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Aiah had forgotten what real air tasted like.
Centuries trapped in that slick, narrow bottle had smoothed out her sense of time until everything became one long, dull blur. She remembered being smug even then, bored even then, but at least she had occasional visitors—greedy men, desperate women, travelers who stumbled upon her prison and shook it like it contained coins. Wishes were always the same. Humans were always the same.
Then well, she got freed.
Smoke curled up from the cracked mouth of the bottle, thin and shimmering like a veil waking from centuries of sleep. Aiah stepped out of it with the lazy confidence of someone who expected a throne or at least a half-decent welcome back into the world.
Instead, she got… uh, that.
A woman—wide-eyed, breathing too fast, hair a chaotic mess like she’d fought a small tornado on her way here—stared at the bottle, then at her, then at the bottle again. Again. And again. Her hands fluttered around like she didn’t know where to put them. On her hips? Behind her back? In her pockets? She settled for clutching them in front of her chest like she was praying for the universe to take this moment back.
Humans used to scream. Or bow. Occasionally faint. Some asked for riches five seconds in. Others demanded immortality or glory or a harem—humans were predictable that way. This one apparently, is built different.
Aiah brushed soot from her clothes, snapped her fingers to make herself look less like she’d just crawled out of a bottle (because she had), and cleared her throat. “You freed me.”
The woman jumped like Aiah had thrown a punch instead of a sentence.
“Y—you talk.”
Aiah raised a brow. “That tends to happen when you free someone with a mouth.”
She then stretched, rolling her shoulders like sleep still clung to her bones, and waited for the inevitable question: “What are you?”
And indeed,
“What are you?” the woman blurted, cheeks flushing because apparently she remembered manners half a second too late.
“Aiah,” she corrected smoothly, well she didn’t like labels or titles. The whole ancient being in a bottle thing. “But I imagine you meant something else.”
The woman nodded, gulped, nodded again. “You came out of a bottle. I opened the bottle. And now you’re—here.” She pointed at Aiah. “You’re alive. And talking—and uh. Existing.”
“Good summary,” Aiah said. “Not the most detailed report I’ve received, but serviceable.”
The woman’s mouth hung open, then snapped shut. She rubbed the back of her neck, which was apparently a habit because she did it about five times. “Okay. I just—okay. Um.”
Aiah waited again for the next predictable question. There were a lot, but guessing from
“Are you… evil?”
Aiah blinked. Then slowly, a smile curled at the corner of her mouth. “Define evil.”
Wrong answer. The woman looked like she was about to pass out.
Aiah was about to tease her further when she recognized the woman’s armor. She knew that stance, the barely-contained readiness, and the way the magic hummed differently around this particular kind of human. Not human, exactly. Not entirely. Hell, the lasso coiled at her side and the bracers just confirmed Aiah’s suspicion.
Wonder Woman.
Of course.
There had been others. Not many, but enough. Champions. Icons. Mortals touched by something higher and burdened with the unbearable urge to fix things. Aiah had met them across centuries, in different skins, different names. Same righteous exhaustion. Same infuriating goodness.
Still. It’d been a while.
“You’re Wonder Woman.”
The woman flinched. “N—no, uh. I mean—yes? Kind of? It’s complicated?”
Aiah crossed her arms. “Not really. I know what a Wonder Woman is. I’ve met a few. Not you specifically. But a few.”
“You’ve—what?”
“I’ve been around long enough,” Aiah said, shrugging. “Some of them were tolerable. One tried to fight me. She lost.”
The woman’s eyes widened. Her terror took on a new flavor—anticipation? awe? a rising panic that she might’ve just unleashed something world-ending?
She finally exhaled like she remembered how breathing worked. “I didn’t mean to open the bottle. It just—fell. And I caught it, and the cork popped, and there was this loud—whoosh—and then you appeared, and I—this wasn’t on my to-do list today.”
“No one plans for me,” Aiah said. “Except one or two kings. They died. Bad planners.”
That absolutely did not help her panic.
She sighed loudly and dragged her hands down her face. Actually dragged. Like she could literally pull the stress off.
“So,” Aiah continued, leaning back slightly. “Aren’t you going to ask for something?”
“For something?” The woman blinked.
“Yes. Wishes. Desires. Heroes usually want something noble. World peace. Endless strength. An unbreakable shield. Something shiny.”
The woman squinted. “I’m… not supposed to want things.”
