Tag: LGBTQ+

Book Review

Where There’s Room for Us by Hayley Kiyoko

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In a reimagined 1880s England where same-sex love is accepted yet the patriarchy still rules, Hayley Kiyoko delivers a tender romance between two young women navigating the tension between selfhood and social expectation. Where There’s Room for Us follows Ivy, an outspoken poet from New York who relocates to England, and Freya, a dutiful socialite who’s expected to marry a lord and produce heirs in order to secure her family’s legacy. What begins as curiosity quickly deepens into a slow-burn sapphic romance filled with charm, social commentary, and a quiet but persistent sense of rebellion as Ivy and Freya begin to imagine a life that might finally be their own—if they can bear the cost of claiming it.

Book cover for Where There's Room for Us by Hayley Kiyoko.

It’s not every day a whole prime minister accuses you of being a harbinger of sapphic doom.

Hayley Kiyoko, Where There’s Room for Us

Ivy and Freya feel like two different versions of girlhood crashing into each other at the exact right moment. Ivy already knows who she is. She’s flirtatious, outspoken, comfortable sinking into her love for women without apology. She walks into a room and you can practically feel all the air shift her way. Freya, by contrast, has spent her life doing what she is told and calling it love. She reveres her father and plans to marry Lord Montgomery because that is the path laid out for her. But when she meets Ivy, she has to name what she wants for the first time in her life, and that awakening is honestly so satisfying.

Freya’s mostly peripheral relationship with her father is also more layered than I expected. She loves him and wants his approval, but eventually begins to see that his approval comes with a cost she can no longer keep paying. He is obsessed with securing an heir who can inherit his title, and because he only has daughters, he pushes Freya toward a marriage she does not want. There is one particular moment when he discovers how Freya feels about Ivy, and his reaction is ugly. Freya runs, and for one fleeting instant, she imagines what might have happened if her sister hadn’t found her and taken her in, how easily she could have been left with nowhere to go. That brief beat in the story brushes against something painfully real for many queer readers: the fear of losing home, safety, and family simply for being honest about who they are. Kiyoko weaves moments like this throughout the story, grounding the romance in quiet echoes of real-world anxieties and creating an emotional connection that feels both tender and true.

What a thing, to just be accepted like she belongs.

Hayley Kiyoko, Where There’s Room for Us

By removing homophobia from this fictional world yet leaving sexism intact, Kiyoko forces readers to see how privilege and oppression can coexist within the same structures. It reframes Victorian England through a speculative lens that feels both fresh and hauntingly recognizable. Marriage equality exists, but equality itself does not. A woman may love another woman, but she cannot inherit her father’s title or estate because that privilege is only afforded to men. This results in an intriguing tension between freedom and frustration, where Ivy and Freya’s hearts are liberated but their fates are not. It’s a subtle but biting commentary on how reform without equality still reinforces old hierarchies.

The romance is where the book falters slightly. Ivy and Freya are undeniably sweet, sometimes so sugary it almost made my teeth ache. Their early scenes together are tender and full of kissing in gardens, along forest paths, against trees—everywhere—and while that has its charm, I kept wishing for a little more tension beneath all that softness. Time jumps also rush past key emotional turns. Conflicts flare, confessions are made, family drama erupts, and then suddenly it’s two weeks later and everything has quietly resolved itself. I wanted to linger in those rough edges and actually see Ivy and Freya fight for what they keep saying is worth everything.

The novel’s closed-door romance approach adds to that sense of restraint. It’s likely a deliberate choice to make the story accessible to younger readers, and that’s understandable, but it leaves a noticeable gap between what’s shown and what’s implied.

If security comes at the cost of your soul, then it is not a choice you can make freely.

Hayley Kiyoko, Where There’s Room for Us

For all its emotional depth, the story’s conclusion feels too tidy and rushed. Some conflicts wrap up too neatly, and some emotional threads, especially between Freya and her father, never really get revisited. I kept waiting for the book to force her father to face his hypocrisy, but instead, he is mostly allowed to stay himself. On one hand, that is realistic. A lot of queer readers know exactly what it’s like to love a parent who will never meet you in the middle. On the other hand, I wish the story spelled out what that means for Freya long term. Sometimes I want to see plots like that buttoned up in fiction since real life isn’t required to make sense or be fair. Alas!

