Chapter 29 Tealeaf
Hecate left the way she’d arrived; without using the door, simply unbecoming from the space she’d occupied, reality sighing with relief as it settled back into normal physics. One moment, she was there. The next, just empty air and the faint scent of crossroads; dust and distant thunder.
The flat felt quiet after she vanished, like the shadows themselves had been holding their breath until she was gone and could finally exhale.
But the weight she’d brought lingered, pressing down on my chest until it was hard to breathe.
My mind wouldn’t stop racing with all that we had discussed, everything that had happened.
Cyrus’s trap was elegant in its cruelty.
I was already remembering and reconnecting.
It was happening whether I wanted it or not, and we had no choice but to keep going, to train, to awaken, because the alternative was staying vulnerable and mortal while he circled closer.
The only way to survive was to become exactly what he needed me to be.
The thought made my skin crawl.
I needed something normal. Something human.
So, after a quick shower and changing into the warm clothes Kian had left out for me, I escaped to his kitchen, drawn by the need to do something routine and controllable when everything else felt impossible.
The ritual of making tea had always calmed me.
Something about the alchemy of it, the transformation of bitter dried leaves into comfort, made the world feel manageable again.
Kian’s flat was tidy to the point of obsession.
Everything in its place, nothing extraneous, clean lines and careful order that spoke of centuries of practice.
But he clearly hadn’t designed it with someone my size in mind.
Every shelf towered above me, everything important shoved higher than my arms could comfortably reach.
The tea leaves, of course, were no exception.
I stood on my toes, fingers just brushing the edge of the canister, tantalizingly close. I stretched harder, rising on the very tips of my toes until my calves burned with the effort, but it was no use. The tin sat there beyond my reach, mocking me.
I eyed the counter, measuring the height, calculating if I could pull this off without injuring myself further. My bandaged palms throbbed at the thought, sending warning twinges. My calf wound protested the very idea.
But I wanted that damn tea. I stared hard at the counter.
I could climb it.
I was absolutely going to climb it.
I’d survived being kidnapped and nearly stabbed tonight—I could handle a kitchen counter.
I had just braced my bandaged hands against the edge, one knee coming up to find purchase on the counter, when a low, startled laugh broke the silence behind me.
“What,” I muttered, whipping around so fast I nearly lost my balance.
Kian leaned against the doorway, arms folded, the faintest curve tugging at his mouth, but concern was evident in his eyes, like he was torn between being amused and genuinely worried I was about to hurt myself.
“You,” he said, nodding toward the counter and my precarious position with one leg half-raised, “were you about to climb on my counter? While injured?”
Heat flared in my cheeks, and I huffed, abandoning my climbing attempt and planting both feet on the floor. “Your shelves are ridiculous. Not all of us are built like tree trunks, and some of us would like tea without needing a stepladder or professional climbing equipment.”
He pushed off the door frame and came to stand beside me. The difference in our heights was almost comical. I barely reached his shoulder, had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
He reached up and plucked the canister off the top shelf with maddening ease. His eyes lit up with mischief as he held the canister just out of my reach.
“Kian,” I warned.
He held the tin higher, smile growing. I had to stand on my very tiptoes again to try and reach it, my fingers catching in his shirt to try to pull him down to my level. He was completely immovable, solid as a mountain, and I was practically climbing him now while he laughed at my struggle.
His free hand came to rest on top of my head, gentle but firm, keeping me at arm’s length like I was an overenthusiastic puppy.
I made an indignant sound, stretching uselessly and pulling harder at his shirt.
He tilted his chin downward, the kitchen light catching in his eyes, and said it with such casual fondness that it stopped my struggling entirely: “Careful, Tealeaf. You might wear yourself out.”
I froze and blinked up at him, processing.
“Did you just—?” I couldn’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding my cheeks and spreading down my neck.
“Tealeaf,” he repeated, a smug grin stretching across his face as he handed me the tin, giving my hair an affectionate rumple—the gesture so casual, so natural, like we’d been doing this for years instead of days.
I gripped the canister to my chest, trying to wrap my mind around the nickname.
“Tealeaf? That’s what you’re calling me now?” I asked. He gave me a cheeky smile.
“Fitting for you, I would say,” he said. “You drink enough tea that you might reincarnate into a tea plant in your next life. And you are a lot like a tealeaf.”
