Chapter 18
The morning rush had been brutal.
Three tour buses had somehow coordinated their arrival times, depositing what felt like half of Albany into my tiny shop. I’d sold out of snowman mugs, nearly depleted my stock of artisan ornaments, and personally witnessed a bidding war over the last hand-painted nativity set.
Bastian had watched the chaos with the expression of someone observing particularly aggressive wildlife. When an elderly woman had asked if he was “part of the experience,” he’d simply stared at her until she bought two packages of premium wrapping paper and scurried away.
Now, in the blessed lull that followed, we were restocking.
Or trying to. The storage situation in the stockroom had evolved organically over the years, which was a polite way of saying “complete disaster.” Boxes stacked on boxes, inventory shoved wherever it fit, and a labeling system that made sense only to my past self, who apparently hated my current self.
“This is chaos,” he announced from somewhere behind a tower of plastic storage bins.
“It’s organized chaos.”
“It is chaos that has defeated organization and now reigns supreme.”
I rolled my eyes, stretching up to reach a box on the top shelf. The label read “Ornaments—Maybe?” which was helpfully vague. “Not all of us have centuries of experience imposing order on the universe.”
“Clearly.”
“You know, for someone who’s supposed to be helping, you’re being awfully judgey.” I stood on my toes, fingers brushing the edge of the box. Almost. Just a little higher.
“I am observing. It is different.”
“Observe less, help more.” I stretched further, my sweater riding up slightly. The box was just out of reach, taunting me with its proximity. “Or get over here and grab this for me since you’re ridiculously tall.”
I heard him move, his footsteps quiet despite his size. He appeared beside me, reaching up easily. His arm extended past mine, and I had to shift sideways to give him room.
I turned, meaning to step back and give him space. Instead, my hand came up for balance and brushed against something solid and warm. The base of his horn, right where it curved from his skull.
He went completely still. Not the casual stillness of someone pausing mid-action. This was the frozen immobility of a predator that had just spotted prey. Every muscle locked. His breathing stopped. The box in his hand hovered in midair, forgotten.
I yanked my hand back. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to—”
He set the box down with exaggerated care. He didn’t look at me. He just placed it on the shelf with the kind of precision that suggested he was focusing entirely on that action to avoid focusing on anything else.
“Bastian?”
“It is nothing.” His voice came out lower than usual. Rougher.
“It’s clearly not nothing. You just turned into a statue.”
“Your observation skills are exemplary.” He still wasn’t looking at me. His hands gripped the shelf edge, knuckles pale beneath the fur. “The box you requested. Take it.”
“I’m not taking anything until you tell me what I did wrong.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“Then why are you acting weird?”
He finally turned his head, and I caught a glimpse of his eyes. They were glowing red, almost incandescent in the dim storage area.
“I am not acting weird,” he said, each word carefully measured. “I am exercising restraint.”
Restraint.
The word hung in my mind like a bright, neon sign. Because I’d accidentally touched a horn, and he’d reacted like I’d done something significantly more intimate. Which meant…
“Are your horns… sensitive?” I asked, my voice coming out smaller than intended.
“We are not discussing this here.” He released the shelf, stepping back carefully. “You have customers to attend to.”
“The shop’s empty.”
“It will not remain empty.”
“Bastian—”
“Noelle.” He said my name like a warning. Or a plea. I couldn’t tell which. “Leave it.”
But I’d never been good at leaving things. It was why my shop was full of rescues and remainders, why I kept every broken ornament thinking I could fix it someday, why I’d performed a summoning ritual when I was drunk and desperate.
“I didn’t know,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“I know you did not know but—”
“Intention is irrelevant,” I finished, and he nodded. He moved past me, his tail deliberately avoiding contact. “I will reorganize the storage system. You should return to the front.”
“You’re going to reorganize my entire storage area?”
“It is insufferable and requires intervention.”
“You’re avoiding me.”
“I am improving your inventory management.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
He didn’t answer. Just began pulling boxes down with methodical efficiency, his movements precise and controlled. Everything about his posture screamed do not engage. I engaged anyway.
“Look, I don’t want to make things weird between us.”
“Things are not weird.”
