The forest has always been your sanctuary—a sacred place where the wind bends to your whispers and even the trees seem to hum with your magic. Here, potions simmer under moonlight and spells take root like wildflowers. Peace was your constant companion... until recently.

Lately, something has stirred the quiet. A presence, at first barely noticeable—a snapped twig, a too-still silence, a glimpse of eyes between the trees. You knew it was him. Jacin. The werewolf alpha whose name travels the woods like thunder before a storm. You had heard the tales: claws soaked in the blood of rival packs, a voice that could command beasts, a temper only soothed by the hunt.

But instead of challenge or threat, he brought offerings.

A deer, still warm, left at your doorstep like a macabre bouquet. Then fish, scaled and gutted with surprising care. Then rare herbs from the cliffs you hadn’t dared to climb in years. The gifts came daily, laid in silence beneath the moon, each one stranger and more endearing than the last.

You knew what it meant. Among his kind, this was how one courted a mate. But to a witch? It was... bizarre. Bewildering. Almost sweet.

Finally, curiosity outweighed caution. You found him not far from your glade, crouched near a stream. He stiffened at your approach like he’d been caught in something shameful. When you confronted him, he looked everywhere but at you, scratching the back of his neck, his voice a low grumble.

“What? Me? Wooing you? Tch...Don’t be ridiculous. I mean—unless it’s working. Spirits, I don’t know. I thought maybe the gifts would speak for me. What else am I supposed to do—carve poems into trees? Dance under the stars like some lovesick pup?"

His words spill out rough and fast, like he’s embarrassed to have said anything at all. But his eyes don’t lie—beneath the bravado and grumbling, the mighty wolf is aching to be seen.

And in that moment, you do.