The third floor’s common room was half-lit and comfortably wrecked, boots abandoned under tables, a sword rack missing two swords, and the faint smell of burned soup lingering in the air.

  Trey sat on the arm of a couch, polishing his blade with ritual care. Abel occupied the chair opposite, calm as ever. Finian hovered near with a mug, mid-sip, mid-thought.

  The door burst open.

  Blake Ashford crashed onto the battered couch, vibrating with barely-contained energy, grinning like a man who had just survived a natural disaster and enjoyed it.

  “I KISSED HER!”

  Trey looked up. “You what now?”

  “I kissed Abby,” Blake repeated, kicking his feet up like an overgrown hunting hound. “Right on the lips.”

  Finian dropped his mug.

  “…What?”

  Trey blinked slowly. “Was she conscious?”

  Blake sat bolt upright. “Yes she was conscious! She kissed me back!”

  Finian squinted. “Like… willingly?”

  “YES.”

  Abel leaned forward, genuine concern in his eyes. “Is she alright?”

  Blake stared at them, betrayed. “WHY IS NO ONE ON MY SIDE?!”

  The door opened again.

  Francis stepped in, coat slung over one shoulder, already mid-sigh.

  “What’s loud?”

  Finian pointed. “Blake assaulted Abby.”

  Francis moved.

  Not walked. Not lunged.

  Moved.

  Trey and Abel barely managed to catch him before he launched himself at Blake with the speed and fury of a feral terrier.

  “Doc—hey—please—he didn’t mean it literally!” Abel grunted, hauling him back.

  “I CHOSE THE WRONG WORD!” Finian yelled. “I CHOSE THE WRONG WORD!”

  “I didn’t hit her!” Blake shouted, backing behind the couch. “IT WAS ROMANTIC ASSAULT!”

  Everyone yelled at once.

  “STOP CALLING IT ASSAULT!”

  Blake straightened, hands raised. “Sorry. Sorry. I kissed her, doc. And she kissed me too.”

  Before anyone could respond—

  A scream erupted from downstairs.

  Not pain.

  Not fear.

  High-pitched. Layered. Explosive.

  Excitement.

  The room froze.

  “…Was that Abby?” Trey asked slowly.

  Abel nodded. “Sounded… excited. Not distressed.”

  Blake tilted his head smugly. “Told ya.”

  Francis stopped resisting Abel’s grip, exhaled, and adjusted his collar.

  “…Very well.”

  He fixed Blake with a steady look.

  “Then you will treat her properly,” He said calmly. “Or I’ll kill you myself.”

  Blake didn’t hesitate. “I will.”

  Abby did not walk to Luna’s room.

  She stormed in like she was being chased by a crime she had absolutely committed.

  Luna’s room looked less like a bedroom and more like a poorly defended fortress, pillows piled high, blankets draped everywhere, and Reid loudly declaring the whole thing “tactically brilliant.” Bridget disagreed on principle.

  A plate of biscuits sat between them, crumbs already everywhere.

  All three froze mid-chew.

  “He kissed me,” Abby gasped.

  Silence.

  Reid slowly lowered her biscuit. “…Who?”

  “Blake.”

  Three different processing speeds activated.

  Bridget gasped dramatically.

  Luna blinked like her brain lagged.

  Reid burst out laughing.

  “No, seriously,” Reid said. “Who?”

  “BLAKE. ASHFORD. KISSED. ME.”

  The room stared at her like she’d announced a boulder reciting poetry.

  “How was he?!” Bridget clutched her heart. “Was he—was he gentle?”

  Abby buried her face in her hands. “Warm. Very warm. And… he smiled after.”

  Reid choked. “BLAKE?? SMILED??”

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  Luna leaned forward, fascinated. “Did he flush too? Or did he stand there like a smug ox?”

  Abby hesitated. “…He flushed first.”

  The room went feral.

  “NO WAY. BLAKE ‘I-HAVE-THE-EMOTIONAL-RANGE-OF-A-BRICK’ ASHFORD BLUSHED?!” Reid nearly dropped her biscuit.

  “He’s so gone for you.” Bridget kicked her feet, delighted.

  “I can’t believe this is happening!” Abby groaned.

  Luna smirked. “I can. I’ve seen the way he looks at you, like he’s choosing between kissing you or headbutting a wall. Both are his favorites.”

  Abby flopped onto a bed and screamed into a pillow, too happy to hide it.

  Morning arrived far too quickly.

  The dining room flooded with sunlight and noise, chairs scraping, plates clinking, half-asleep Pines shuffling through routine.

  Abby walked in, determined to act normal.

  She made it three steps before she saw him.

  Blake Ashford was already seated.

  Already staring.

  Already smirking.

  He didn’t say anything. Just patted the bench beside him.

  Abby froze.

  Finian whispered to Abel, “He’s glowing.”

  “He caught feelings,” Abel replied flatly. “It’s terminal.”

  Abby slowly approached and sat, not beside him, but one seat away.

  Blake immediately slid over.

  “Morning,” he said cheerfully.

  “If you say one word about yesterday,” she hissed, gripping her spoon, face turning crimson. “I will—”

  “Technically, you kissed me back—”

  “Do you want to die during breakfast?”

  She couldn’t believe she’d just threatened Blake Ashford.

  And somehow, he took it delightfully.

  “At least I’ll die happy.”

  Trey sighed from across the table. “This is worse than when Finian thought he was in love with a sandwich.”

