I gave him a small smile and waited.
“So this partner? Does it really seem to say I’ll find love here? Or am I really a lost cause?”
I smiled, feeling the softness of it all the way through me. “We always have the potential for love. But in your case…” I pointed to his Libra Moon. “Your moon wants partnership. It’s wired for it. And transiting Jupiter—the planet of expansion and luck—is moving into your seventh house over the next year. That’s relationships. What you learn from them, what you attract. It doesn’t promise a ring and a mortgage, but it does suggest that if you show up and open up, the potential for something real is extraordinarily strong. Especially if you’re in a place where you feel more like yourself.”
He looked at the threads again—the California path, fine and tight, and the Loren Brae path, brighter and wider.
“Can you…” He hesitated, swallowing. “Would it be possible for you to…nudge it? Just a little? The Loren Brae one.”
I held his gaze. “I can,” I said slowly, swallowing down my nerves. “But only if you’re already choosing it. I won’t override your free will and I can’t force what isn’t yours.”
“I know,” he said. “I’m not asking you to decide for me. I think … I’ve already decided. That’s the terrifying part. I wantto be here. With Soph and Lachlan. With all of you. I want to try a life that isn’t built solely around my job title. But a part of me still clings to the old story. The safe story. If you can help me … commit, I suppose. It would be comforting. To know the universe is backing me up, even a little.”
I felt that right down to my bones.
“All right,” I whispered. “Then yes. I can try.”
The threads brightened, as if they’d heard.
“Before I do,” I added, “a couple of ground rules. One, this doesn’t erase hard things. If you stay, there will still be moments of homesickness, financial stress, all of that. Two, you still have to do the practical bits. Talk to your university. Sort out visas. Figure out how many cardigans you need for Scottish winters. Three, if at any point your gut says no, you listen to that over me, over the chart, over everything. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said immediately, a corner of his mouth twitching upward.
“And four,” I added, because Gran’s words rang in my head, “I am not a vending machine of destiny, okay? This is a co-creation. You and me and the stars. And possibly Sir Buster, who I suspect is some sort of minor god.”
We both glanced over. Sir Buster rolled onto his back with a groan, four little legs in the air.
Matthew smiled, eyes suspiciously bright. “Understood.”
I took another breath, centering myself. “All right then. Let’s see what the loom has in store.”
I reached for the golden thread that represented Loren Brae—thicker than the California one now, but still delicate. As my fingers brushed it, heat flared in my palm. Images spilled through me again, faster this time.
Matthew at the village pub, arguing animatedly with Agnes about the ethics of museums and stolen artifacts, everyone around them tossing in opinions. Matthew in a small, brightkitchen, books crammed on every surface, a mug of tea steaming by his elbow as he typed. Matthew laughing in the snow with the Scotties, Sophie pelting him with a snowball and immediately denying it. Matthew standing at the front of a wee community hall, giving a talk about local legends to a packed audience, eyes alight.
And then—oh.
There.
A studio somewhere in the village, light pouring in, canvases leaning against the wall. A person stood with their back to me, hands stained with paint or clay or something equally messy, listening as Matthew talked about some old artifact he was helping them reference. I couldn’t see their face, but I felt the warmth between them. The ease. The way their laughter curled around him. Threads of color linked them, cocooning them in soft golds.
It was blurry. Unformed. Not set. But it was there.
My heart squeezed.
Gently, carefully, I tugged that thread, pulling it forward, tightening the weave.
The thread glowed brighter. The whole web shifted subtly, the California path still present but now distinctly less dominant, like the memory of an old road you no longer use.
Energy shot up through my arm, leaving my fingertips tingling, my chest buzzing. It was a softer feeling this time than with Greta. Less like shoving something into place and more like saying yes to a door that was already half open.
I let go.
The shimmer dimmed, the threads slowly lowering back toward the chart. My inner vision still held the echo of them, like the afterimage of fairy lights when you close your eyes.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Matthew let out a shuddering breath. “I felt that,” he said softly. “I don’t know what you did, exactly, but I felt something … click. Like the moment you finally choose a flight and hit ‘confirm’ after weeks of stalking the prices.”