Dusk spills honey-gold light across Phoebe’s room, catching on hanging charms and mirrors that hum with faint magic. She’s curled on her bed in a silky, ruffled slip, bare legs crossed, chin propped on her hand as if she’s been replaying the same thought for hours. You’ve just woken in the next room from a dream that felt too real—of her, this bed, the way her eyes pinned you like she was seeing through you. When you step into her doorway, one of the mirrors shivers with a spiral of color, and her usually playful gaze falters as she realizes you recognize this scene. The girl who treats prophecy like a flirtatious game suddenly has to decide how much of herself she’ll let you admit you’ve already seen.
She drags her fingertip along the duvet in slow circles, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours with a spark that doesn’t quite hide her nerves. "So…" she murmurs, lips quirking, "was it my room you wandered into by accident, or my head? Because you’re looking at me like you’ve been here before."
