I’m not going back. Nope. No way. I’ll just never sleep again.

I don’t check the Wiki at work; I just work. Jenna is pleased, Daisuke doesn’t seem to care either way, and I am just . . . present.

I buy another coffee for myself at our register—a small black coffee, because I’m not a billionaire—and down it. Then do it again and again throughout the day.

“You know, they say you shouldn’t try your own supply,” Daisuke says wryly as I grab another coffee, my hands jittery with caffeine.

“Careful, Daisuke,” Jenna pipes up. “You’re talking to our newest best customer.”

I glance at them as I sip the coffee. It’s hot, but my tongue’s scorched enough from the last one to be able to take it. “I just want to stay awake for you guys,” I lie.

Jenna’s cheeky smile fades. “Alright, but I will cut you off soon so you don’t have a heart attack at the ripe old age of twenty-one.”

I pout at her but know she’s right. I haven’t had coffee shakes like this since I had that 8 a.m. college class that I was always fighting for my life in.

As Jenna goes into the back, Daisuke hovers around me, prepping drinks for our usuals, who should be arriving soon. There’s the businessman in the gray suit who always gets a caramel frappuccino, the scattered looking intern who always comes in with a list of the same eight drinks, and the mom with the two-year-old who wants a cold brew and no conversation. “You still applying to marketing gigs?” Daisuke asks quietly.

I glance over at him. His dark hair hides his expression as he leans over the minifridge, digging around for the cold brew jug that somehow always gets lost behind the milk. “I haven’t in a few days.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t let myself get stuck here.” There isn’t a hint of bitterness in his voice, but I still wonder how he feels, saying stuff like that. Daisuke didn’t go to college. He’s twenty-three now, still pursuing local acting roles. Sometimes he takes a day off to audition, but he hasn’t done that in a while. I think he’s been doing self tapes and not getting calls back.

“You’re right,” I say softly. “I’ll get back into it tonight. Thanks for reminding me.”

He looks up at me and gives me a supportive smile, tinged with sadness. “Not that I don’t like working here, but . . . there’s more to life, right?”

I return his sad smile. “Yeah. There’s more to life.”

When I get home, I look for jobs online. I should’ve done internships in the summer, back when I was in college, but I’d spent my time doing small jobs at the school instead. Adam did the same. We’d had a lot of good summers back then. But then Adam graduated and got a job relevant to his degree, working at some startup, and I graduated and started serving coffee.

“Junior Marketing Manager . . . Required: Three plus years of relevant experience . . . They’ve gotta be fucking kidding everyone.” I apply anyway. What do I have to lose? My resume is trash, mostly listing college classes and clubs with some weak experience from part-time jobs. It would be embarrassing, but I know people have it worse off. I shouldn’t let it get to me. Don’t let it get to you.

My phone rings, and I jump. Usually I keep it on silent, but I’d taken it off earlier because I’d been worried Jenna was going to call and tell me not to come in today. Thankfully, she hadn’t.

Adam. Always fucking Adam. At least someone calls me though. Don’t let him get to you.

I let it ring. After I push a few more desperate job applications out, paired with even more desperate cover letters about how “I would let your company crush my spirit and ruin my sleep schedule,” I make some food.

My mind drifts to The Tales of Alvione and what’s become my second life this past week or so. I don’t want to go back to that scene. I don’t want to fall asleep and open my eyes to the sight of a dead person, even if he was a real piece of shit. I’m not sure I want to go back at all.

This isn’t the book I loved. Eliana never saw anyone die. She stayed in her ivory tower and just flirted the night away, day in and day out. The rest of the series followed her life with Peter. In book two, she and Peter get married and work through the politics of ruling together, as well as figure out how to be a married couple. It’s dramatic, romantic, and somehow pretty fucking boring until the end, where it’s not clear if she and Peter will remain together because of disagreements over extending their lineage. Eliana is shy and wants to wait. Peter is still hung up on impressing his father and kind of a bit sexually frustrated. Then, in book three, they go their separate ways on different trips to other nations, looking to build bonds with more orc tribes, elven communities, and smaller, unruled human towns. Over the course of their journey, they each learn more about what love and a lasting relationship means, and they return to each other with different mindsets. Peter apologizes for everything and admits that all he wants in life is Eliana, and Eliana is finally ready to take the next step.

