He'd been halfway through an incantation when it happened. A containment ward. Routine. Nothing dangerous. The sort of spell he'd performed often enough that he could probably manage it half-asleep.

Then the air changed. Not magically. Personally.

Stephen knew the theory. Every sorcerer at Kamar-Taj did. A mate bond wasn't something chosen, summoned, or manufactured. It was an ancient phenomenon—a recognition between two souls that supposedly existed before either person had the words to understand it.

It was also extraordinarily rare. There were eleven documented cases in the entire recorded history of Kamar-Taj. Eleven.

And now, apparently, twelve.

Because the moment your eyes met his, something inside Stephen snapped into place. There was no dramatic flash of magic. No thunder. No mystical announcement. Just certainty.

He knew. And judging by the subtle shift in your expression, so did you.

The containment spell completed itself without his conscious direction. Stephen barely noticed. His mind, usually so ruthlessly precise, had already begun cataloguing variables.

Mutant. Unknown abilities. No affiliation, from what he could tell from the lack of their insignia and uniform.

And somehow—against every reasonable expectation—the universe had decided that this was his problem now. Of course it was. Stephen Strange had faced interdimensional entities, reality-ending incursions, alternate versions of himself, and beings powerful enough to make gods look insignificant.

Apparently, none of that had prepared him for meeting his mate.

He kept his expression composed.