Chapter 1: The Mysterious Willow Stick
The ache in my chest had become a permanent resident. Six weeks since Elara walked out, taking her laughter and half the furniture with her, and the silence in my apartment still felt like a physical thing. That’s why I was out with Bear on a Tuesday, because staying in meant listening to it. The third whiskey sour was a warm, blurry idea in my hand, and Bear was on a rant about his boss.
“—and he says the spreadsheet is ‘aesthetic,’ but not, and I quote, ‘actionable.’ What the fuck does that even mean?” Bear grumbled, his broad shoulders tense under his flannel shirt.I shrugged, the motion feeling loose.“It means he’s a tool. Let’s get another.”
Bear squinted at me. “You’re gonna be a tool if you have another.C’mon, let’s walk it off. I know a shortcut back to your place.”
The “shortcut” took us down an alley I’d never noticed, slick with damp and smelling of wet brick and garbage. A flickering neon sign buzzed halfway down, casting a sickly purple light on a crooked doorway. The sign simply read ‘Curios.’
“Since when is this here?” I mumbled, my words slurring just a bit.
“Hell if I know,” Bear said, but he was already pushing the door open, a bell jingling overhead. “Looks weird. Let’s see if they have any of those giant novelty mints.”
The air inside was thick and still, smelling of dusty parchment and a sharp, metallic tang like old coins. Shelves bowed under the weight of bizarre inventory: jars filled with what looked like glowing sand, tarnished brass instruments covered in unreadable sigils, books bound in leather that seemed to breathe. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling, doing little to push back the deep shadows in the corners.
“Total tourist trap,” Bear announced, his voice too loud in the quiet. He poked a stuffed owl with a glass eye. “Probably buy all this junk from some warehouse in Jersey.”
My head was swimming, Elara’s face floating behind my eyes. The loneliness was a hollow, hungry feeling just then.I didn’t want profound connection. I didn’t want to understand someone’s soul. I wanted warm skin, whispered dirt, the obliterating rush of physical need—no conversations, no promises, just a release valve for this constant, pressing ache.
My gaze drifted over a cluttered shelf.Among desiccated roots and cloudy crystals was a stick. It was maybe a foot long, gnarled and twisted like old willow, a single tag tied with twine around its middle. On the tag, in faint, spidery script, were two words: One Wish.A stupid, impulsive laugh bubbled out of me.Bear was right. Tourist junk.
“Find your mints?” Bear called from across the shop, where he was examining a jar of what looked like floating eyelashes.My fingers closed around the stick. It was warmer than it should have been. The whisper in my head was my own, desperate and raw: I just want someone who wants me.Simple.Easy.No heartbreak.Just… heat. A girl who exists for that.A total fucking slut, just for me.
I didn’t even realize I’d applied pressure until the stick snapped between my fingers with a sound like a cracking bone.
The air in the shop shimmered, like heat rising off asphalt. A static charge lifted the hair on my arms.Bear spun around. “What was that?”
Before he could say more, he winced, doubling over.“Shit,” he gasped. “My head…”
“Bear?”
He stumbled against a shelf, sending a cascade of small bones clattering to the floor. His form… wavered.It was like watching him through warped glass. His muscular frame seemed to compact, to soften. His clothes—the flannel, the jeans—billowed, then tightened again, but differently. The fabric strained over new curves, then dissolved in a subtle ripple of misplaced light, reforming into different shapes: the soft weave of a cream-colored sweater, the dark fabric of leggings.
The process was silent except for Bear’s ragged, changing breaths. His height dropped, shrinking down, down, until he was looking up at me from several inches below. The strong line of his jaw softened, melted into a delicate, heart-shaped face framed by a messy, dark brunette bob with blunt-cut bangs. His shoulders were slender, his waist nipped in dramatically before flaring out into hips that now filled the leggings.The sweater draped over a full, soft chest.
He—she—was stunning. A petite, curvaceous brunette with wide, confused hazel eyes.Bear’s eyes.
She stared down at her own hands, turning them over: small, with short, neat nails.A tremor ran through her. She looked up at me, her new, full lips parting.And then a low, soft moan escaped her. “Oh… Alex…”
My name. In a voice that was unmistakably Bear’s in timbre, but higher, smoother, undeniably feminine. It was layered with a thick, drowsy yearning that made my stomach clench.I took a stumbling step back, my spine hitting a shelf.A jar rattled. “Bear?”
She took a step toward me, her movements unsteady but deliberate. The look on her face was one I knew, but had never seen directed at me. It was a look of pure, wanting hunger. But beneath it, deep in those familiar eyes, was a flicker of raw, unadulterated terror.
“Alex,” she said again, the name a plea and a promise. Her new body moved with an innate, sensual awareness, a hip cocked, a glance through her lashes. But her hand came up to her own throat, fingers touching the unfamiliar skin there, and the terror flashed brighter, battling the strange, seductive smile trying to form on her lips. “What… what did you do?” The question was Bear’s, gruff and panicked, even in this new, softer voice. It ended in another traitorous, soft moan as she instinctively pressed her thighs together, her cheeks flushing with a shame that wasn’t entirely her own.