The squirrels were not amused.
After being served with a magical citation and given a rather condescending brochure titled "Coexisting With Local Enchanted Fauna: A Beginner's Guide," Felix and Marissa were forced to spend the next day doing community service under the strict supervision of a retired forest druid named Gary.
Gary had the appearance of a man who had lived a hundred years in the woods and fought off at least four talking owls and one rogue shrubbery union. He wore moss as a scarf, his beard was braided with tiny pinecones, and his staff hummed when Marissa looked at it too hard.
"Let's get one thing straight," Gary said as he led them into the woods, squirrels trailing behind like a fluffy jury. "You messed with the Ward Order. Now, you earn back their trust."
"We just fed them peanuts," Felix muttered.
Gary stopped abruptly, spinning around. "Peanuts are not sanctioned squirrel currency! They are allergic to processed snacks!"
Marissa glared at Felix. "You could've killed them."
"They were glowing! I thought that meant invincible!"
Gary raised a single eyebrow. "Glowing means blessed, not bulletproof, you imbecile."
Felix sulked for the rest of the trek.
---
The work was not what either of them expected. Instead of hard labor, Gary handed them a scroll titled Squirrel Diplomacy and Emotional Restoration. Their job? Re-enchant the squirrel's favorite meditation clearing by collecting crystals, singing a lullaby in Old Dryadic, and arranging flowers into a pentacle of inner peace.
Felix held a bouquet of glowing daisies. "I have a business degree. I don't deserve this."
Marissa smirked. "You deserve so much more."
"Like?"
"A magical muzzle."
"Wow."
She chuckled and returned to arranging violet mushrooms into a peace sign. "If we survive this, I want hot chocolate and no squirrel involvement for twenty-four hours."
"Deal."
"Also, you're making dinner tonight."
"Still better than singing to rodents."
"Ancient woodland guardians," Gary corrected from the trees.
Felix muttered something about "acorn overlords" and set to work humming the tune Gary had taught them. It was oddly soothing, even as the squirrels watched with crossed arms and little judging monocles—yes, monocles. Apparently, the chief ward squirrel had fashion standards.
---
Two hours later, the ceremony was complete. The clearing glowed, the squirrels clapped (or at least politely twitched), and Gary gave them a gruff nod of approval.
"Very well. Your debt is paid."
Marissa sighed in relief. "Can we go now?"
Gary raised his mossy hand. "One last thing."
Felix groaned. "Why is there always one last thing?"
"You must share one emotional truth with each other," Gary intoned, "to bind the restoration magic and ensure it holds."
Marissa and Felix exchanged a look.
Gary's eyes glowed faintly. "Speak your truths, or the squirrels will grow restless."
The squirrels definitely looked restless.
Marissa folded her arms. "Fine. I'll go first." She turned to Felix, her eyes serious. "Sometimes… I like you."
He blinked. "That's it?"
She blushed. "Well, it's a lot coming from me!"
Felix scratched his neck. "Okay. My turn."
He hesitated. Then: "You make me nervous."
Marissa's brow furrowed. "Nervous?"
"In a good way," he said. "Like… you challenge me. You make me think. And when I'm around you, I actually care what someone thinks of me. That's not usual for me."
She softened.
Gary made a strange wheezing noise. "Young love. So messy. So allergic to proper woodland etiquette."
With a crackle of magic, the ritual sealed. The clearing pulsed once, and the squirrels vanished back into the trees.
"Go," Gary said, waving them off. "And remember: never anger the forest again."
They practically sprinted back to the cabin.
---
The rest of the afternoon was unusually quiet. Felix cooked dinner (burning only half of it), and Marissa taught him how to properly fold magical laundry without invoking fabric demons.
They shared dessert on the porch, watching the moon rise.
"You really meant that?" Marissa asked suddenly. "What you said about me making you nervous?"
Felix nodded. "You're not… predictable. And I don't mean that in a bad way. It's like every time I think I know you, you do something that surprises me. Like agreeing to come here. Or not hexing me when I exploded the microwave."
"That one was almost hex-worthy."
He smiled. "I know."
She leaned back in her chair, thoughtful. "I never liked surprises. But lately, I've started thinking maybe they're not always bad."
"Look at us," Felix said. "Being emotionally healthy."
"It's disgusting," Marissa agreed.
They both laughed.
Then, as the night deepened and the stars thickened overhead, Felix turned to her again.
"Marissa?"
"Hmm?"
"If this contract ended tomorrow… what would you do?"
She was quiet for a long time.
"I used to have an answer," she said. "I used to say I'd run far, far away and never look back."
"And now?"
She looked at him. "Now, I don't know."
Felix nodded. "That's okay. You've still got time."
"I do," she said softly. "And so do you."
---
They spent the next two days at the cabin without further incident. No magical explosions, no bureaucratic interventions, and not a single glowing rodent.
On the last morning, as they packed up, Felix turned to her with a glint in his eye.
"Before we go… one more thing."
Marissa groaned. "If this involves singing to frogs—"
"No frogs. Promise." He held up a small enchanted box.
"What's that?"
"A memory capsule. I found it in the cottage's bookshelf. You record a memory into it, and it seals it forever. So even if magic fades, or memories shift, that moment stays."
He offered it to her.
"Wanna record this trip? Together?"
She looked at him, then at the box. Slowly, she nodded.
They stood in the center of the living room, hands lightly touching the box, and spoke a shared phrase:
"Not perfect. But ours."
The box glowed, then sealed.
---
Back in the city, life resumed. Chaotic. Fast. Full of magical paperwork and an apartment still suffering from minor spell contamination.
But something had changed.
Felix didn't mind Marissa's color-coded calendar system anymore. Marissa didn't complain when Felix tried to animate the trash bin (even though it still sang show tunes). They fought less. Laughed more.
And sometimes, when they weren't paying attention, they'd catch themselves looking at each other—really looking. Like they were still surprised the other person was real.
Then one night, three weeks later, Felix found a note on his pillow.
"If I had to choose today… I think I'd stay too."
—M.
Felix smiled.
He tucked the note into the memory capsule.
And somewhere, far away in the woods, a squirrel with a monocle nodded approvingly.