Jace Mercer POV

Does he not own a normal T-shirt?

Why do they all have to be so tiny?

I don't say it aloud. That would be… unprofessional. Petty. 

Dangerous.

But still. Today’s shirt is a little different. Not the standard black cropped turtleneck he’s known for. This one’s faded blue, barely clinging to his waist, and just as unforgiving in how it hugs him. There are words printed across the front, cracked and weathered with time:

“Don’t touch me. My boyfriend is dangerous.”

Right.

There’s something about people telling others not to touch that just makes you want to. A psychological reflex. Or maybe I’m just losing it.

I’m standing here for… what? Support? Backup? Political formality?

They’re the ones doing the real work.

Avery is crouched beside Elias and some other man—one of the newer recruits who apparently used to have a PhD in geology and environmental sciences. Before the world fell apart.

 He’s short, balding, and still insists on wearing a sweater vest despite the apocalypse. Respect, I guess.

They're talking about maps and terrain and predictive storm patterns.

I hear the words. I just don’t care about them.

I’m too focused on the way Avery moves—quick, confident, dismissive. He uses a stick to sketch into the dirt. His voice is sharp, cutting through the air with ease. His hair falls around his face and he doesn’t seem to notice. Elias, of course, does.

He reaches over and tucks a few strands behind Avery’s ear.

Like it’s nothing.

Like he’s done it a hundred times before.

Something tightens in my chest.

Elias—with his damn piercings and ridiculous blue-dyed dreadlocks—always looks like he should be in a punk band, not co-leading scientific expeditions. 

Avery’s cropped shirt and military boots make him look like an action figure someone decided should also be hot. They both look like they were pulled out of the wrong genre.

And yet the guy with the sweater vest is the one watching them like they’re demigods. Eyes wide, nodding furiously, clearly trying to keep up.

“So we’re moving east after we leave the canyon,” Avery says. 

“We’ll need to cover as much ground as possible. Ideally, in the next three months. That’s our window before the next major mana storm hits.”

“So, no storms at all?” I ask, arms folded.

Avery gives me a flat look.

 “I said major mana storm. There will be minor ones. Localized changes. Nothing that’ll rip the sky open and flip the terrain like a table. But even that—”

“Isn’t certain?” I finish for him.

He narrows his eyes slightly, annoyed. 

“Correct. Nothing is ever certain in this world. Hell, it wasn’t even certain before. You know how long it took scientists to track hurricanes accurately before all this? Decades. Billions in funding. Global cooperation.”

He throws the stick aside and crosses his arms.

“I’m giving you my best projections, not a prophecy. If we’re hit with a major storm earlier than expected, I don’t want your people looking at me like I summoned it with my witch powers.”

I clench my jaw. He’s right.

He’s always infuriatingly right.

“Now that that’s over,” Elias says, brushing dirt off his palms, 

“Avery and I have a personal matter to attend to.”

He claps once and turns to leave, already pulling Avery by the elbow like they’ve done this before. Like they’ve got their own routines, their own world I don’t get to see.

Avery walks past me, just barely brushing shoulders.

For a second, I catch his scent.

Coconut.

Not the synthetic kind, either. Real. Faint and clean and warm.

I don’t think about it.

I don’t.

I turn and walk in the other direction, already pulling up my communicator and issuing movement orders to the vanguard. We have a schedule to keep, ground to cover, and I have no business thinking about someone else’s scent.

Still, the smell lingers longer than it should.

It always does.