For nearly an hour, Seraphine's eyes wandered over Liam—the flicker of the candle casting his silhouette into restless patterns on the wall—while her book lay forgotten. Each stray glance—an involuntary pull, as if some hidden force called her—tightened the knot in her stomach. It wasn't just annoyance; it was a premonition of the chaos that always followed him, a chaos that stirred memories of lost magic and shattered vows. His oblivious smirk confirmed the worst.
Nestled in her high-backed chair, Seraphine pretended to read while her fingers absently twirled the brittle lavender. Candlelight pulsed off the crystal sconces, weaving ephemeral patterns among the dusty shelves. Every jar and ancient parchment whispered long-forgotten incantations, as if the very air carried secrets from another realm. Bundles of herbs swayed lightly overhead, releasing bursts of sage, star anise, and a whisper of residual magic that charged the air.
And there, in the middle of all that quiet order, was him.
He lounged against the desk, fingers drumming. One boot tapped carelessly against the antique trim she'd painstakingly restored. Seraphine's eye twitched; her practiced calm unraveled with every rebellious gesture he made.
He was an intrusion in her space—raw edges and restless energy incarnate. Liam slumped against the desk, his unkempt hair and half-unbuttoned shirt hinting at supernatural fights and sleepless nights. The scar at his collarbone caught the light—subtle, but speaking of battles not quite behind him. He always looked like he'd walked out of a fight and straight into a magazine spread—irritatingly perfect in his disarray.
But what really grated on her was the fact that he was currently monopolizing her shop, speaking in that low, measured tone he used when handling business.
His voice—smooth, deliberate, laced with that businesslike lilt—cut through the haven of "Seraphine's Curiosities & Remedies" like a discordant note. The shop, usually a tapestry of whispered magic and the comforting rustle of ancient parchment, now thrummed with the intruder's presence. Each well-placed boot on her counter was a silent encroachment on her carefully curated space.
Her shop—an alchemical blend of apothecary, spell craft, and old-world charm—was meant to be a haven for her work. It exuded an aura of quiet enchantment. The air was thick with the scent of ancient herbs, parchment, and whispered spells. Sunlight filtered through centuries-old stained glass, fracturing into a kaleidoscope of prismatic hues that danced across the timeworn wooden floor.
And yet, somehow, it had become his unofficial office in the three months since they'd made their alcohol infused bargain.
He'd claimed a spot near the register, one boot hooked against the counter, shirt rumpled and collar gaping just enough to reveal a scar that hadn't been there last week. Seraphine clenched her jaw. No one should pull off battlefield chic so effortlessly.
More infuriating? He had the nerve to wink at her as he spoke.
Liam's voice, smooth and laced with an unnerving calm, carried an echo of twilight promises. "Yeah, I've got it covered," he murmured into the phone, dismissing both the urgency and the glare she shot him over the rim of her mug.
"No, you don't need to send anyone else. I'll check out the site tonight." A pause. A chuckle. "Yes, I do have a death wish, thanks for noticing."
Seraphine groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose.
This was her shop.
And somehow, she didn't make him leave.
A sudden flash—a memory of flickering lantern light and whispered sorrow from nights long past—chilled her to the bone. For a heartbeat, the dusty aroma of her study was replaced by the smoky lament of a bar, where every clink of glass carried the weight of lost promises and cursed encounters. The room faded, replaced by the familiar sting of loss and regret that she fought so hard to forge—unwanted but impossible to ignore.
The bar reeked of vintage whiskey and lingering ash—a forgotten relic where every sip of air carried the weight of untold stories. Lantern light struggled against the gloom, its amber beams softening the edges of worn wood and casting long, melancholic shadows that danced with his weary silhouette.
Blues curled from the jukebox like smoke, and in the dim corner booth, he looked less like a hunter and more like something hunted. Fingers idle against a glass he hadn't sipped in minutes. Eyes shadowed. Posture slumped. Broken in ways that couldn't be seen all at once.
It had been one of those nights—the kind where the air was thick with murmured conversations, the occasional clatter of glassware, and the low hum of blues drifting from the jukebox.
Liam had been slumped over the counter, nursing a drink with the weariness of a man carrying too much history on his shoulders. His usual sharp edges were dulled by alcohol, his fingers tracing lazy circles against the rim of his glass.
Seraphine had been there for a drink. That was all.
She wasn't the kind of witch who got tangled up in other people's heartbreaks.
And yet, something about the way he sat there—too still, too quiet—had drawn her in.
She slid onto the stool beside him, arching a brow. "You look like hell."
Liam exhaled a laugh, barely lifting his gaze. "And you look suspiciously interested."
"I'm just waiting to see if you're going to drink yourself into making a really bad decision."
"Too late."
That was when the deal was struck—a reckless, almost laughable bargain forged in shadows. He was to forget his ex completely - as if she were nothing more than a misplaced specter - in exchange for his firstborn. The absurdity of it belied the deep, dangerous magic at its core.
Sloppy, reckless, utterly ridiculous.
The deal was simple when brokered: He forgot her completely, like she'd never existed, in exchange for his firstborn child. The problem was on his end. She'd held up her end but he didn't seem to be in any hurry to fulfill his end of the bargain.
If she had been fully sober, she would have laughed in his face and sent him home to sleep it off. But she hadn't been.
And that was why they were here, now.
Seraphine recognized the pattern—bravado covering hesitation. He always said he didn't need backup and came back bloodied with a new smirk and wounds that would become a fresh scar." Always pretended he didn't want to stay.
