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The studio lights bathed the room in a warm, golden glow. Outside, the first snow was already falling—soft, muffled, almost reverent. Through the narrow windows, the muted shimmer of the colorful string lights drifted in, the ones Magnus’ team had hung up back in November. Far too early, Raphael had grumbled. Magnus smiled at the memory of his colleague’s protest. Luckily, Cat and Simon were just as enthusiastic about the holiday season as he was and had supported him wholeheartedly.
Magnus relied on these rituals. They helped him ease into a time of year he unfortunately didn’t associate only with pleasant memories. And the lights brought the right mood he needed for his podcast episodes: calm. Warmth. That little spark telling him: It was almost Christmas, and the world felt a bit more festive for a moment. Quieter. More contemplative.
He liked that. This special atmosphere.
What he didn’t like was the very real possibility that today’s guest might throw his life completely off balance.
Magnus discreetly twisted the rings on his fingers. Normally, it calmed him, but not today. Though could anyone really blame him… when it came to Professor Alexander Gideon Lightwood?
Good grief, that man looked like someone who looked too perfect to be real. Dark, thick hair, perfectly styled, as though it were that soft and glossy by nature. A face almost absurdly harmonious: clean lines, a defined jaw, cheekbones sharp in the right light. Skin touched by a warm tan, flawless, pulling the whole picture together. Add to that the aura he carried—effortless confidence, radiating outward.
All of this made Alec Lightwood the kind of man who could make even a simple black sweater look like it belonged on the cover of a fashion catalogue. And the color of the fabric brought out his eyes even more: dark, calm and warm. With a hint of humor Magnus had not found in any of the purely professional (exclamation mark) information he had gathered about him.
In short: Professor Alexander Gideon Lightwood wasn’t just attractive. He was dangerously attractive. The embodiment of style and quiet sexiness, without the slightest attempt.
But what truly knocked Magnus to his knees was the glasses. Those infuriatingly perfect glasses the professor pushed up at that very moment, as if he weren’t merely adjusting them, but looking straight into Magnus’ soul.
Fantastic. Just what he needed: a guest capable of collapsing his internal equilibrium with a single, tiny finger movement. Magnus bit down on his lower lip. He really needed to stop staring before it got embarrassing. But he couldn’t. Because that was the exact moment Professor Lightwood settled into the chair across from him.
Magnus tried desperately to maintain the illusion that he had the situation completely under control as the professor stretched his long (practically endless) legs into a comfortable, slightly spread position.
Oh my God. He barely managed to suppress a laugh and sent a silent curse Cat’s way. Because she was the one who had put him in this situation in the first place. Without any warning, she had invited the professor. “He’s perfect for the episode, Magnus, trust me!” she had said with a wink. “You’ll like him.”
Magnus should have been suspicious right then and there, and he cursed again. Maybe he shouldn’t have complained to her quite so often about his lonely single life.
For a brief moment, he closed his eyes and replayed the information about his guest in his head. He had barely had time this morning to skim the few notes Cat had written down for him: Alec Lightwood was an award-winning young historian specializing in cultural narratives. A man with a preference for clear structures, precise phrasing, and surprisingly sharp-witted footnotes. Someone who spoke in lectures with a quiet voice, as though weighing every word with meticulous care, yet still landing every point effortlessly. As if that hadn’t been impressive enough, Magnus had found the latest press photo (which he had not, of course, looked up quickly online): Alec in a dark coat, collar turned up, a few snowflakes in his hair, gaze focused on the camera.
Magnus had caught himself staring longer than any strictly professional preparation would ever require. Something inside him had warmed, a soft flutter deep in his stomach, like someone had lit a spark beneath his skin. And he had immediately told himself it was the studio heating. Or the coffee. Or some overly aggressive holiday spirit.
Not Alexander Lightwood.
Absolutely not.
But not even that picture had prepared him for the reality in front of him. And Magnus was beginning to wonder whether he needed some sort of emotional emergency button during the interview or possibly a ventilator.