“You’re stress-organizing my stockroom. Things are definitely weird.”
He set down a box labeled “Ribbon—Red?” and turned to face me fully. The intensity of his gaze made me want to step back, but I held my ground.
“Your hands,” he said slowly, “have a habit of touching dangerous things.”
“Dangerous things?”
“My tail. My horns.” His eyes tracked over me like he was cataloging every movement. “You reach without thinking. You grab without considering the consequences.”
“I was just trying to balance—”
“I know.” He took one step closer. Just one. But it felt like the distance between us had collapsed entirely. “You act on instinct. Touch freely. Offer comfort and connection without fear.” Another step. “It is simultaneously your greatest strength and a significant… problem.”
My back hit the shelving unit. I hadn’t realized I was moving backward. “Problem?”
“For me.” He was close now. Not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. “Your casual touches affect me in ways you do not comprehend.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you are standing in my space, looking at me with those wide, curious eyes, and asking me to explain intimate details about my physical form.” His voice had dropped to a near growl. “Do you not see the problem with this scenario?”
I saw it. I absolutely saw it. But I also saw the way his hands were clenched at his sides, the way his tail had gone rigid behind him, the way he was holding himself back with visible effort.
“I won’t touch them again,” I said. “Your horns. I’ll be more careful.”
“That is not the solution I require.”
“Then what do you require?”
The question came out wrong. Or maybe exactly right. Either way, it hung between us, loaded with implications neither of us was quite ready to address.
His jaw tightened. He looked at me for a long moment, something dangerous and wanting flickering across his expression. Then he stepped back, putting careful distance between us.
“I require time,” he said finally. “And you require customers.” He nodded towards the front, where I could hear the bells over the door chiming. “Go.”
I wanted to argue, wanted to understand what I’d stumbled into when I’d accidentally brushed his horn. But the customer was calling out a hello, and my shop needed me, and Bastian was very clearly at his limit.
So I went.
The afternoon was steady but manageable. A few browsers, one serious buyer who purchased an entire collection of vintage ornaments, and a family who spent twenty minutes debating the merits of different tree toppers before settling on a classic star.
The whole time, I was aware of Bastian in the back. I could hear boxes being moved, the occasional muttered comment in what might have been German, and the methodical sound of someone imposing order on chaos through sheer force of will.
Around four o’clock, during another lull, I slipped into the back to check on his progress.
And stopped dead. My storage area looked completely different.
Everything was organized by category, then by size, with clear labels written in surprisingly elegant handwriting.
The shelves were arranged for maximum efficiency.
There was a color-coded system. Actual floor space was visible.
“This is…” I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is amazing.”
Bastian stood in the corner, arms crossed, surveying his work with the satisfaction of a general reviewing conquered territory. “It is adequate.”
“It’s incredible. I can actually find things now.”
“That was the intention.”
I walked over to him, meaning to thank him properly. Maybe hug him, because apparently I was the kind of person who hugged ancient beings who reorganized storage rooms. He tracked my approach with wary eyes and I stopped.
“Thank you. Really. This must have taken hours.”
“Two hours and forty-three minutes.”
“You timed it?”
“I time everything.”
“Right. Of course.” I looked around again, still marveling at the transformation. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
“Your system was causing me psychological distress.”
“My system was fine.”
“Your system was an affront to reason and order.”
I laughed, the tension from earlier finally breaking. “Well, your affront to reason is now beautifully organized. So thank you.”
He inclined his head, accepting the gratitude. Then his expression shifted, becoming more serious. “Noelle.”
“Yeah?”
“Earlier, when you touched my horn…” He paused, seeming to struggle with how to continue. “I may have overreacted.”
“You froze completely and then started stress-organizing. I’d say you reacted pretty proportionally to whatever you were feeling.”
“I was attempting to maintain control.”
“Of what?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Myself.”
I thought about his reaction, the red glow, the rigid control. The way he’d called my hands dangerous.
“Your horns,” I said slowly, working it out. “They’re… an erogenous zone or something?”
“Or something,” he agreed, his voice dry.
Oh. That kind of sensitive. That kind of reaction.
My face went hot. “I really didn’t know.”