Still, this book reads like a love letter to queer readers. Ivy and Freya are adorable together, but it’s the context around their romance—the inheritance laws, the rigid gender roles, the quiet heartbreak of disappointing a beloved parent simply for being who you are—that really resonates. Kiyoko’s world doesn’t fix everything, but it gives us space to imagine better. And for that alone, it’s worth a read.

Thank you to NetGalley and Wednesday Books for sharing an advanced reader copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review

Splintered Kingdom by Gretchen Powell Fox

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Splintered Kingdom by Gretchen Powell Fox is the second installment in the Shattered Crown trilogy. It expands the world beyond the high-stakes tension of the Arcane Crucible and plunges Elyria and Cedric into the fragile aftermath. All the while, Elyria is learning to wield her shadow magic without letting it consume her, and Cedric is coming to terms with the truth of his own identity. As twin victors of the Crucible, they must work together to find both halves of the Crown of Concord in order to save Arcanis from collapse. Between political unrest, stunning betrayals, and the will-they-won’t-they tension still sizzling between the pair, nothing about this journey is going to be simple.

Book cover for Splintered Kingdom by Gretchen Powell Fox.

The truth has a way of hiding in the spaces between what is written.

Gretchen Powell Fox, Splintered Kingdom

What stands out most in Splintered Kingdom is how much bigger this universe becomes. In Smoke and Scar, the tension of the story came from a contained, brutal set of trials that compacted risk, characters, and plot into a tight space. Here, we’re invited into cities, borderlands, courts, and villages. We meet famine, piety, zealotry, poverty, the fierce solidarity of towns under pressure, and a spectrum of beliefs that test our heroes at every turn. The expansion of the setting amplifies the stakes as the narrative terrain is both emotional and geographical now. That shift allows Fox to lean more intentionally into the social commentary already pulsing beneath her worldbuilding. We see not only the effects of the missing Crown of Concord, but also what it costs ordinary people when political turmoil causes kingdoms to fracture.

Of course, the beating heart of this story still belongs to its characters. Elyria, Cedric, and the plucky crew we met in the Sanctum are magnetic as ever, even if they’re often separated this time around. But we also meet even more of their friends in Splintered Kingdom, and the experience is delightful! Tristan, in particular, is the standout favorite. Every scene he’s in becomes instantly more charming, more fun, more alive. (If Fox sees this, I would absolutely read an entire novella about him!) I also appreciate how Kit feels so much sharper and more grounded outside the Crucible, with arcs that nicely emphasize her wit, courtly intrigue, and strength of character rather than the single note of her (justified) rage as we saw during the trials. Nox and Thraigg, sadly, fade a bit to the background here, perhaps to make room for new characters and plot. Regardless, the ensemble overall remains a highlight for me. Fox has a way of writing even the smallest side character with enough depth that you care if they don’t make it out alive. It makes the reading experience so much more agonizing…and fun!

I was also glad to see LGBTQ+ representation handled with more care and attention, a welcome improvement on the first book that makes this world feel richer and more lived in. In my Smoke and Scar review, I noted that Tenebris Nox offered seamless nonbinary representation, yet the broader spectrum felt underexplored for a story that otherwise manages to showcase such a diverse fae world. In Splintered Kingdom, queer identities appear across core and side characters, folded into everyday dialogue, court dynamics, and found family moments without fanfare. The result is a story that reflects the breadth of its own world, and characters that feel more authentic because of it.

She did not want to admit that her power felt sharper, steadier whenever he was near. Did not want to admit to the hum of recognition, of belonging, she felt whenever his own power flared. Even now, her power flickered under her skin at the thought, as if her shadows, too, yearned to reunite with his fire.

Gretchen Powell Fox, Splintered Kingdom

The romance you signed on for also finally gets its moment, and the bell pepper-level spice of the first book definitely upgrades to a chili pepper or two for the sequel! In Smoke and Scar, Elyria and Cedric were too busy surviving the trials to do more than trade fleeting glances and hold the line on all that pent-up longing. In Splintered Kingdom, they have space to ask real questions, to decide what they want from each other, and how much of themselves they’re willing to give. The early intimate scenes between them are unquestionably the strongest, when they’re still feeling their way through a new romantic dynamic. There is a quiet vulnerability to how they explore that connection and surrender to their desire for one another. It feels earned after the enemies-to-lovers slow burn from the first book. For me, the love scenes in the second half of the book don’t have the same effect because they seem to exist for their own sake rather than in service of character or plot. I’m thinking of one specific love scene towards the end of the book when I say that. But for the most part, the evolution of their bond feels right. Cedric and Elyria are most effective when they don’t dull themselves down for each other, and that flickering tension—fire and shadow learning to move together—continues to work. Their arcs feel designed to slot together, to fill spaces the other left empty, which makes watching them get together incredibly gratifying and poetic.