Her mind raced in whispered fragments: irritation, an echo of longing, a spark of something dangerously tender. His presence still echoed through the room—not as scent, but as sound. The low hum of his voice lingered in the air like the last notes of a forbidden melody, vibrating through the wood and bone of the shop until she could almost feel it against her skin.
She crossed her arms, heart drumming a warning beneath her ribcage. "It's just a fleeting fancy," she chided herself, though the tremor in her pulse betrayed the truth. This wasn't mere irritation—it was the stir of a magic she'd long denied, an enchantment not cast by any spell but certainly aided by hers.
He was reckless, but not thoughtless. He pushed people away, but never without reason. He sabotaged his own chances at happiness, not because he didn't want it, but because deep down, he didn't believe he deserved it.
And knowing that made it harder for her to ignore the way she cared.
Of course, she didn't care. She had far too much sense for that.
But…
Seraphine scowled at the candle nearest to her. The flame flared, sensing her irritation, before dimming back to its steady flicker.
She needed to focus. Liam wasn't her problem. His emotional damage wasn't her concern.
And yet, she found herself watching him again.
He was shifting his weight, restless, the fingers of one hand tapping against his bicep in a soft, rhythmic pattern. That told her everything. He was about to go on another hunt. "You're leaving soon," she said, not quite a question.
Liam shrugged. "Yeah. Got a lead. Don't need backup."
Of course, he didn't. He always said that, even when he came back bloody. Seraphine rolled her eyes. "At least try not to get yourself killed."
She didn't care. Obviously. Anyone could see that.
As he turned to leave, Seraphine's impulse overrode her caution. Her fingers found his wrist—a fleeting, almost accidental touch that sparked an unexpected warmth, as if the room had suddenly shrunk to just the two of them. Liam paused, his eyes—golden and conflicted—searching hers in silent plea. For one interminable heartbeat, the clamor of the world faded into a charged stillness. For a single stretched-out breath, neither of them moved.
Then, with a hard twist of regret, she flicked him toward the door. "Go on," she snapped, her voice brittle. "Go get yourself hurt."
Later, as he turned to leave, his eyes—glimmering with a secret weight—met hers. "You do care," he teased, the words heavy with the unspoken truths that neither was ready to voice. And before she could find something to throw at him, he was gone.
Seraphine exhaled sharply and locked the door behind him, muttering a sharp ward under her breath. Not that it would stop him from waltzing back in later, but it made her feel better.
With a sigh, she turned on her heel and headed toward the back shelves. She didn't have to check her inventory to know she was running low on antiseptics—again. Bandages, too. Again. Because, of course, the odds were forever in her favor that Liam would return injured. Not if. When.
This would be, what? The seventh? Eighth time they'd done this particular song and dance in the past few months? On par with the number of failed dates he'd had in that same time frame. Seraphine paused, fingers stilling over a glass jar of powdered Goldenseal.
Huh.
Her mind turned over the numbers, rolling them around like dice, waiting for them to land in a pattern that made sense. Because surely there wasn't a pattern there.
…Right?
Seraphine let out a groan, dragging her hands down her face. This was not happening.
Seraphine stalked the shelves like the jars had personally offended her, muttering under her breath. With a clatter of glass and a frustrated huff, Seraphine swept past the shelves as if warding off ghosts. The antiseptics weren't dwindling because of him—wasn't that absurd? The space still held echoes of him—residual magic, warmth, and an irritating hint of pine and smoke.
Her mind raced in half-whispers: irritation, a twinge of longing, something unbidden that she couldn't quite shake. "Just a passing fancy," she whispered, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her denial. Each measured step became a silent argument between duty and desire—a debate she fought as fiercely as any hex.
She gritted her teeth. These weren't feelings. Just irritation. Familiarity. Hormonal malfunction. Something she could banish with a charm. "Right?"
That was absurd. Insane. She paced the room, muttering under her breath. "It was simple chemistry—biological noise wrapped in a familiar face. It doesn't mean anything." But still, it shouldn't have been there at all. She had brokered the bargain. She couldn't -
She frowned. Had she… she inhaled sharply. It didn't feel like attraction. That would've been easy. Attraction was simple, fleeting, manageable. This was something else. Something deeper. She reached for the herbs, and moonstone dust, and chanted the spell with practiced ease.
The result was a set of runes glowing gold in the air. She blinked, then cast the spell again. Slower. More carefully. There was always a risk of false positives from a caster's intent influencing the spell or when cast in haste, or both.
Gold. Again. It couldn't be that. Because hunters didn't get attached. Not to their partners, not to their allies, not to anyone. She closed the cabinet door a little too hard. The glass clinked.
Outside, the night pressed against the stained glass like a living omen, and as her hand lingered by the door. The promise of his return shimmered, as inevitable as the midnight toll of fate. And still, her hand lingered near the door—where he'd stood just minutes ago.
Gold. A third time. "Spirit of the Earth Mother," she cursed. She'd sworn not to be the idiot who let herself care. Not again. But here she was, lingering in the space he'd left behind.
She could deal with this. With Liam. She just needed to think of a way. "Therapist by day, witchcraft by night," she sighed. "And I really should stop making bargains when I've been drinking."
The terms had been simple: his pain, erased. Her price, a firstborn. Any firstborn. But gold wasn't a neutral outcome. Gold meant a bond. A path forged in love, or something dangerously close to it.
She cast the spell for herself—so was it warning her of someone yet to come? Or… had he already crossed her path? She shuddered. "Duskwood? Perish the thought."
The shop creaked, distinctly amused. "Neroghan," she muttered into her hands, "don't be ridiculous."
The laughter in the walls didn't stop for several minutes.