Aiah stared. “You’re a human. You literally run on wanting things.”
“I—well—yeah—but—” She gestured wildly at the bottle. “Isn’t this dangerous? Shouldn’t this be in a safe place? Or a vault? Or a, I don’t know, museum? You were in there for—how long did you say?”
“Not gonna answer.”
“You were stuck.”
“Yes.”
“Inside a bottle.”
“Correct.”
“And you didn’t die.”
Aiah smirked. “Sweetheart, I’ve died in more interesting ways.”
The woman choked on air. Actually choked. “Sweetheart?! Why are you calling me—why—”
Aiah tilted her head. “Is it bothering you?”
“No! Yes! I—I don’t know! It’s—unexpected!”
“Good. I like unexpected.”
She made a distressed noise as if that was too much information to handle.
The woman took a deep breath, slapped her cheeks lightly, then straightened like she finally remembered she had a spine. “Okay. Okay. One step at a time. Let’s—start over.”
She held out her hand. It trembled a little, but she held it there. “My name is—”
“Wait,” Aiah lifted a hand. “Would you like me to guess?”
The woman looked terrified again. “Can you do that?”
“Not in the way you think I would,” Aiah leaned in, studying her, and the woman nearly stopped breathing. “You look like someone who has two names. One that’s formal and you never use, and one that sounds nice when someone says it softly. Someone like me.”
The woman froze, pink blooming across her cheeks.
Aiah hummed. “But I won’t guess-guess. Tell me.”
The woman swallowed hard.
“I’m Stacey.”
Aiah let the name settle between them like the click of a lock. Wow, that really is perfect for Wonder Woman.
“Stacey,” Aiah repeated, savoring it. “Now that’s a name that suits you.”
Stacey went pinker. Actually pinker. “Why does it sound like you’re flirting with me?”
Aiah smiled. “Because I am.”
Stacey opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked at the bottle. Looked at Aiah. Looked like she might bolt but also like she physically couldn’t move her legs.
She whispered, “I think I found the wrong magical artifact.”
Aiah stepped closer—not touching, but close enough for Stacey to feel the warmth she radiated, something older than the bottle, older than legends. “Or the right one.”
Stacey’s breath hitched.
Aiah’s smile deepened. This human—chaotic, nervous, disastrously heroic—was the most interesting thing she’d met in centuries. And she wasn’t going back in that bottle. Not now. Not when the universe clearly delivered entertainment to her doorstep.
“Relax,” she murmured, voice low. “I’m not here to destroy anything. Unless you ask nicely.”
“That doesn’t help!”
“Doesn’t it?”
“It—no—it—” Stacey groaned. “Why are you like this?”
Aiah shrugged. “Boredom. Habit. You.”
“Me?!”
Aiah liked the way her voice cracked. She liked it too much.
“Aren’t magical beings supposed to come from lamps? Every movie ever says lamps.”
Huh.
“What’s a Disney?”
Stacey froze mid–hand wave. “You don’t… know Disney?”
“No.”
“You’ve never—okay, hold on.” Stacey inhaled sharply and began pacing like someone preparing to explain calculus to a toddler with a knife. “Disney is—um—movies. Animated. Huge company. Big castle logo. They make stories. Fairy tales. Princesses. Talking animals. Magic carpets. Flying elephants. Genies in lamps—big blue guys with jokes—really good jokes—and they grant three wishes, but there are rules, and—”
She kept going.
And going.
And going.
Aiah stared at her, expression carefully neutral, though internally she was fighting between boredom and amusement. Stacey didn’t just talk—she rambled, spiraling into tangents like her brain took side quests every three seconds. The longer she explained, the more animated she became. Hands waving, eyes brightening, hair bouncing with every dramatic gesture.
Humans yapped, sure. But this one? She yapped like she was powered by solar energy and someone had just shined a spotlight on her.
Aiah leaned her cheek into her palm. Gods, she really doesn’t stop.
Stacey was currently comparing genies to customer service workers. “—and so basically, they’re like magical all-powerful beings but also kind of employees? Which is weird. Imagine being that powerful and still having a boss. That’s why the lamp is like their—”
“Stacey,” Aiah cut in.
Stacey blinked rapidly. “…Yes?”
“You do realize none of that applies to me, right?”
Stacey opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “I just—I thought maybe you’d find context helpful?”
“Oh, I found something helpful,” Aiah said with a slow smile. “Just not about lamps.”