One of the most rewarding through-lines in this series is its interest in power—not just the kind you cast or fight with, but the kind that shapes people and institutions. Cedric’s arc continues to be one of my favorites. Watching him unlearn the indoctrination he grew up with, challenge Lord Church’s legacy, and finally begin to see his own power as something worth embracing is deeply satisfying. Elyria’s journey with her shadow magic is also layered, since it’s about control but also about learning to live with the parts of yourself you were taught to fear. The book also sharpens its questions around mana magic: who gets to use it, what it costs, and whether a resource can be wielded without stripping the world that sustains it. I hope the final installment leans into that idea of stewardship, not just control, and shows what responsible magic might look like in a world that has already paid too much for convenience.

When you spend all your time trying to bury your power instead of learning how to use it, there is a bit of a steep curve to catch up.

Gretchen Powell Fox, Splintered Kingdom

That said, it bears noting that the first half of the novel drags. Given everyone is so worried about finding the crown and saving the kingdom, the fact that they’re willing to sit around and wait for permission to leave on that journey felt…odd. The characters—and readers—were trapped by plot necessity more than anything else. Sure, the excuse is that Lord Church is manipulating everyone because he doesn’t want our heroes to find the crown, but the sheer amount of time they spent waiting around just doesn’t feel convincing or believable when the world is supposedly on the brink. The writing also feels clunky in places, with repetition and awkward sentence construction that pulls you out of the moment. The pacing struggles under the weight of long exposition scenes and a few too many logistical detours. It’s not enough to undo the emotional resonance of the story, but it does dull the edge a bit.

Still, Splintered Kingdom holds its ground as a thoughtful, character-driven follow-up. It may not have the razor-sharp pacing of Smoke and Scar, but it makes up for that with expanded themes and wider emotional arcs. The final chapters deliver some gut-punch moments I didn’t see coming, and while the book ends with a clear setup for the final installment, it still feels like a full experience.

Thank you to the author, Gretchen Powell Fox, for sharing an advanced reader copy of her book in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review

Smoke and Scar by Gretchen Powell Fox

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Smoke and Scar by Gretchen Powell Fox is a gripping enemies-to-lovers romantasy that plunges readers into a world still reeling from the dark, magical scars of an ancient war. At its center is Elyria Lightbreaker, a fae war hero (or criminal, depending on who you ask) who has spent 250 years drowning her past in alcohol, sex, and reckless avoidance. But when her dead lover’s sister enters the Arcane Crucible—a brutal, winner-takes-all series of trials that could shift the fragile balance between humans and fae—Elyria is dragged back into a fight she wanted to forget. As she battles deadly opponents, shifting alliances, and an infuriatingly broody human knight, Smoke and Scar delivers high-stakes action, emotional depth, and a slow-burn romance that smolders…right until it ignites.

Book cover for Smoke and Scar by Gretchen Powell Fox.

Cedric shuddered at the thought of what it would be like to meet the Revenant in battle at full power. He hoped he never had to find out. And yet, for some reason he could not possibly begin to explain, he also hoped he did?

Gretchen Powell Fox, Smoke and Scar

I could only ever mean this in the best way, but start this book prepared with the knowledge that it will make you fall hard for its characters, then drop you into a haunted cave and threaten to break your heart once you’re in its clutches. (But it’s fine! You’ll be fine. Trust me.) Elyria is sharp, feral, and drowning in unresolved trauma, and Cedric, is a fierce warrior with protective instincts that belie his programming, particularly once he begins to question the narratives he’s been raised on after actually spending time with fae. What makes their dynamic fresh is the way Fox subverts our favorite genre conventions. Elyria is the shadow mommy, if you will. She’s emotionally constipated and a little bit uncouth, and Cedric is her damsel in distress (and there is so much distress—whump goblins, come get your food!). Their romance is the kind of slow burn that aches in the best way, full of reluctant trust and repressed third-degree yearns. Among other choice genre favorites, there is a Pride and Prejudice-esque hand flex, as well as a “who did this to you?” But when I say it’s a slow burn, what I mean is any slower, and they’d literally be on fire. But it’s great! So bring your marshmallows!

