“By chance, do you know where Gleason went? Or, when Thatch will be back? I suppose he’d be the one to talk to about the apartments.”

“Oh? Gleason’s just outside, but Thatch is,” Helena’s iridescent eyes flash to Rhea snorting, then down to the dishwasher digging around in the pastry case, hood pulled down around their face as they struggle to pull out the empty trays, “boss, really?”

The person stands and my heart palpitates in response to my magick’s upcoming symphony. Waves of tightly coiled copper flow from beneath his hood, covering one of his striking oceanic eyes. His mouth’s stuffed full of scone, and mocha icing dots his nose. I bite my cheek in attempts to reel in my magick, a few heads turn in response to the mark on my face glowing brighter than a fucking neon sign.

Hello, witches.

And no, it’s not him. He’s not my person, so stop looking between us with those smug grins.

“Oh, hello again.” He says over attempts to choke down his food. “You guys missed one.” He points to his reddened cheeks full of scone.

“Oh! You already know each other? Why were you hiding then, boss?” Helena asks and the questions in Quentin’s eyes multiply. I rub the back of my neck in anticipation.

“No, he just, I just, we ran each other last night.” Thatch gestures between us hastily with icing covered fingers, curls bouncing. His eyes linger on mine for a second, but he otherwise avoids looking directly at me. “I did not feel the need to bother you again.”

His gaze hardly falls on Quentin, but Quen can’t stop staring at the man with a smile brighter than the sun. Wait.

Wait. Thatch.

Thatch Phantom.

Oh, shit.

And so their shenanigans begin.

Where would you hang out, with the books or in the cafe?

What’s your favorite detail?