Sebastian's POV
"Thanks for coming," I mutter, even though neither Sam nor Abigail got an invitation. They just showed up like the world's messiest intervention.
"I still can't believe they didn't tell me," Abigail says, her voice tight. She's been pacing between a nervous breakdown and an identity crisis ever since dropping the bomb that the town's mysterious wizard is her actual father. Not Pierre. Poor Pierre.
"I wish my dad turned out to be some badass spell-caster. Mine just gets weirdly quiet if someone opens a bag of chips too fast," Sam says, flopping backward onto my bed. "No popcorn allowed. PTSD."
I snort. "You say that like it's not hilarious."
"This isn't funny, guys." Abigail buries her face in her hands. "I'm not even supposed to tell anyone."
"Which is why you told everyone," I deadpan, standing up from my desk and flopping onto the couch. I reach for the bong sitting innocently on the coffee table.
"Can you not?" Abigail glares at me like I just kicked a puppy.
"This is more emotional turmoil than I've had since I realized Jojamart isn't just a cover for a money laundering scheme," I say, lighting it. "And besides, this is technically my mom's favorite vase."
"Sebby!" Robin's voice echoes from upstairs. Speak of the devil.
I roll my eyes, blowing out a long sigh. "Speaking of emotionally destabilizing parents."
She knocks once and pops the door open without waiting. "Oh—Hi Sam, Abigail. Sebby, Hannah's here. She brought you something."
And then she steps in.
Hannah.
Messy braid, boots caked in mine dust, cheeks flushed like she ran here — and in her hands, she's holding the biggest damn Frozen Tear I've ever seen. Like, it glistens. Not in the sparkly, cheesy way. It looks ancient. Rare.
"I hope I'm not interrupting," she says with this awkward little laugh. "I just wanted to bring you this."
"This is sick," I say, way too fast, taking the gem from her like it's holy. It might as well be.
"Whoa!" Sam points. "She made Seb smile. Someone write it down. Mark the calendar."
"Don't get used to it," I mutter, trying to not stare like a total idiot.
Abigail's eyes are on Hannah too, but longer than usual. Like they're saying something without saying it. Weird.
"You were in the mines again?" Abigail asks, her voice more loaded than it should be.
"Yes," Hannah says, but there's something hesitant in her tone. "But not for... that stuff we talked about."
"What stuff?" Sam asks the question for all of us.
"Girl stuff," Abigail replies coolly.
"Tampons. Got it," Sam nods and surrenders.
They both laugh, and I hate how their inside joke makes my stomach feel weird.
"Since when are you two, like, besties?" I ask, trying to sound bored but also... curious.
"We've been hanging out more," Hannah says, tugging a soot-covered strand of hair behind her ear. There's a smudge across her nose, and something about it makes her look almost—ugh, don't say it—cute.
"Daddy issues," Abigail says, cutting through the tension like she's wielding a knife.
"Say no more," I nod, holding up a hand.
But I'm watching Hannah. Her laugh is tired. Her hands, still dusted in dirt, rest in her lap. She's been digging. Working. Surviving. Something sharp jabs me in the ribs when I look at her too long. I don't like it.
"Why do you go into the mines so much?" Sam asks, frowning. "Like, actually?"
Hannah lets out a breath, like it's the kind of question she usually doesn't bother answering.
"I always need ore," she says. "Clint upgrades my tools, but I break my pickaxe probably once a week. And the better the ore, the deeper I have to go. I'm working on gold now."
Abigail whistles. "Dang, how deep are you?"
"I made it through the ice levels and now it's just... lava. Fire everywhere. I genuinely don't know how I haven't died yet."
And that feeling creeps in again—tight in my chest, like something's crawling under my skin. Fear. But not for me.
For her.
What the hell is that?
"That's dangerous, Hannah," I say, before I can stop myself. My voice comes out sharper than I meant.
She blinks, caught off guard. "It's fine. I'm fine."
"It's not just monsters down there. The deeper you go..." I trail off, then immediately feel stupid. Why do I care so much?
"It's not like I want to do this forever," she says, her tone softer now. "I just want to make the farm work. I'm not here for fun, you know?"
Everyone falls quiet. Even Sam, for once.
I look down at the frozen tear in my hands. It's cool against my fingers, calming in a weird way.
"My grandpa's farm," she adds, like it explains everything. "It's all I have left of him. My mom left when I was a kid. My dad's still in the city, but it's not the same. I just... I wanted to finish what he started. Not for legacy or whatever. Just... for me."
The way she says it. No drama. No self-pity. Just truth.
Something in my throat tightens.
"You're kinda cool,." I say quietly, surprising even myself.
Hannah smiles. Not in a smug way. It's soft. Grateful. Like it actually mattered that I said it.
"Thanks, Seb," she says, tucking her knees up and resting her chin on them. "That means more than you think."
I feel Sam and Abigail glance at me, but I ignore them.
I don't know what this is. I don't do this. Feelings. Eye contact. Talking like we're all about to burst into song or something. But now she's here, sitting in my basement like she belongs there, and suddenly it doesn't feel so suffocating.
She stands up a few minutes later, brushing dust off her jeans. "I should go. I've got some paths to clear before the rain tomorrow."
"Want company?" Abigail asks quickly.
Hannah looks to me first before she answers, and I have no idea why that makes my heart jump a little.
"Sure," she says with a smile, then turns back to me. "Thanks again for the compliment. I'll add it to my diary under 'rare events.'"
I smirk. "Right under 'Sebastian voluntarily made eye contact.'"
She laughs, and they both head up the stairs. When the door clicks shut, Sam kicks the leg of my desk lightly.
"So..." he says, dragging out the word with the smugness of a man who knows something I wish he didn't. "That was interesting."
"I don't want to talk about it," I mutter, turning toward my desk and pretending to reorganize my cables.
But I don't light the bong again. Not this time.
I just sit there, frozen tear in my hand, thinking about green eyes and lava levels.
And wondering what the hell I'm supposed to do about it
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