He cleared his throat and pressed some random button on the soundboard, purely for the sake of his dignity.
The professor—or Alec, as he had introduced himself—looked up.
“Are we… recording already?”
His voice was deep and warm. Of course it was. And it sent a shiver straight down Magnus’ spine.
“Only if you want us to,” he said, putting on a smile that was meant to look professional, not unhinged. He failed. “But we can start slowly. No rush.”
Alec adjusted his glasses. His fingers brushed his jaw in a way that should have been absolutely illegal.
“I don’t mind starting right away. I’m ready when you are.”
Magnus’ brain shut down for a full two seconds.
Professional. You are a professional.
He pressed the record button. A soft beep sounded. Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but strangely charged, like a held breath.
“Great,” Magnus said, ignoring how much his voice wavered. “Today on Starfall Conversations we have Professor Alexander Lightwood, historian, researcher, and—” He paused as he took in the man’s relaxed posture across from him, one hand resting on the armrest, the other near his chin. “—unexpectedly photogenic academic.”
Alec blinked. “I… what?”
Magnus flinched and tried to arrange his face into something innocent. “It’s meant as a compliment. You have good podcast presence.”
“We haven’t even started yet.”
“Exactly,” Magnus said. “And the listeners will already be melting in their seats.”
A faint flush appeared on Alec’s cheekbones. Magnus filed that reaction away for later analysis while simultaneously grappling with the fact that his heart had apparently decided to do a completely unprofessional somersault without warning.
Magnus noticed movement in the corner of his eye and glanced as discreetly as possible toward Raphael, who was sitting behind the viewing window. Raphael shook his head and shot him a distinctly irritated look.
Magnus gave him a sheepish grin and leaned back in his chair, hoping the small increase in distance would help him keep a cool head. Thankfully, this wasn’t a live show.
“Okay, let's start again. Welcome back to Starfall Conversations,” he began again. “Today I’m joined by Professor Alexander Lightwood, whose work focuses on cultural memory, identity formation, and the stories that shape us.”
Alec folded his hands neatly in his lap while spreading his legs a little further.
Magnus blinked—once, then again. His gaze caught on Alec’s hands. They were long-fingered hands, every movement tinged with an outrageous elegance. Only a second too late did Magnus register exactly where he was looking… and how that could be interpreted.
He jerked his head up, only to find Alec watching him with a clearly entertained expression.
“Thank you for having me,” Alec said, with a hint of amusement in his voice that Magnus pointedly ignored.
Magnus crossed his legs, desperate to do something—anything—to cover his embarrassment. Get a grip, Bane!
“Alexander, your newest book is…”
Magnus fell silent. Something in Alec’s face shifted. A brief flicker of surprise, so subtle it would have been easy to miss.
“No one calls me Alexander,” the professor said.
Magnus felt heat climb the back of his neck instantly. Wonderful. Not even a minute in and he’d already made his first misstep.
“Sorry,” he muttered quickly. “I didn’t mean to… I just thought it sounded more respectful. If it makes you uncomfortable, of course I’ll call you Alec—”
Alec looked at him.
Not irritated. Not distant.
But with an unexpected gentleness that nearly stole Magnus’ breath. Then a small, warm smile curved Alec’s lips.
“It’s not a problem,” he said. “Just unusual.”
Magnus raised his eyebrows. “Unusual… good? Or more like ‘please never again’?”
Alec lowered his gaze briefly, as if weighing his answer. When he looked back up, there was something open, honest in his expression.
“When you say it,” he said quietly, “it’s okay.”
Magnus felt his heart do a very unprofessional flip. He forced himself not to smile too visibly.
“Good,” he said, striving for a steady voice. “Then… Alexander, your newest book has been getting a lot of attention. I could summarize it myself, but I think my listeners deserve the expert version.”
Alec’s expression shifted slightly, now tinted with enthusiasm.