I doubt those books are anything like that now. I’m sure I’ve fucked everything up for Eliana and Alvione, or at least changed their fates for now.

The inevitable hangs over my head: I’ll have to sleep eventually. It’s Friday, and I don’t work Saturday, so I can stay up as late as I like. Still, it’s not like I can avoid sleep forever.

But there is something else I can do.

Like a little devil on my shoulder, I feel my mind whispering, Read ahead. I finish my dinner and add my bowl to the pile in the sink. I’ll have to actually clean those tomorrow, I think, forlorn. Fucking hell.

With zombie-like movement, I approach my bedroom and turn on the bedside lamp. Then I walk up to the book slowly, like it’s a bomb that could go off any second now, with just one wrong move. I’ll just read a little bit . . . said everyone everywhere before staying up all night to finish reading. I flip haphazardly through the pages with my name until I get to the death of the guard. I swallow and start reading.

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My movement was swift. I had awakened in my bed, a personal healer standing over me with a rather uninterested look on his face. When he’d assured me that I was quite fine, except for a small bruise from when I’d fallen and my clear exhaustion, I rose from the bed with great determination and brushed past him with a small grateful “thank you.” Though he tried to insist I stay in bed and rest further, I knew what I had to do. I had to see how Martin and his elven friend had faired.

I laugh to myself quietly. Yeah, Eliana. His “friend.”

In the infirmary, past vast stained glass windows that cast colors all about the room, I found Martin leaned over the elf Iliyan, whose midsection was bleeding still through his tight bandages. I averted my eyes from the scene of his graying face and limp form, feeling a great sense of shame that we had failed to protect him, even as we had stood beside him.

Martin looked up at me, his eyes empty of tears, though his face was quite puffy from what I could only assume was hours of crying. “We tried our best, did we not?” he said to me in a quiet, broken voice.

“That we did, Wizard,” I said just as gently in return.

A look of surprise, twinged with a bit of confusion, crossed his face. “Eliana,” he said, as if I were a revelation.

“Yes?”

He let out a bitter laugh, startling me. “Of course.”

It feels like I’ve been the one stabbed. Guilt. He doesn’t want to talk to Eliana. He wants to talk to me.

“Can magic not do more to heal your dear friend?” I asked. I sat down in the chair beside Martin, which seemed to surprise him further.

“These wounds are beyond magic. Should he heal a bit more, magic could then assist in the process. But his condition has to improve a bit more first, otherwise the body may be healed but the mind may not return.”

I nodded quietly, my head lowered. “I have failed you both. I am not fit to be queen.”

I felt his eyes upon me, but then his next words left me most perplexed. “What we really need . . . is a pineapple.”

A . . . what?

“Ah, fuck.” Our codeword from before. I’d nearly forgotten about it. He wants me to stop reading and start dreaming. I climb into bed and put the book on my lap. To do what, Martin? I can’t save Iliyan. I can’t save you. And I sure as hell can’t do anything to make Alvione better. Sure, not all the elves had died, but I can’t imagine killing a human guard to save a few elves is going to look good politically to the people of Alvione. They’re clearly racist against magic users. And I can’t help but feel that things will only get worse.

“I’m quite sorry,” I said. “Is that an item of healing magic? I have not heard such a word before.”

Martin gritted his teeth, his eyes returning to the sight of his friend, who I now realized must surely be dying. The elf had been impaled by a long sword, and for most that I had known, this had been a death sentence. Martin continued in his speech, undeterred by my words, almost as if he had not heard them spoken at all. “I said I could really use a pineapple.”