Stacey made a strangled sound. “Oh my God.”
Aiah hummed. She could listen to Stacey talk about absolute nonsense for hours. She wouldn’t admit that. But she could. Stacey was unpredictable. And unpredictability tasted like entertainment, like possibility, like anything except the centuries of monotony Aiah endured in that bottle.
“So,” she said casually, picking at her sleeve. “Now that you’ve given me a half-hour documentary on blue lamp-men and flying elephants—what do you want?”
Stacey’s eyes widened. “Are you for real?”
“Yes.” Aiah flicked a finger toward the bottle. “You freed me. You get some. I assume your brain just caught up just now after rejecting the offer earlier.”
“Oh. Um.” Stacey rubbed her palms on her thighs. “I don’t want to wish yet.”
Aiah froze. “Come again?”
“I mean—things could change! My life could change. My goals could shift. The world could shift. I could want something totally different tomorrow.” Stacey shrugged, helpless. “It’d be stupid to waste a wish when I don’t even know what I want yet.”
Aiah stared at her like she’d sprouted horns. “You’re not using them.”
“Not yet.”
“You’re delaying.”
“Yeah?”
“You’re,” Aiah squinted. “Thinking.”
“Is that not allowed?”
“No, it’s allowed, it’s just—” Aiah threw a hand up. “Humans don’t do that. They dive in. They choose badly. They regret. You’re supposed to regret something by now.”
“I’d rather not,” Stacey said stubbornly.
She rolled her eyes. “Fine,”
She snapped her fingers.
A spark of power—soft, hidden, slipping under the air like a ripple in water—brushed past them.
Stacey flinched. “What did you just do?”
She smirked. “Granted.”
“Granted what?! I didn’t wish for anything!”
“You wished for time,” Aiah said simply. “You just didn’t realize it.”
Stacey’s face twisted with confusion. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Aiah said, taking a slow, almost prowling step toward her, “you now have the ability to see the timeline ahead of you. Not the future-future. Not fate. Not destiny. Just the next possible path. The next step. The direction things would go if you didn’t change anything.”
Stacey’s jaw dropped. “I—what?! Why would you—”
“You wanted to wait. To see how life unfolds.” Aiah shrugged. “Now you can.”
“I didn’t ask for that!”
“No,” Aiah admitted. “But I am ancient, not deaf. I heard what you meant.”
Stacey’s hands flew to her head. “This isn’t—this isn’t—you can’t just—”
Aiah laughed. Loud, warm, and absolutely merciless. “Oh, sweetheart. Most humans would be drunk with power by now.”
“I am NOT drunk with power!”
“Not even dizzy?”
“No!”
“Not even a little?”
Stacey glared at her. “Stop being smug.”
Aiah’s grin sharpened. “Never.”
Stacey groaned, kneeling down and putting her face in her hands again. “Okay. Okay. I can—see the future. A bit. A tiny bit. But only if I don’t change anything?”
“Correct.”
“So if I turn left instead of right?”
“The path shifts.”
“And if I purposely sabotage the timeline just to see what happens?”
Aiah raised a brow. “If you want chaos, I can give you real chaos.”
Stacey shook her head rapidly. “No. No no no. I already deal with enough chaos. I AM enough chaos.”
“You are,” Aiah said, almost admiringly.
“And you just gave me—” Stacey gestured to nothing. “—destiny vision?!”
“Timeline projection,” Aiah corrected. “A soft ability. Not too much power. Just enough to give you what you asked for.”
“I did not ask—!”
“Intention counts.”
“I did NOT intend—!”
Aiah shrugged. “Humans never intend anything clearly.”
Stacey let out a strangled scream into her palms.
She leaned back, enjoying every second.
She wasn’t lying—this power wasn’t dangerous. It wouldn’t let Stacey manipulate the universe. It wouldn’t let her rewrite existence. It was just perspective. The kind mortals always begged for but couldn’t handle. The kind that forced them to look at themselves, at their choices, at the threads they pulled without noticing.
And Stacey deserved that clarity. Otherwise she’d run herself into the ground trying to fix the world with her bare hands.
Eventually Stacey looked up, hair sticking in five directions. “I feel nothing. Am I supposed to feel something?”
“It’s subtle. You’ll notice it the moment you hesitate.”
“I hesitate all the time!”
“Then you’ll notice it soon.”
Stacey opened her mouth for another complaint—
Then froze.