I flushed, a wave of self-consciousness flooding through me. “Because I’m small and fragile, right?”
“What?” He asked, his eyes widening. “Gods, no.”
He stepped closer, his fingers brushing my arm.
“A single tealeaf has the power to change everything it touches,” he explained, staring into my eyes. “If you drop one in boiling water, it will transform the whole pot into something nourishing and beautiful.”
My pulse skipped, butterflies filling my stomach.
“You walked into my life,” he said, “and everything changed. My days have purpose again, beyond existing. You make me laugh. You challenge me. You’re fierce and brave.” His hand slid down my arm to my wrist, brushing his thumb tenderly over my knuckles “You’re small, yes. But you’re also powerful.”
A laugh bubbled in my chest. “You really mean that?”
He smiled, lifting my hand to press his lips to my hand. “I do.”
My face may as well have caught on fire. I turned away, determined not to let him see the way my lips wanted to curve in spite of everything. My heart was doing ridiculous things, fluttering in a way I didn’t have the energy to unpack.
“You’re blushing,” he teased, grinning wider.
“Am not,” I huffed, cheeks burning brighter. “It’s just hot in here.”
He chuckled, turning to put the kettle on the stove.
“My mistake, Tealeaf,” he said, clearly amused.
Nicknames had never been kind before. Fun-Size. Pixie Stick. Bubble Girl. Each one had carried its own particular sting, its own specific humiliation carved into memory.
But this one somehow didn’t feel like a cage—it felt like an invitation. Like being seen and treasured for what I was rather than mocked for what I wasn’t. The very idea made my insides turn to goo.
“You don’t get to call me that in front of anyone else, okay?” I murmured, looking anywhere but his face.
He laughed, the sound low and warm. “Of course not. It’s just for us.” He paused, his expression turning tender. “Our thing.”
Ours. The word settled into my chest like a promise.
I looked down at the tea tin, then back up at him. “Thank you. For… seeing me that way.”
“It’s the only way I’ve ever seen you,” he said, and the honesty in his voice made me believe him.
I busied myself with the tea leaves, grateful for something to do with my hands that wasn’t reaching for things I couldn’t have, or shouldn’t want. The rhythm of it helped untangle some of the knots in my chest, made the world feel manageable again in small, controlled increments.
Without thinking, I started to hum. Soft at first, just enough to fill the comfortable silence that had settled between us. A melody I didn’t even realize I remembered, something old and smoky and sad. Something my bones knew better than my mind, rising from some buried place deep in my soul.
When I glanced up, Kian had gone still, staring at me with an expression I couldn’t quite name. Not just surprised but struck, like he’d been hit by something sweet, and painful all at once. His eyes were distant, seeing someone else overlaid on my face like a double exposure photograph.
For a heartbeat, his expression was almost devastated with grief and love all tangled together, before he caught himself and smoothed it over with visible effort.
“You have a nice voice,” he said, too lightly, as if it hadn’t just sent him tumbling through time. “Reminds me of someone.”
His tone made my chest tight, the hum dying in my throat. “Someone you miss?”
His smile was sad, weighted with centuries. “Yes. Very much.”
I hesitated, unsure of myself. “Someone you loved once?”
He huffed a laugh, busying himself with tidying up the counter space as though he needed something to do with his hands. “You could say that,” he murmured.
I wanted to ask more, to learn what version of me he was remembering with that expression. But before I could, a spike of panic cut through the domestic comfort like a knife.
“Oh gods, Luz!” My hand flew to my pocket, reaching for a phone that wasn’t there. “I was supposed to text her when I got here safe. She’s probably losing her mind—”
“I’ll text her right now.” Kian already had his phone out, pulling up her contact. He winced. “Oh, she called me several times already.”
He typed quickly, then showed me the screen:
Kian: It’s Kian. Melanie is safe, she’s at my flat. She lost her phone tonight, but she’s okay. She’ll call you tomorrow.
“Perfect,” I breathed, relieved.
He hit send, then added, “I’ll get you a new phone tom—”
Before he could finish, the phone buzzed in his hand. Luz’s name flashed across the screen.
He answered immediately, putting it on speaker.
“Melanie?!” Luz’s voice called out.
My chest seized. “Luz, I’m okay—”