The meal unfolded like a well-rehearsed play: dishes passed, plates refilled, and laughter gradually replacing the wariness that had first entered with them. Even Juno, still eyeing her venison like it might sprout antlers and bolt, had relaxed enough to ask the chef for a second helping.

  Leif sat at the head of the table, not eating—of course not—but sipping leisurely from a different glass now. Something deeper red. Something Max did not point out.

  The chef occasionally appeared to refill platters and plates with the clinical grace of someone used to feeding fussy immortals, then vanished again without comment.

  “I think I’m in love,” Sophie sighed, leaning back with one hand draped dramatically across her stomach.

  “With the pastry tray or Leif’s secret gig as a deity of food and dinner?” Max asked, mouth still half-full of something involving cardamom and what might’ve been alchemy.

  “Yes,” Sophie replied.

  Neen had cleared her plate with slow joy usually reserved for religious experiences. She was now nursing a cup of tea, perfectly brewed, with subtle notes of mint and chamomile. Leif hadn’t even asked her preference. Of course, he hadn’t.

  “Okay,” Juno said, wiping her mouth with an embroidered napkin that looked like it cost more than her boots. “Time to ask the real question.”

  Leif raised a brow. “Only one?”

  “Why,” Juno said, “would a mythic undead librarian with a questionable fashion sense host a catered dinner for a bunch of impressionable queers and the chaos goblin they orbit?”

  There was a beat of silence. Max made a quiet, wheezing sound into their wine glass.

  Sophie bit back a smirk. “To be fair, it’s not the worst Wednesday we’ve had.”

  Leif swirled his drink, amused. “I like to think of myself as a gracious host.”

  “Sure, and I’m the heir to a dragon cult,” Max muttered.

  Leif smiled at them, fond and sharp. “You’re claimed, remember?”

  Max opened their mouth, then closed it.

  “He means I claimed them,” Sophie interjected sweetly. “And you relented.”

  Leif gave a slight bow from his seat. “As always, madam.”

  “God,” Juno muttered. “We’re never going to live this down.”

  “No,” Sophie said brightly. “You’re not.”

  Leif rose—Not abruptly, but enough to shift the air in the room.

  “You three,” he said, gesturing with his glass to Neen, Juno, and Sophie, “have chosen Max.”

  Juno rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

  Neen nodded once, calm as ever.

  Sophie didn’t speak, but her fingers brushed Max’s under the table. Max startled slightly, then didn’t pull away.

  “And so,” Leif continued, “I have chosen you.”

  The room paused.

  Not tense. Just... realigned.

  “I have watched you bring Max back to themselves. I’ve seen your bond. The chaos. The glitter. The... memes. It’s unexpectedly lovely.” He again pretended to sip. “And I suspect my heart would be warmed if I still had circulation going.”

  Juno blinked. “He us.”

  “Unclear if that’s comforting or a curse,” Max muttered.

  Leif ignored them both. “I am not in the habit of giving gifts. But I have... resources. Time. Certain connections. And it occurred to me that what you have—all four of you—is rare. Loud. Vulnerable. Beautiful. And in need of proper encouragement.”

  “Is this the part where you sacrifice us?” Sophie asked lightly.

  “Not tonight.”

  A small silence came over the dinner table.

  Then Leif glanced around the table, his eye finally resting on Max. With a smile, he muttered, “Consider this your Christmas bonus.”

  Outside, the low hum of an engine approached the house.

  Leif checked his pocket watch with theatrical satisfaction. “Right on time.”

  Max frowned. “Please tell me that’s not a metaphor.”

  A soft chime echoed through the entry hall.

  Juno stood slowly, peering toward the windows. “That’s... a car.”

  “Better. It’s an Uber!” Leif confirmed. “Ready for your surprise?”

  Gently ushering everyone back into their coats, Leif tapped his phone to ensure the Uber driver received his tip and a rave review before turning to the group, leading them outside. Max, the first out of the door, clutching Sophie’s hand, looked at the summoned Uber.

  Max squinted. “That Uber will only hold four.”

  “Correct,” Leif replied dryly. “I won’t with you.”

  Juno raised an eyebrow. “What, you will turn into a bat and beat us to wherever you are abducting us?”

  Leif reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a sleek black key fob, and clicked it. From inside the garage, a low purr erupted into the unmistakable, sinful roar of an engine with way too much self-esteem. A sleek black car slowly came into view as the automatic garage door lifted upward.

  Max blinked. “Oh, god. You’re taking the Ferrari?”

  “I always take the Ferrari,” Leif said mildly.

  Juno had stopped breathing. “That sound just activated my third eye. And possibly fourth.”

  “I’m going weak in the knees,” she whispered, stunned.

  “Really? No. Not feeling it,” said Neen, dragging open the Uber door, serene as ever.

  “I really can’t take you anywhere,” Sophie muttered, already climbing inside.

  As the group piled into the far more utilitarian silver car, its interior dimly lit and faintly lemon-scented, Juno remained outside, glaring toward the gleaming black Ferrari like it had betrayed her by existing before she could touch it.

  “If he does a dramatic peel-out, I’m going to lose it,” she grumbled.

  “He will,” Max said. “He always does.”

  “I throw something.”

  “You won’t,” Sophie said. “You’ll sigh dramatically and pretend it didn’t just change your sexuality again.”

  The Ferrari gave a rumbling vrmmmm as if on cue and slid away with the slow, deliberate elegance of a runway model exiting a funeral. There were no screeching tires—just deeply inappropriate confidence.

  Juno hissed. “That’s not driving. That’s ”

  The Uber driver glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “So, uh... big night?”

  Max didn’t blink. “We’re going to meet my weird, landlord-slash-boss somewhere undisclosed. So we guess a surprise party or a serial killer.”

  The driver blinked. “Cool. I’ve had weirder.”

  As they rolled deeper into the twilight-draped streets, wrought-iron balconies and ivy-covered facades flashing past, the group settled. Juno refused to look out the window, arms crossed like Leif’s taste in cars had personally wronged her.

  “I’m just saying,” she muttered. “This is entrapment.”

  “You’re the one who said he had a soul-crushing aura,” Sophie teased.

  “He does. And he’s ”

  Neen sipped calmly from the travel mug she’d brought. “He’s making an impression.”

  “He’s making me rethink my life,” Juno snapped.

  Max shrugged. “Welcome to the club.”

  Eventually, the car stopped in front of what looked like a set from an arthouse horror film directed by someone with too much money and no supervision.

  And there, leaning against his car like the world owed him something and he was still deciding if he’d collect, stood Leif. Coat windswept. Smile sharply. Eyepatch gleaming. Juno groaned and dropped her head back against the seat. “He’s doing this on purpose.” Sophie and Max, in perfect unison: “Yup.”