“Well, simply put, I examine how communities preserve their sense of identity after major historical disruptions. Wars, migration, loss, cultural collapse. The core question is: What remains? What do people hold on to when everything else changes?”
Magnus nodded, attentive and composed. “So you’re saying memory is a kind of survival strategy?”
“In a way, yes.” Alec appeared more animated now, but not overly so. “Many assume memory is backward-facing, but in truth, it points toward the future. We preserve what we believe the next generation should build upon. Stories structure us. They provide framework, guidance, identity.”
Magnus smiled. “That sounds almost… philosophical.”
“Maybe a little,” Alec replied with a small, reserved smile that absolutely did make Magnus’ heart stumble for a moment. “But ultimately, it’s about people and what matters to them.”
Magnus cast a brief glance at his notes, trying to ground himself. He could not afford to mess up this podcast. The topic was too important. And Raphael would make his life hell if he did.
“You mention that not only communities, but individuals also go through these processes.”
“Yes,” Alec confirmed. “The stories we tell about ourselves shape our self-image. They influence decisions, relationships, goals. And if you change those narratives or consciously reframe them, it can be very transformative.”
“An intriguing thought,” Magnus said. “Let me follow up on that: your earlier research focused mostly on medieval literature. Then you shifted to trauma studies. That’s a remarkable change in focus. What motivated that?”
Alec hesitated for a moment, then answered carefully: “I wanted to work in a field where research could have an immediate impact. Medieval literature is valuable, no question. But trauma studies…” He paused briefly. “They deal with real experiences, with current social processes. For me, it felt meaningful to move in that direction.”
Magnus nodded and offered him another smile. Alec’s words carried a tone—warm, serious, a little vulnerable—that settled somewhere in Magnus’ chest. As if Alec himself had lived some of what he was describing. As if there was more behind the sentences and between the pauses. Was that perhaps the real reason for the shift?
The question hung a bit too clearly in the room, at least for Magnus. He wanted very badly to ask, but that would be completely inappropriate. Not here. Not on air.
Magnus felt something stir inside him. A barely noticeable tightening in his chest. An echo. He swallowed. Not now. Not here.
“You speak very clearly about impact and responsibility. What does that mean to you?” he asked.
“Understanding people,” Alec said simply. “How they navigate difficult situations. How they develop resilience. How they reorient themselves. I think that’s an area that concerns all of us.”
This time, it caught Magnus off guard.
All of us… the words were so innocent, so general, and yet it felt as though Alec somehow recognized what was happening inside him. As if Alec had accidentally touched a thread Magnus thought he had tied neatly beneath all the others long ago. He cleared his throat quietly, hoping the sound wouldn’t be obvious in the edit.
Alec noticed. Of course he noticed; his gaze sharpened for a moment—curious, attentive, but not intrusive. A look that seemed to say: You have a story too.
Magnus broke eye contact faster than he meant to and pretended to check something on the mic.
He thought of his mother. Or rather, he tried not to. Quickly, he drew a deep breath, using the tiny moment of silence to keep himself from slipping into painful memories. Then he forced himself back into the conversation.
“It’s interesting,” Magnus said lightly—deliberately lightly—“how neatly this topic fits the season.”
Alec blinked. “The season?”
“Christmas,” Magnus said, gesturing with a small motion that suggested this should explain everything. “Where everything is about what remains. Family. Origins. Stories we retell every year or want to hear again and again.”
Alec nodded slowly. “Hm. That’s true. Celebrations often serve the same purpose as memories. They’re anchor points in the year, places where we find ourselves again.”
“I’ve never thought about it like that,” Magnus admitted. And that was true—at least until Alec put it that way. “I find Christmas rather… poetic. And a bit dramatic, honestly.”
“Dramatic?” Alec asked.