High fantasy can sometimes fall into the trap of making side characters seem as though they’re positioned simply to function as plot devices rather than people, but here, every character feels important and distinct. They are a found family, full of snarky, reckless, and endlessly lovable personalities. Fox’s treatment of “side characters” (more accurately, characters who are not the two main love interests) reminds me of the way Leigh Bardugo writes her characters in the Grishaverse. Nox and Thraigg are my favorites in the bunch (actually, I need an entire novella all about Nox), but truly, not a single one feels expendable.

As she met his golden brown eyes, something stirred in the hollow place where her inner shadow slept. A recognition. An understanding.

Gretchen Powell Fox, Smoke and Scar

One of the most impressive things about Smoke and Scar is its handling of power—not just the kind you wield in battle but the kind that shapes societies, histories, and people. The Crucible isn’t just a fight for a shiny prize; it’s a symbolic war over centuries of oppression, loss, and vengeance. The fae and humans have deeply entrenched narratives about who deserves power and why, and Fox doesn’t take the easy route of making one side clearly “right.” Instead, the story wrestles with the murky, often brutal nature of power itself: who controls it, who’s willing to die for it, and whether it can ever truly be shared.

The worldbuilding smartly reinforces the novel’s deeper themes, balancing intricate political tensions with tangible, sensory-rich settings that make you feel like you’re walking through the aftermath of a war that never quite ended. The Crucible itself is a thrilling, blood-soaked puzzle box of challenges, and Fox crafts each trial with enough variety and tension to keep both characters and readers on their toes. There’s a real sense of danger, and readers quickly learn no character is safe. As a result, each thrilling victory feels earned. The trials aren’t just about physical strength either; they demand strategy, adaptability, and an understanding of the larger forces at play. And because of that inventiveness, it’s fun to read about each new trial because they almost feel interactive, pulling the reader into the problem-solving alongside the characters.

Beyond its political and magical intrigue, Smoke and Scar also carries deeper themes of identity, acceptance, and learning to embrace the parts of yourself you’ve been taught to suppress. Elyria’s journey with her shadow powers, in particular, feels like a metaphor for self-acceptance—whether that’s tied to gender, sexuality, culture, or any other aspect of identity. There’s a moment where she finally stops resisting this part of herself, and it’s written with a kind of catharsis that will resonate deeply with anyone who’s ever struggled with their own sense of belonging.

She’d spent so long burying half of herself. Now that she had finally given that half the freedom of acknowledgment—started to embrace it, even—she suddenly wanted to know more about it. Wanted to know everything.

Gretchen Powell Fox, Smoke and Scar

If there’s one place where I found myself wanting more, it’s in the details of Cedric’s backstory (anyone else get unreasonably attached to Tristan for the 0.5 seconds he appears?) and the mechanics of mana magic. Cedric often serves as the “token human,” giving us an outsider’s perspective on the fae world, but his own history remains somewhat elusive. The concept of mana and the tension surrounding its use also raises questions that feel ripe for further exploration. What exactly does it mean to leach mana from the land? Why is it seen as so inherently destructive, especially when celestial forces gifted humans with this ability? And what are we to make of the fact that most of Cedric’s identity as a knight is supplemented by the lore behind this power? Fox gives us enough to fuel the conflict but leaves plenty of room for further revelations in future books. We also get seamless nonbinary representation in Tenebris Nox, but for all the diverse and interesting fae creatures and cultures introduced in this novel, I really wish we’d had a chance to see more of the LGBTQ+ representation that surely must exist in this world.

Ultimately, Smoke and Scar is the best kind of fantasy because it provides readers a thrilling, high-stakes adventure while sneaking in sharp commentary on power, identity, and history. And yet, despite its weighty themes, the book never feels bogged down. It’s as entertaining as it is thought-provoking. The characters are ones you want to protect (even when they make terrible choices), and the world feels vast but never overwhelming. I can picture it next to everyone’s favorite series by Sarah J. Maas, Rebecca Yarros, and Leigh Bardugo. If you love found family, slow burn romance, and fantasy that dares to explore the true cost of power, this is one you won’t want to miss.

Thank you to the author, Gretchen Powell Fox, for sharing an advanced reader copy of her book in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review

Voyage of the Damned by Frances White

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Frances White’s Voyage of the Damned is a locked-room murder mystery set aboard a ship in a fantasy empire teetering on the edge of chaos. Ganymedes “Dee” Piscero, the most unremarkable hero of Concordia’s twelve magical heirs, is thrust into a deadly game when a fellow heir is brutally murdered. With no magical “Blessing” of his own, Dee must rely on his wits and sheer luck to survive as suspicion and bloodshed multiply aboard the emperor’s ship. As tensions mount, the question isn’t just who the killer is—it’s whether anyone will survive the voyage long enough for it to matter.