Her eyes unfocused for a second, like something crossed her mind that wasn’t supposed to. Her breath caught.
Aiah tilted her head. “There it is.”
Stacey swallowed. “I—I think I just saw myself tripping over that rock in two seconds.”
Aiah glanced down. “There is no ro—”
Stacey tripped over the rock that absolutely hadn’t been there a moment ago.
Aiah snorted. “Congratulations. You’re learning.”
Stacey sat on the ground, betrayed by physics itself. “I hate this.”
“No,” Aiah corrected, offering her hand with theatrical grace. “You’re confused. And humans hate being confused.”
Stacey took her hand reluctantly. “You enjoy this too much.”
Aiah pulled her up, slow, deliberate. “I enjoy you.”
Stacey dusted off her shorts, huffed, then marched straight toward the bottle with the stiff-backed determination of someone about to make a terrible decision on purpose. She grabbed the cork from the ground like it offended her personally.
“I’m closing it,” she declared.
Aiah blinked lazily. “Why?”
“Because,” Stacey said, jabbing the cork in the air like a weapon, “I refuse—absolutely refuse—to deal with a smug genie today. Not on a Thursday. Not after I already had a building collapse in front of me before lunch. No. No more. Bottle is getting closed.”
Aiah shrugged. “Go ahead.”
Stacey froze mid-motion. “What?”
“Close it. It won’t do anything.”
Stacey stared at her like she’d just admitted she secretly lived off battery acid. “What do you mean nothing will happen?! Bottles close. Genies go in bottles. That’s how—ugh—”
Her eye twitched. She slid the cork halfway in, paused, slid it out again, waved it in the air, then planted her hands on her hips. “So you’re telling me you won’t get sucked back inside if I close this?”
“No.”
“You won’t vanish.”
“No.”
“You won’t magically poof into smoke and swirl into the little spout and disappear into storage or timeout or genie jail or whatever?”
“No. I’ll still be here.”
Stacey’s jaw dropped. “Then what’s the point of the cork?!”
Aiah shrugged again. “Decoration. I am the one who sealed myself inside the bottle.”
Stacey made a sound so strangled it could’ve been a laugh or a cry.
“And,” Aiah added with infuriating calm, “I’ll be with you anyway.”
“With me where—excuse me?” Stacey took a horrified step back, arms crossing over her chest protectively like Aiah had threatened her virtue. “Following me?! You’re going to follow me?”
“Until I feel satisfied with the amount of wishes I grant you,” Aiah corrected, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “So far, I’ve only given you one.”
Stacey blinked rapidly. “It wasn’t a wish—it was a panic statement—”
“Intent,” Aiah reminded her, smiling, “counts.”
Stacey looked like her entire blood pressure spiked at once. She opened her mouth to argue again—but something else caught her attention. Her eyes slid slowly, with growing horror, down Aiah’s body. Specifically at the outfit.
Her finger rose shakily, trembling like she was pointing at a demon.
“You’re seriously going to follow me in that outfit?!”
Aiah looked down at herself. Gloves. Soft velvet gloves wrapping her forearms. Elegant. Her dress—scarlet silk, slit high on one side, fitted at the waist, draped like a queen’s evening attire. The kind that used to cause riots when she entered halls centuries ago. She flicked imaginary dust from her shoulder.
“What about it?” she asked.
Stacey choked. Actually choked. “You—you’re gonna be following me around in THAT?!?”
“Yes?” Aiah answered, genuinely confused. “It’s perfectly functional.”
“Functional for WHAT?!” Stacey sputtered. “Seduction?! A ballroom?! A vampire party?!”
Aiah blinked. “You think I look seductive?”
“That’s not the point!!” Stacey barked, though her face went red enough to match Aiah’s dress.
“If anything,” Aiah continued, tilting her head, “you’re the one wearing very little.”
“HEY!” Stacey yelped.
Aiah made a sweeping gesture. “Short shorts. Cropped top. Sleeveless. Very tall boots. Very tall.”
Stacey slapped her hands over her stomach as if she only now realized how bare she was. “It’s because I’m WONDER WOMAN! This is my—my—costume!”
Aiah arched a brow. “Do heroes normally wear so little?”
“It’s breathable!”
“You’re practically naked?”
“It’s FLEXIBLE!”
“You look like you lost a fight with a tailor.”
Stacey smacked her palm against her forehead. “This is my uniform!”
Aiah tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I’ve met Wonder Women before. They dressed… not like that.”