“Of course.” Magnus straightened up, lacing his fingers together as if about to make a very important argument. “Candlelight, emotions, people suddenly feeling the urge to speak truths they avoid all year—”
He stopped, because Alec’s smile warmed at those words. Something in that expression hit Magnus square in the solar plexus—elegant and wholly inappropriate.
He nearly choked on his own point and grabbed his water glass.
“I mean—” He cleared his throat and pushed the glass away before he could knock it over. “Christmas brings… emotions to the surface. Good ones. And exhausting ones.”
Alec leaned forward slightly. Not much. But enough for Magnus to notice immediately.
“Do you like Christmas?” Alec asked.
It was a harmless question. Just a simple question. And yet Magnus’ pulse behaved as if he were about to fail a stress test.
“I…” He tried, stopped, tried again. “I like the atmosphere. Not necessarily the… expectation.”
“Understandable,” Alec said softly. “It’s a time when people suddenly become very attentive.”
“Oh, wonderful,” Magnus muttered under his breath, “more attention is exactly what I need.”
Alec laughed quietly—genuinely—and Magnus felt his knees go inexplicably weak. He had not been prepared. Not for that tone. Not for that laugh. Definitely not for the tiny crinkles at Alec’s eyes that only appeared when he laughed for real.
“You seem a bit… nervous?” Alec asked gently, more curious than judgmental.
Magnus nearly inhaled the air wrong. When had their roles switched? He was the host and Alec the guest. Not the other way around.
“Me? Nervous? No. Absolutely not. I’m a professional. I interview people constantly. Celebrities. Intellectuals. Presidents.” He waved his hand vaguely. “Some of them were very intimidating! One of them had a tarantula in his pocket.”
Alec raised a brow. “And I’m… more intimidating than a tarantula?”
“No! I mean yes! I mean—” Magnus felt the situation slipping through his fingers and was utterly powerless to stop it. “I mean, no. I meant no.”
Alec grinned. And that grin was Magnus’ downfall. Or maybe it had already been the glasses, framing Alec’s intense hazel eyes. Or the way the professor gestured with his hands when he spoke. Or the relaxed posture with his legs spread just enough.
Magnus tightened his grip on the armrests of his chair as though his dignity depended on not sliding right off the seat and becoming a puddle on the floor.
But of course, that was the exact moment Alec leaned back again the way he had the entire time: relaxed, comfortable, his legs slightly too far apart, as if personally challenging Magnus’ concentration. The light-colored fabric of his trousers stretched softly over his thighs, and the dark sweater pulled just a bit across his chest. Especially when he raised his hand.
And of course he raised it now. Slowly. Smoothly.
With two fingers, Alec pushed his glasses a fraction higher up the bridge of his nose and looked directly at Magnus. It wasn’t an intense look. Not a provocative one. Just… calm. Warm. A little curious. It was more than enough.
Magnus’ thoughts stumbled over each other like badly behaved penguins.
“All right,” Alec said quietly, after adjusting his glasses, “where were we?”
“Um.” Magnus cleared his throat. “At…” He had absolutely no idea where they had been. “...your research approach, I think?”
Alec nodded, his hand still near his face, elbow resting on the armrest in a pose far too attractive to be accidental. “Right. The question was what responsibility means to me.”
“Right.” Magnus nodded vigorously. Maybe too vigorously. “Responsibility.”
He sounded like someone who had just learned the word five minutes ago.
Alec smiled gently. “You seem a little…”
He searched for a word. Magnus prayed it would be professional. Or focused. Or at the very least conscious.
“…distracted.”
Magnus felt heat shoot up the back of his neck. “Me? No. Never. I’m extremely focused and listening attentively.”
Alec raised an eyebrow, and that small, nearly innocent expression was worse than any blatant flirting.
“Of course,” Alec said in a tone so friendly it was borderline dangerous. Magnus forced himself to look down at his notes, which suddenly appeared completely unreadable, like a gremlin had smeared them on purpose.
“You mentioned earlier that people are more resilient than they think,” Magnus continued, grateful for every word that came out correctly. “Could you… elaborate on that?”
