Molly is tired.
Not physically—her body hums with the aftershock of magic, nerves still sparking from the spellwork they'd been running. She's good at this now. She's good at magic, at slipping through veils, at weaving her will into the world and making things happen.
But Harry still looks at her like she's a half-trained puppy who might piss on the carpet.
Which, okay, fair, she did almost light his apartment on fire that one time. But it's been years, and she's done so much worse since then.
She crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. "You don't trust me."
Harry exhales, pressing the heels of his palms into his eye sockets like this is the most exhausting conversation he's ever had. "Molly."
She waits.
He doesn't continue, so she fills in the blanks herself.
"You don't think I'm strong enough."
He makes a noise—one of those half-choked, exasperated sounds that mean she's just scraped too close to something real.
Molly steps forward. "Or maybe you think I am strong enough. Maybe that's the problem."
Harry drops his hands, his expression unreadable.
"Mols." His voice is rough. Low. "You need to stop pushing this."
She doesn't. She won't.
Because this thing between them—this tension, this friction, this thing—it's been simmering since the beginning. And she's done pretending she doesn't see it.
Harry swallows. His hands are still clenched, jaw tight, breath slow and even like he's trying not to give something away.
And then, finally—
"You think I don't trust you?" His voice is hoarse. "I trust you too damn much."
Her breath catches.
Because suddenly, he's right there. Close enough that she can see the way his pupils are blown wide, the way his lips part, like he's barely holding himself back.
"Molly," he says again, like it's some kind of warning.
She steps closer. "Then stop holding back."
His eyes darken.
And then—
Then, he breaks.
His hands are on her, gripping her arms, dragging her in like he's been fighting it for years. He's so warm, his magic crackling against hers, and then his mouth is on hers, and fuck, this is happening.
Molly gasps against him, and he growls, growls, pressing her back against the wall like she might disappear if he doesn't keep her there. His hands are rough, urgent, fingers curling at her waist, sliding under the edge of her shirt, like he can't help himself.
And she doesn't want him to.
Because this—this heat, this need—it's what she's always wanted.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against hers, his breath ragged.
"If you stay," he murmurs, voice wrecked, "you stay for good."
Her lips curve. "Wasn't planning on leaving."
And then he kisses her again.
Epilogue: Murphy's Descent into Madness
Murphy puts the journal down. Molly's most intimate thoughts, which she had accidentally left at her apartment.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And then she gets up, walks into the kitchen, and pours herself a shot of whiskey.
What the actual hell did I just read?
She stares at the journal like it's some kind of eldritch horror.
Harry. Harry Dresden.
The same man who wears a duster like it's a second skin, who eats cold pizza off his bookshelf, who spent three weeks once forgetting he had a hole in his shoe and just walked around with wet socks?
That Harry Dresden?
Passionate. Overwhelmed. Pinning Molly to a wall and growling.
Murphy throws back the whiskey.
And then her phone rings.
With a sinking feeling, she answers. "Murphy."
"Oh my God, Murph," Harry groans. "I swear to God, I am going to strangle my apprentice."
Murphy goes still.
"She fried another one of my wards," Harry continues, exasperated. "And when I told her why it was wrong, she just—just stared at me, like I was speaking Greek, and then told me she 'improved' it."
Murphy breathes.
Okay. Okay. She knows Harry.
He is oblivious. He is dense. He does not pin Molly to walls and confess his undying love.
She exhales, pressing her fingers into her temple.
"Murph?" Harry sounds vaguely concerned now. "You still there?"
"Yeah," she mutters. "Just—got a headache."
Harry grumbles. "Tell me about it."
Murphy looks at the journal. Looks at the whiskey bottle.
And then, out of pure self-preservation, she goes with her instincts.
"You need a break," she says, voice casual.
Harry scoffs. "Yeah, well, good luck with that."
"Come over."
Silence.
Murphy leans against the counter, fighting a smirk. "I'll cook."
A beat.
"…Cook?"
"And maybe," she says, slow and deliberate, "we can have dessert after."
Silence.
A long, long silence.
Then, faintly—
"…You're messing with me."
Murphy lets the smirk slip onto her face.
"Come find out."
Harry makes a strangled noise, like a man confronting his own mortality.
Murphy laughs, low and warm.
"See you at eight."
And then she hangs up.
Because she might not be writing romance novels, but she sure as hell knows how to win.