Stacey pointed furiously at herself. “Times change!”
Aiah smiled slowly. “I noticed.”
Stacey groaned loudly, pacing in frantic circles before turning back to the bottle, clutching the cork like she wanted to bludgeon destiny with it. She shook it at Aiah again. “You. Stay. Here. I’ll go… I don’t know. Save a cat. Punch a villain. Do something hero-y. And you—don’t follow me.”
“I will,” Aiah said.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“No!”
Aiah stepped closer, eyes gleaming with lazy, ancient mischief. “Stacey, sweetheart, you freed me. I’m bound to you.”
“Bound as in magical connection?” Stacey squeaked.
“Bound as in emotionally invested in your chaos,” Aiah corrected. “It’s much more dangerous.”
Stacey made a distressed squeal, then jumped up—literally leaping into the air. Not a hop. Not a jump. A full airborne launch like gravity politely excused itself from dictating her life.
Aiah forgot—for a moment—that Wonder Woman could fly.
She watched as Stacey rose, boots cutting through air with awkward flapping motions, like someone doing their best impression of a bird that never learned the choreography. She wobbled. She cursed. She almost hit a tree. Twice. Then stabilized, panting, hair blowing in every direction.
Right before she zoomed off, she yelled down, “I am not dealing with this today!!”
Aiah crossed her arms, smirked, and waited.
Stacey got maybe thirty feet before she realized she couldn’t see the timeline ahead of her anymore without thinking too hard. Which made her think too hard. Which made her wobble. Which made her panic. Which made her shoot upward instead of forward.
Which made her slam gently into a cloud.
A soft poof sounded above Aiah.
Aiah laughed.
Gods, she’s addictive.
Not in the human sense—humans were quick joys, temporary distractions. But this one? This chaotic, clumsy, overly earnest Wonder Woman who didn’t even want freedom, who didn’t even want to stop being a hero, who didn’t immediately demand immortality or power or answers?
She didn’t even ask to be released from her responsibilities.
Every Wonder Woman Aiah had known wanted one thing, and that is to escape from their title.
Power without duty. Strength without burden. Peace.
But this one fought so hard to stay in the mess of life—messy heart, messy thoughts, messy flying—that she couldn’t even imagine asking for a way out.
It was bizarre.
And intoxicating.
Stacey descended again, clearly wrestling gravity back into place. She landed in front of Aiah with a thud, boots sinking half an inch into the dirt.
She puffed out a breath. “Okay. I can’t escape you.”
“No.”
“Not for a few wishes.”
“Correct.”
“Great. Amazing. Fantastic.” Stacey threw her hands up. “I have a personal magical stalker.”
“Goddess,” Aiah corrected. “And I’m not stalking. I’m observing.”
“That is WORSE!”
Aiah smirked. “Only for you.”
Stacey pointed at her outfit again. “You’re changing that.”
“No.”
“You’re—matching my colors then!”
“No.”
“A cloak!”
“No.”
“PANTS!”
“Absolutely not.”
Eventually, Stacey gave up.
“Fine,” she huffed. “Fine. You want a wish? A real wish? Here. Here it is. My first actual wish—because the first one doesn’t count since I did not agree to clairvoyance—”
Aiah arched a brow. “That’s debatable.”
“It—does—not—count,” Stacey repeated, finger wagging. “So my first wish is… uh…” She scratched her cheek.
“A cape.”
Silence.
Aiah stared at her.
Stacey stared back.
“A cape,” Aiah repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
“A cape.”
“Yes.”
“That’s your wish.”
“Yes. A cape. Like Superman. Or whatever. My cape has suffered many tragedies.”
Aiah blinked. “You could have asked for eternal youth. Infinite health. Immortality. Protection. Wisdom. Power.”
“I want a cape,” Stacey insisted, arms crossing stubbornly. “A really good one. My cape situation is—tragic.”
Aiah exhaled through her nose, amused. “Show me this tragedy.”
Stacey brightened like someone proud of a disaster she created. “Oh! Right. It’s, uh—hold on.” She twisted around awkwardly, rummaging through the strap of her chest harness until she tugged something out.
The cape she displayed looked tired.
Singed edges. Holes. A few questionable stains. The red fabric was fraying, stiff, and a little crispy, as though it had survived an explosion and then gone through a tumble dryer of despair.
Aiah blinked at it. “What happened to this?”