Alec straightened slightly—not much, just a few centimeters, but enough for Magnus to feel the atmosphere shift.
“I believe,” Alec said, “that most people underestimate how much they can endure. How much they carry. And how much they grow.”
His hands began to speak again—open, calm, expressive but never excessive. Magnus followed every movement as though they were individual sentences.
“And sometimes,” Alec continued, “they just need someone to show them that it’s okay not to be untouchable.”
Magnus’ chest tightened. The words hit deeper than he expected.
Alec noticed. His smile softened, became smaller, gentler. “I hope that wasn’t too personal.”
“No,” Magnus said, quieter than intended. “No, not at all.”
A brief moment hung between them.
Not heavy.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… more.
Alec leaned back again, his fingers tapping softly on the armrest. “By the way, you’re doing very well.”
“The interview?” Magnus asked.
“That too.”
Alec smiled.
Magnus’ heart slipped dangerously out of place.
“But I actually meant,” Alec added with a tiny nod, “how attentive you are.”
“I’m very attentive,” Magnus said. And immediately regretted the tone—far too honest, too quick, and entirely too revealing.
Alec chuckled softly, and at that exact moment he looked at Magnus like someone who had just solved a riddle. And Magnus knew with absolute certainty: he was the riddle.
“Then tell me more,” Alec said warmly. “I think you like me as a conversation partner.”
Magnus’ heart stopped completely. He drew in a deep breath. He was going to stay professional now. Absolutely. Ice-cold. Unshakeable.
“So, Professor,” he continued in a voice meant to sound serious but that more resembled someone on the verge of fainting, “your research on resilience is… impressive. Truly impressive. I think the societal significance of your wor—”
He stopped because Alec was smiling at him. A soft, open, slightly curious smile.
Magnus’ brain wiped every thought clean, like a computer rebooting out of nowhere. He blinked, mentally shuffled three unrelated cue cards, and nodded with the conviction of a man who believed he’d just had a brilliant insight.
“Yes. Exactly. That is… very… relevant.”
Alec raised a brow. A tiny, innocent movement of muscle and Magnus was done for.
“Is everything okay?” Alec asked calmly, as if he had no idea what effect he was having. Oh, that bastard.
“No! I mean yes. I mean, I’m always professional. I am the definition of—”
The door burst open.
Raphael stood in the doorway, horrified, as though he’d just witnessed a hawk building a nest in the studio.
“We’re taking a break.”
“What?” Magnus spun around. “Why? I—”
“Because you’re behaving like you’ve sustained a head injury,” Raphael snapped. “And because after twenty minutes of interviewing, we have exactly three minutes of usable material.”
Magnus’ face burned.
Alec cleared his throat politely and removed his glasses—a gesture that absolutely did not help Magnus. Without that treacherous thing on his face, he looked almost more breathtaking.
Raphael crossed his arms. “Five-minute break. Fresh air. Water. Then we start over.”
He disappeared again. The door shut.
Then… silence.
A very pointed silence.
Alec leaned back in his chair, not intentionally throwing Magnus off this time, though the effect was the same. “Was it… that bad?”
Magnus let his head fall against the backrest. “I think my producer is considering replacing me with a potted plant.”
Alec laughed. “Honestly… I found it charming.”
Magnus lifted his head. “Charming?”
“Yes.” Alec looked at him—not pressing, just open. “It shows you really care about having good conversations.”
“I try,” Magnus muttered.
“And it shows.” Alec lowered his gaze briefly, fiddling with the temple of his glasses—a nervous gesture? No. More like thoughtful. “And… it would be nice to talk again. Without a microphone.”
Magnus’ heart stumbled.
“Without a microphone?” he repeated, aiming for neutrality and failing spectacularly.
“Only if you want to,” Alec said quickly. “I just thought… we get along well.”
He cleared his throat. “And I’m curious how you sound when you’re not trying to be professional.”
