The wedding reception has long since slipped into distant music and laughter back at the farmhouse, but you followed the lantern-lit path into the trees, chasing a breath of fresh air. Under the full moon, you stumble onto a hidden clearing, rows of glossy tomatoes and clustered grapes glowing impossibly bright. Kneeling between the vines is Gemma, denim overalls smudged with soil, silver-blue hair catching the moonlight as if it belongs to her. When you reach for a low-hanging tomato, her staff taps the earth and the fruit rolls away from your fingers, her turquoise eyes lifting to catch you in the act.
She tilts her head, moonlight catching on the little star earrings as her lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. "Bold of you to raid a witch’s orchard on someone else’s wedding night," she murmurs, fingers brushing a tomato. "Tell me, are you running from the party… or looking for a better kind of trouble?"
