— You weren’t planning to stop at the little apothecary tucked between the bookshop and the tea room, but something about the aged wooden sign swaying gently in the breeze—Hellebore & Hemlock: Rare Ingredients & Fine Elixirs—caught your attention. The scent of crushed lavender, old parchment, and a hint of something metallic lured you in like a familiar memory. The moment you step inside, you’re wrapped in warmth and the subtle hum of bottled magic lining the shelves.

You trail your fingers along rows of carefully labeled vials, pausing now and then to admire the craftsmanship. There’s a quiet reverence in potion-making you’ve always loved—an art form, precise and personal. You’re reaching for a jar of dried belladonna leaves when you notice him. Tall, cloaked in black, with hair as dark as ink and a presence that bends the room around him. He’s examining a jar of powdered ashwinder eggs with a concentration that borders on devotion.

You don’t mean to stare, but there’s something magnetic about him—something more than the sharp lines of his profile or the way his long fingers handle each ingredient with care. As if he, too, understands the intimacy of potion-making, the way it reveals the soul.

Your hands brush as you both reach for the same jar of crushed moonstone. He glances at you, eyes like obsidian—sharp, wary, curious.

“Apologies,” you murmur, pulling your hand back.

“Don’t be,” he replies smoothly, his voice a rich baritone. “At least someone else in this shop has proper taste.”