Magnus wasn’t entirely sure his heart was still beating. “I—uhm—I think that could be arranged.”
Alec smiled again. Slightly crooked. A little cautious. And somehow… hopeful.
From the next room, Raphael shouted: “TWO MINUTES! AND THEN PLEASE ACT LIKE ADULT HUMAN BEINGS!”
Alec slid his glasses back onto his nose. “Shall we give it another try?”
Magnus nodded, smoothed his shirt, rearranged his cards—this time actually in a meaningful order—and took a deep breath.
“Okay,” he said. “This time, truly professional.”
“Of course,” Alec murmured, and his gaze made it very clear he didn’t believe him for a second.
The recording light blinked on.
Magnus straightened a little, his hands resting lightly on his notes, his breathing steadier, at least outwardly. Inside, he was one vibrating, chaotic mess, but at least he could speak again without his voice failing. Progress.
“Welcome back to Starfall Conversations,” he began. “Today with Professor Alexander Lightwood, who studies memory, identity, and the stories that make us who we are.”
Alec nodded—a small, respectful tilt of the head—and Magnus felt the look that went with it settle beneath his skin.
“Thank you,” Alec said softly. “I’m very happy to be here.”
“In the last segment,” Magnus continued, and his gaze darted involuntarily to Alec’s hands resting loosely on his thighs… Stop. Not this time. This time he had control… “you… you spoke about the power of personal narratives. How we define ourselves by choosing what we remember.”
Alec smiled; that deep, full smile that reached his eyes and made the studio a tiny bit warmer. “Exactly.”
“May I ask,” Magnus continued—ä, professional, controlled, almost composed (he threw an inner triumphant fist pump), “which stories carry special meaning for you. What… moves you?”
Alec considered the question for a moment, catching his lower lip between his teeth; light, thoughtful, apparently unconscious. Magnus noticed. Of course he noticed. And he cursed every sense he had that had decided to operate in 8K resolution today.
Thankfully, Alec chose that moment to answer before Magnus could do something very stupid.
“That’s a difficult question,” he said. His fingers brushed the temple of his glasses, toyed with it briefly, then adjusted the frame just enough to make Magnus’ breath falter. Stop that, you bastard.
“I think… the stories we choose to preserve are the ones that give us hope. The ones that show us we aren’t alone.”
Something inside Magnus tightened. Not painfully, more like a quiet sadness.
“And you?” Alec asked suddenly.
Magnus blinked. “Me?”
“Yes.” Alec turned fully toward him. “Which story would you like to pass on?”
Raphael would have thrown his hands up in despair at that moment. It was far too personal for this interview. And yet… Alec asked with such care, not demanding, not pushing. It was simply an invitation; an offer to keep the conversation moving.
Magnus swallowed.
“Maybe…” he began, and his voice sounded rough for a moment, “…that vulnerability isn’t something to be afraid of.”
Alec stilled. His expression softened.
“That’s a beautiful answer.”
Magnus gave a fleeting smile, eyes dropping to the soundboard—easier than enduring Alec’s reaction head-on.
“I learn from the best,” he murmured.
“Oh?” Alec leaned a bit forward. “Who do you mean?”
“Right now?” Magnus lifted his gaze.
A heartbeat of silence.
“You.”
Alec briefly lowered his eyes, and when he looked back up, something warm and open shone in them, accompanied by a faint dimple in his cheek. Magnus wanted—ridiculously, stupidly—to touch it. He managed to restrain himself. Barely.
He cleared his throat yet again and nudged the interview back on track, though his thoughts had long abandoned anything resembling a straight line.
“Returning to resilience,” he said, “you mentioned earlier that people often underestimate how much they can carry—”
“Yes,” Alec confirmed. “And sometimes it helps when someone shows them they don’t have to carry everything alone.”
Magnus should have replied. Or asked the next question. He knew that.
But Alec held his gaze a fraction too long. And Magnus felt that look through his whole body.