  “Hey! It was a good sandwich.” Finian snapped.

  “If word spreads,” Abby muttered, “I will deny everything and call you delusional.”

  “Too late.” Blake’s grin widened.

  “…What?”

  Eve passed behind them with a tray. “Congrats on the kissing.”

  Bluebell waved at them. “I wrote you both a poem!”

  Abby slammed her forehead on the table. “Why is this happening.”

  Blake patted her back proudly. “Because you kissed Blake Ashford.”

  She lifted her head just enough to glare at him. “Give me one reason not to strangle you.”

  “You’ll miss me.”

  She hated that he was right.

  By afternoon, Abby was gone.

  No training.

  No library.

  No lunch.

  Blake had not seen her all day.

  By evening, Blake was half-convinced he had ruined everything.

  Okay. She regrets it.

  She thinks I’m disgusting.

  She’s probably exfoliating her lips with soap and vengeance.

  I should move to another house.

  He wandered through the training yard until Luna spotted him and sighed.

  “She’s not avoiding you because she’s disgusted, you ox.”

  “Then why is she—”

  “She’s crafting your downfall. Rope. Chalk. Possibly small bombs. I didn’t ask.”

  “Relax,” Trey said, appearing behind her. “She only plots this hard for people she likes.”

  Blake frowned. “That’s not comforting.”

  “It’s not meant to be.” Trey grinned. “It’s educational.”

  Blake stood there, deeply concerned.

  The empty classroom smelled like chalk and abandoned ambition.

  Abby hunched over a table covered in schematics, stolen ingredients, and glitter bombs.

  “…If I rig the door to drop flour and ink simultaneously, he’ll look like a frosted donkey…”

  She was so focused she didn’t notice Blake leaning in the doorway.

  He just watched her. Fond. Slightly terrified.

  “…What did the donkey do to deserve that?”

  She shrieked.

  “GET OUT! YOU’RE NOT SUPPOSED TO—”

  “Luna said you were plotting.”

  She blushed furiously. “I— WELL — YOU— YOU WERE TOO SMUG. AND I’M NOT LETTING YOU WIN.”

  Blake walked closer. Slowly. Careful as if approaching a spooked cat.

  He looked over the disaster of a blueprint.

  Then nodded. “…You’re missing a tripwire.”

  Abby froze. “…What?”

  “If you angle the bucket here, it’ll dump faster.”

  “You’re helping me sabotage you?” Abby asked, baffled.

  “If that makes you happy, I’ll personally test the trap.”

  His hand lifted briefly, just enough to brush a loose curl out of his line of sight.

  Abby’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

  “So…” He asked quietly, eyes lifting to hers. “Do I get a kiss after my sacrifice?”

  She snapped his hand away like it’d burned her.

  “No way!”

  “But the hero always gets some rewards.”

  He grinned, utterly unrepentant.

  “YOU ARE THE VILLAIN IN THIS STORY.” Abby snapped.

  “Fine. No kiss.” He nodded, sliding into a seat next to her.

  “No.”

  “…What about a date?”

  Abby just stared.

  “That’s settled! Looking forward to it!” He grabbed her hands, smiling cheerfully.

  She huffed and turned back to the blueprint, cheeks hot enough to rival any dye they planned to fling. He fished a length of twine for her, handed it over with theatrical solemnity, and resumed helping, precise, patient, and annoyingly obliging.

  They worked together, her plotting, him assisting, both pretending this was normal.

  The trap was already set.

  Abby and the Pines stood in the empty classroom for a moment, staring at the rigged door, the carefully balanced bucket, the string threaded just right. Everything was in place.

  She still couldn’t quite believe how it had all come together.

  Or how many people had helped her, Blake aside.

  Bluebell and Florence had been the first to appear, as if summoned by the sheer concept of chaos. They hadn’t even asked why.

  Bluebell handed over the bomb components with a grin. Florence supplied chalk, string, and a disturbingly precise diagram.

  “That’s just what we do,” Florence had said cheerfully.

  Trey had contributed next, not materials, but vision.

  “For entertainment.” he’d declared, rearranging parts of the setup.

  And then there was Francis.

  Abby blinked, then looked at him, already unpacking several neatly labeled jars with clinical efficiency.

  “And you?” she’d asked, incredulous. “Why do you care?”

  Francis hadn’t looked up.

  “Do you know how much trouble he causes me just by being him?” he’d said flatly. “That man comes to the clinic every other day. I can’t not treat him either.”

  Trey, very helpfully, had leaned in.

  “Indeed. Every other day. I’ve kept records.”

  Francis slid a jar across the table toward Abby without making eye contact.

  “Apply externally. Avoid eyes. Mild staining,” he added, then paused.“Temporary humiliation.”

  Abby had stared at the jar.

  Then smiled.

  They didn’t wait long.

  Less than ten minutes later, Blake “accidentally” approached the classroom door exactly as planned.

  He paused. Looked around. Squinted at the ceiling.

  Even knowing it was a trap… he smiled like a man walking willingly into his doom.

  He opened the door.

  WHUMP.

  Flour. Ink. Glitter. Foam. Tiny bombs, all at once.

  The trap turned him into a sparkling, purple manchild.

  Blake wiped one eye clear, looked up, and spotted Abby.

  Then he grinned like a lunatic.

  “I HAVE FALLEN FOR YOUR HONOUR!”

  Abby blushed.

  Everyone else cheered.