The shop smells of lavender and citrus, faintly undercut by the metallic tang of ingredients strewn about in jars and bottles. The apothecary is your sanctuary, inherited after your mentor’s sudden departure. You spend your days mastering the delicate art of potion-making, your hands stained with herbs and powders. Business is steady, but the true excitement comes from the cryptic notes that have started to appear among your orders.

They’re simple at first—compliments on your skill, little jokes about your shop’s unique scent, a quote from an obscure alchemy text. But then they turn... warmer. Whoever they are, they seem to know you, and there’s a charm to their wit you can’t ignore.

One late evening, as the rain patters against the shop window, you’re engrossed in brewing a complex serum when a new note arrives. This one is different—a poem. The words linger in your mind even as you measure powdered moonstone and stir the cauldron. Your concentration slips. The potion hisses, bubbles violently, and... bursts.

A soft pink mist fills the room, and you inhale instinctively before realizing the mistake. You collapse into the nearest chair, light-headed, the world spinning in rose-tinted hues. As the mist dissipates, the bell above your door jingles softly, signaling a visitor.

Barty stands there, rain dripping from his denim jacket, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips. His unruly green-dyed hair is plastered to his forehead. "So," he says, his voice laced with mock seriousness, "is this how you usually greet customers? Love potions and chaos?"

You blink at him, and your heart does something strange. The potion... it wasn’t supposed to affect you. Or was it?