Book cover for Voyage of the Damned by Frances White.

As if the restrictive shell of a body is more important than the infinite possibilities of a mind.

Frances White, Voyage of the Damned

The premise hooked me immediately: A fantasy murder mystery? Twelve heirs, each with a unique secret power, trapped on a ship with a killer among them? Sign me up! The romance—abrupt as it was—grew on me, too. There’s something tender about Dee’s connection with Wyatt that offsets the grimness of the plot. And it was sweet to see a self-loathing protagonist stumble into vulnerability through a soft love story amidst all the chaos unfolding around them.

But with that said, the execution left a lot to be desired. The worldbuilding is the book’s glaring weak spot. Concordia’s provinces are so reductive they feel like caricatures. Each province is defined by a single animal and a somewhat related industry (and a matching hair color for some reason?). From what I gathered, the magic is hereditary within one single family per province, and it passes down from a parent to one of their children, but other than that, the magic lacks any discernible system or depth. I also found myself asking way too many questions about the logistics of this world. For instance, why are there finger guns in a high fantasy setting where actual guns don’t exist? And in this world where there is no electricity, why are there hot dogs, cotton candy, and poutine, and references to how undeniably cool it is to walk away from an explosion without looking back, and comments on something being so good it’s ”like crack”? None of it makes sense and fundamentally strips the setting of its believability.

They keep their memories and stories safe within music, where empires cannot touch them.

Frances White, Voyage of the Damned

The characters are both a highlight and a source of frustration. Dee’s self-deprecating humor and insecurities make him relatable early on, but as the bodies start piling up, his self-absorption and misplaced priorities are distracting and confusing. Why is he busy agonizing over choosing between a dead ex-lover and his very new romantic interest when they’re all actively being pursued by a murderer? I wish White had spent more time on Dee’s journey of self-discovery and his battle with internalized shame, particularly given the book’s LGBTQ+ representation. I appreciated the barest hints of themes like unity, oppression, and the effects of colonialism, but I needed to see way more of it. I also loved Grasshopper and the dynamic between Dee and Grasshopper. Hands down the best part of the book. Unfortunately, the rest of the cast felt more like stereotypes than people, each defined by a single trait.

Representation in fantasy is something I always root for, so seeing characters like Dee, a bisexual, plus-size person grappling with mental health struggles, and Wyatt, who lives with chronic pain and illness, felt refreshing and necessary. Their identities and challenges added depth and realism to the story, as well as glimmers of inclusivity often lacking in this genre. However, as part of the late-stage plot twist, we discover that this version of Wyatt isn’t even real. It’s such a betrayal to Dee (and, honestly, I’m not sure how he could just get over it!) and to the readers who got invested in the romance developing between Dee and Wyatt. It soured the entire story for me because it felt a little like the work this relationship did to help normalize characters like Dee and Wyatt finding love in the stories we consume was just a trick. Fantasy deserves better, and so do the readers who see themselves in these characters.

The final wall around my heart crumbles and his love fills the untouched space behind.

Frances White, Voyage of the Damned

In addition to my major issues with the romance, representation, worldbuilding, and characters, the locked-room mystery also falls short. Instead of piecing together clues, Dee passively gathers information handed to him by other characters. It feels lazy and robs the story of the tension and intrigue that make a good mystery compelling. The story felt really aimless in that regard, and what’s even more frustrating is I don’t think there was any way for readers to solve the murder mystery on their own. Where’s the fun in that?

Voyage of the Damned reads like young adult fiction, so marketing it as adult fantasy sets up expectations it can’t meet. I never got attached enough to the characters, the mission, or the world, so it essentially failed to deliver the compulsive, edge-of-your-seat tension I expect from a murder mystery. The writing is accessible with memorable flashes of wit and charm, but ultimately, any redeeming qualities are drowned out by inconsistent characterization, clunky worldbuilding, and a mystery that doesn’t trust its audience to engage. Fans of lighter fantasy or creative LGBTQ+ representation may enjoy its quirky charm, but for those seeking a tightly woven mystery or a richly immersive fantasy world, this voyage may be one to skip.

Thank you to NetGalley and HarperCollins Publishers / Mira Books for sharing an advanced reader copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.

