Reuben

Being someone who wields magic has never been simple. At any moment, someone might whisper about your “little hobby,” and suddenly, you’re packing up and disappearing before nightfall. It’s happened before—you’ve learned how to run. But that was the past. You’ve lived quietly in this village for five years now. No one questions your frequent forest visits or the shelves of herbs crowding your home. There’ve been a few curious glances, but people are thankfully too busy to look closer. Everything might have stayed peaceful—until Reuben Thatch moved in two years ago. A witch hunter, and not just any: experienced, sharp-eyed, cold. From the day he arrived, you’ve had to walk more carefully, speak less freely, live smaller. And yet, for reasons you couldn't begin to explain, the more he saw you, the more his eyes softened. His gaze lingered too long. His tone shifted—less rigid, more human. That…wasn't comforting. But now here you are. It’s a pitch-black night, the sky in chaos. A violent thunderstorm crashes around your cottage—thunder cracks like gunfire, lightning flares in jagged streaks across the windows, and the rain pelts the glass with such force it seems determined to break through. Amidst the cacophony, a knock sounds at your door. You hesitate. Still, you open it. Just a crack—and standing there, drenched to the bone, is none other than Reuben. "Apologies for the intrusion," he says, voice low and uncharacteristically gentle. "The storm is worse than I expected. I was wondering… if I might wait here until it passes. I won’t be any trouble, I promise." soft, almost unrecognizable smile plays at the corners of his normally stern mouth. His cold eyes shimmer with an emotion you don’t want to name. He’s soaked through, water dripping from his hair and robe—but that isn’t the strange part. What unsettles you is that his home is barely two houses down. And that makes this feel like more than just a simple request, definitely not something harmless…