Stacey cleared her throat. “I forgot to turn off my stove.”
“Your stove?”
“It was flaming pretty hard.”
“You burned your own cape?”
“Yes.”
“You burned your own cape wearing it?”
Stacey groaned. “I was lazy, okay?! I didn’t want to change outfits just to fry an egg. And then I forgot about the egg. And then the fire got bigger. And then I forgot that capes catch on fire.”
Aiah covered her mouth.
“Don’t laugh.”
She absolutely laughed. Loud. Unrestrained. She bent slightly at the waist, clutching her side. “You—burned—your own cape—”
“Stop.”
“—while wearing it—”
Stacey stomped her boot. “Stop laughing.”
“—over an egg—”
Stacey turned red. “It was a very good egg!”
Aiah wiped at her eyes, grin stretching slow and wicked. “You don’t want wealth. You don’t want glory. You don’t want a grand cosmic gift. You want—”
She gestured at the sorry piece of fabric.
“—a new cape.”
“Yes,” Stacey said, holding what remained of her dignity. “A new cape. One that isn’t… you know, suffering.”
Aiah shook her head as though in disbelief, but her smile was incredibly fond. “Fine.”
She flicked her fingers.
A spark—small but glowing, like molten gold—fluttered from her hand and spiraled through the air. It twirled around Stacey once, shimmering, then burst.
A long, flowing cape draped itself over Stacey’s shoulders—golden, radiant, brilliant enough to catch sunlight and toss it back tenfold. It shimmered like it was made of spun dawn.
Stacey’s jaw dropped. “Oh—wow—oh no—”
“No?” Aiah asked, amused.
“It’s—it’s—too much,” Stacey sputtered. “It’s so—shiny. I look like a trophy. A walking award. I look like I should be posing on a stage or rejecting suitors in a ballroom. I look—expensive.”
“You’re welcome,” Aiah said.
“I’m not supposed to look expensive!” Stacey wailed. “I punch things. Bad things. I save cats from trees and yell at bank robbers. I cannot be wearing a luxury drape!”
“You asked for a cape.”
“I didn’t ask for a celebrity cape!”
Aiah smiled, chin resting delicately on her knuckles. “Then be specific next time.”
Stacey threw her head back dramatically. “Okay, okay, okay. Can I at least have a—less fancy version? Like gold, but not ‘steal me’ gold. Less sparkle. Less ‘royal ball.’ More ‘hero chic’?”
Aiah snapped her fingers again.
The golden shimmer dulled—still gold, but soft. Warm. Matte, not glittering. It settled around Stacey’s shoulders perfectly, draping down to her boots. Not too long. Not too heavy. Strong enough to withstand flames, bullets, probably emotional breakdowns too.
Stacey looked down at it.
Her eyes widened.
Her whole face lit up.
And then—
She launched straight into the air.
Not on purpose. Not gracefully. With sheer, unfiltered excitement.
Aiah watched as Stacey shot upward like a bottle rocket, spinning once, then twice, flinging her arms out and kicking her legs like she had forgotten how to contain joy inside a mortal body.
She wasn’t even looking where she was going—she just flew in a looping circle above the clearing, cape fluttering beautifully behind her as she laughed. A real laugh—bright, loud, completely unguarded.
Aiah found herself staring.
Stacey zoomed a little too low, skimmed the top of a bush, shouted “IM OKAAAYYY—” and kept going, spiraling upward again until she nearly collided with a cloud.
Aiah chuckled softly.
This one flew because joy simply lifted her.
The moment Stacey touched ground, she whirled toward Aiah, golden cape flowing behind her, eyes shining like she had swallowed the sun.
“This is the best cape ever!” she declared.
Aiah smirked. “Happy?”
“Yes! Very! I—wait.” Stacey’s smile faltered. “You’re going to use this against me, aren’t you?”
“I would never,” Aiah said, with a tone that suggested she absolutely would.
Stacey pointed accusingly. “You’re smiling weird.”
“I always smile weird. Humans say so.”
“That is not comforting!”
Aiah shrugged. “You asked for a wish. You received a wish.”
Stacey groaned and buried her face in her hands, cape falling over her like a tent of defeat. “I can’t believe this is my life now.”
Aiah stepped closer, tilting Stacey’s chin up lightly with a finger.
“I can,” she murmured.
Stacey froze—then immediately launched five feet backward into the air in panic.
“Stop using your flirty voice!!” she yelled from above.