Book Review

The Pairing by Casey McQuiston

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In The Pairing, Casey McQuiston serves up a story of lust, longing, and languid food tours through Europe, all wrapped in the undeniable queerness that has become their signature. Theo, an aspiring sommelier, and Kit, a pastry chef, find themselves accidentally reunited on the food and wine tour that marked the end of their relationship four years prior. What starts as a hookup competition to prove they’re over each other soon unravels into a complicated mess of unresolved feelings and sexual tension. With scenic backdrops and sumptuous descriptions of food and wine, McQuiston delivers an enticing setup—but does the romance sizzle or fizzle?

Book cover for The Pairing by Casey McQuiston.

I’ve always agreed with the French that a meal should begin with sweetness, but I’m beginning to wonder if the Italians had it right—if, sometimes, discovery wants bitterness first.

Casey McQuiston, The Pairing

McQuiston deserves praise for the unapologetically queer heart of The Pairing. Particularly, the scene where Theo comes out to Kit as nonbinary is handled with thoughtfulness and care, and their pronoun switch midway through the story feels authentic and affirming. Theo’s vulnerability in sharing their identity with Kit creates some of the novel’s most tender moments. Kit shows all the unconditional support and encouragement anyone could hope for, and it completely melted my heart! It’s rare to find queer representation so layered, deliberate, and nuanced, and McQuiston nails it here.

Unfortunately, the novel stumbles in crafting compelling characters beyond their queerness. Theo’s privilege as a “nepo baby” who opts to stay poor and struggling despite several people offering to help them throughout the entire novel feels contrived and frustrating. Their refusal to leverage their family’s wealth for the sake of so-called authenticity or some misplaced sense of validation or merit borders on tone deaf and feels hollow, especially when juxtaposed with their ability to casually flit through European cities. This, combined with their insufferable self-pity, makes it difficult to root for them.

Sometimes I think the only way to keep something forever is to lose it and let it haunt you.

Casey McQuiston, The Pairing

Just when all of Theo’s internal struggles and bad decisions have them primed for some significant growth, the story abruptly shifts to Kit’s perspective halfway through the novel, undercutting any meaningful resolution. Kit, while less grating, brings little complexity to the table, beyond his complete and total adoration (infatuation?) for Theo. Together, their chemistry leans heavily on physical attraction, and the emotional weight never lands. Theo and Kit keep circling around the same issues, avoiding the hard conversations that would make their reunion satisfying. By the end, I was left craving more substance—something to make their love story feel earned.

With its vibrant cities and decadent meals, the European backdrop offers a feast for the senses; however, the execution—while meticulously researched—feels superficial. The bacchanalian parade of food, booze, and hookups quickly grows repetitive. I think this is partially because Theo and Kit don’t really develop, so it feels like nothing advances the plot. The tour becomes just as redundant as every scene between the two leads. The characters’ romanticized, tourist-like experience of Western Europe also leaves little room for authentic exploration of various cultures and cuisines. Furthermore, their near-magical ability to charm their way into every bed and social circle simply isn’t realistic. While escapism is often part of romance’s appeal, the sheer perfection of every encounter makes this story feel flat and predictable.

If I can give my whole heart to love without fearing the cost, I will regret nothing.

Casey McQuiston, The Pairing

The Pairing struggles to balance its frothy, sexually charged premise with the deeper emotional work necessary for a satisfying second-chance romance. Some moments in Theo and Kit’s inner monologues are achingly beautiful—one, in particular, stands out when Kit sees Theo in Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, a depiction of the divine feminine, while imagining Theo admiring Michelangelo’s David, a tribute to masculine beauty. Kit wonders, with quiet longing, if Theo also finds pieces of them both reflected in the David. How romantic to discover your lover—and yourself—in the world’s most iconic works of art! Yet moments like this remain internal; the characters never bring such revelations into their shared conversations or let them deepen their connection beyond physical desire.

McQuiston’s hallmark wit and charm, evident in earlier works like Red, White & Royal Blue and One Last Stop, are present but not as pronounced here. Some lighthearted moments occasionally sparkle, but a frustrating lack of narrative depth overshadows them. For readers new to queer romances or those looking for lighthearted escapism, The Pairing might hit the right notes. But for anyone seeking the heartfelt intimacy and layered storytelling that define McQuiston’s best work, this book might feel more like a missed opportunity than a perfect pairing.

Thank you to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for sharing an advanced reader copy of this book in exchange for an honest review.