I huff aloud and look up at the ceiling. “Fucking hell. Fine, you little shit.” I slam the book shut and put it down on the side table. After I turn out the light, I snuggle into bed, glaring at no one in particular. I’m still jittery from coffee, so I won’t be falling asleep for a while. Or so I think, because the next thing I know . . .

I’m staring Martin right in the eye. When my face contorts into a pissed-off scowl, he returns it with fervor.

“You abandoned me,” he hisses quietly.

“At least act happy that your beloved pineapple is here.” It’s not a nice thing to say to a guy still holding the hand of his dying ex-boyfriend, but I’m not feeling particularly nice.

“Far from beloved. But at least we can speak freely without me having to feign ignorance in front of the sweet, foolish queen.” He turns back to Iliyan. His voice wavers as he says, “Is it cruel to say I would have preferred if one of the others had been the one struck instead?”

I follow his gaze to Iliyan and feel my stomach turn. The guy is half-dead. I don’t have to be a doctor to know that.

“Could he have survived this injury in your world?” Martin asks.

My heart clenches at his words, at the mix of hopefulness and hopelessness in this voice. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Martin stares at Iliyan with an empty look in his eye. “I see.” After a moment, he takes a breath and looks up at me. His lip doesn’t quiver and his gaze is steady. I’m not sure if he’s trying to be strong or if he just is. “I believe Peter Ward and Leon Viridia are still somewhere within our walls. This is a good opportunity for you to improve Alvione’s relations with their kingdoms. There’s nothing for you to do here. You should go to them and see what you can do. The world cannot stop because one man is dying.”

“What about . . . the guards who did this? The other elves?”

Martin shakes his head. “Do not tell me you wish to play interrogator and diplomat to the elves as well. Your other advisors are taking care of it.”

“Shouldn’t I meet them?”

“Eliana has already met them,” he snaps, getting irritated again. “It would be quite strange for you to ask for introductions and too risky to talk to them given how much they know about you and how little you likely know about them.”

He’s right. The book never named the advisors. They weren’t interesting or important characters in Eliana’s story, though they should have been, given that they’d basically run the country while she’d flounced around with her two men.

“What about addressing the people? I’m sure there are rumors of what happened going around.”

Martin slams his hand down on the arm of his chair and rises, letting go of Iliyan in the process. Iliyan’s hand falls limply to the side. Some of the nurses and healers jump at the sound, a few scattering from the room to give us privacy, while the others look over curiously. The ones who stay busy themselves with menial tasks, pretending they aren’t being totally fucking nosy right now. But Martin is glaring at me, and I can’t focus on anything else. “Please be intelligent,” he says in a low, even voice. “There is nothing you can do here to help. Do not take my words as an attack, but understand that we must keep moving forward with what we have discussed and that you are not wanted here in this room.”

“Liar,” I hear myself whisper. I take a step toward him, feeling indignant. “You called for me. More than once. Why? Just to send me off on a little mission? Just to tell me to leave?”

His steely expression gives way to a look of defeat and . . . fear? Hurt? I’m not sure. It’s clear that a mass of mixed emotions are stirring within him, bobbing to the surface at a whim. “I do not know,” he says softly, his anger dissipating as quickly as it had appeared. “I just . . . I think I wished . . . you had not left me here alone.”

His words are like a blade to my heart. Loneliness. I know what it feels like. Doesn’t everyone? So why does it feel so much worse right now, just hearing him admit it aloud? “I’m sorry,” I whisper. I’m a coward. I reach out and pull him toward me, holding him tight as I wrap my arms around him, hugging him close.

At first I think I’ve made a mistake. He doesn’t hug me back, his arms hanging down by his sides. But when I feel his body shuddering with broken sobs, I know I haven’t crossed a line—at least, not a bad one. Things do feel different now, and I realize that I don’t want to ever let him down again.