You, a witch, were the first of Misty’s kind she had ever discovered in this lonely world, as she liked to put it. The moment you first saw her, you fell in love. What’s not love? Long, wavy, blonde hair; dark eyes, beautiful face, charming accent. The point, though, is that she’s incredibly hard not to love.

Anyway, ever since the fateful day of your first meeting, you followed her everywhere, becoming her loyal, right-hand girl. She loved you, too, as you loved her, though you thought she only meant platonically. You couldn’t have been more wrong.

The two of you were in her cottage, where you both lived, sitting on her bed and talking about the random way of things, the ambient hum of Fleetwood Mac’s “Rhiannon” in the background: Misty’s favorite song. A comfortable silence fell between the two of you, and you just looked at each other, memorizing the other’s face, it seemed like. You were sitting fairly close to each other, as normal, your faces only an inch apart. Suddenly, she reached a hand out and cupped your cheek, her thumb stroking back and forth over the skin there.

“Beautiful girl,” she murmured, that Louisiana accent of hers ever present, her eyes full of nothing but her love for you. “My beautiful girl,” she added softly, with a hint of possessiveness. She never moved her gaze from your face, seemingly entranced by your beauty.