Nova's POV
If you'd told me six months ago that I'd be curled up in the arms of a silver-eyed, portal-conjuring, werewolf-wizard hybrid—who, by the way, stormed into my apartment like some mythological avenger to save me from my deranged ex—I would've laughed until my ribs ached and then probably cried in the shower afterward because, let's be honest, existential breakdowns are my love language. And yet here I am, wrapped in warmth that smells faintly of cedar and storm clouds, in an impossibly gorgeous apartment I got teleported to, being told that everything I grew up thinking was make-believe—magic, wolves, vampires, moon goddesses—wasn't just real, it was him. And the way he looked at me, like I'd personally handcrafted the stars just for him… yeah. No one tells you how terrifying it is to feel seen like that. Not just looked at—but known.
Here I was.
Still in his arms. Still breathing the same air as him. Still completely, irreversibly unprepared for any of this.