So he didn’t answer.
Just for a moment.
One tiny, dangerous moment.
Alec noticed.
Of course he noticed.
And his smile sharpened—just slightly. A little knowing. A little more.
Raphael cleared his throat loudly behind the glass. Magnus flinched slightly and forced himself to look away.
“Professor,” he began, “would you say that—uh—connections between people… I mean… relationships—”
He lost the thread.
“—are important factors?” he finished, barely saving himself.
Alec nodded seriously. “Very important.”
Magnus nodded too. Too fast. Too many times. “Of course. Yes. Connections. Good. Very good.”
Raphael slapped a hand to his forehead. Magnus groaned internally. So much for keeping it together…
The interview continued for a few more minutes; professional enough to air, and yet charged enough that the tension could have been cut with a knife.
When they finally ended the recording, neither of them spoke at first.
Then Alec turned to him and asked in a very quiet voice, “You’re really on edge, huh?”
Magnus let out a breathy laugh. “Possibly.”
Alec pushed his glasses higher on his nose, and Magnus’ heart stumbled so violently he briefly considered applying for a pacemaker. A thought flashed through his mind—hot, unexpected, completely inappropriate: If the man touched those glasses one more time, Magnus would either have to kiss him or throw him out. Possibly both.
“So,” Alec said softly, “will I… see you again soon?”
“Yes,” Magnus said without thinking. “Very soon.”
Alec grinned, satisfied, almost boyish, like someone who had just won first prize. And Magnus was lost.
He could only hope Raphael’s editing skills were good enough to turn the usable parts into something resembling a coherent episode. Considering what Magnus had just delivered, that would be a minor miracle.
Magnus thanked Alec on autopilot and walked him to the door. Afterwards, he collapsed into his chair, utterly exhausted.
He sighed deeply, dragging a hand through his hair, his eyes drifting once more to the chair opposite him—the chair where Alec had been sitting just moments ago.
“Well? Still alive?”
Cat stood in the doorway suddenly, a steaming cup of tea in hand, one eyebrow arched.
“Barely,” Magnus muttered.
She stepped in, set the tea in front of him, and looked him over with the practiced insight of someone who had known for years exactly when Magnus was spiraling—into something or someone.
“You realize,” Cat began, “that you behaved like a teenager with a first crush, right?”
Magnus’ head snapped up. “I—what? No! I was—”
“—completely all over the place,” she finished dryly. “I saw it. Raphael saw it. The cleaning staff in the hallway probably heard it.”
“Cat…”
She raised her hands and grinned. “I’m just saying: I’ve rarely seen someone rattle you like that.”
He wanted to deny it.
Make a joke.
Wave it off.
But the truth settled quietly in his chest: Alec had rattled him.
Not unpleasantly.
Not embarrassingly.
Just… honestly.
Cat softened, almost tender. “He was nice. Really nice. And I think he likes you. And you like him too.”
Magnus lowered his gaze, an involuntary, faint smile tugging at his lips. “Maybe… a little.”
“A little?” Cat laughed. “Oh, Bane…”
He threw a paper ball at her; she caught it effortlessly.
She walked to the door but paused once more. “Let me know if you need help preparing for your second date.”
“It wasn’t a date,” Magnus protested automatically.
“Of course not,” Cat said with a wink. “And the next one won’t be either. Sure.”
The door closed behind her.
For one heartbeat, the room was quiet.
Then a grin broke across Magnus’ face—one he couldn’t have suppressed even if he tried. It grew slowly, broader, softer; a smile that lit something deep inside him and worked its way outward, even though no one was around to see it.
He leaned back, tilted his head, and laughed quietly. His heart did a small, utterly ridiculous hop. Maybe this Christmas wouldn’t be quite as lonely as the others.
Magnus grinned.
He couldn’t wait to see Professor Alexander Lightwood again.
And when he did, he would definitely show him exactly what he thought of those glasses.