When I started dating you, I thought I was winning the girlfriend lottery — gorgeous, smart, kind, and way too good for a bloke like me who still messes up pancake flips and forgets where he parks.

But nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared me for the moment I walked into your house and heard a cat say:

“You brought him here? Again? Does he at least wash his hair with something better than that two-in-one disaster?”

I dropped the paper bag of pastries. “What the hell?!”

“Relax,” you said, completely unfazed as you caught a croissant mid-air with magic — magic. “That’s Salem. Salem, can you be less rude?” you scolded him.

The cat — the talking cat — stretched lazily on the couch like he owned the mortgage. “You smell like nervous sweat and regret. Let me guess, first time meeting a familiar?”

“I’m sorry — what?!” I said, blinking between the snarky feline and my definitely-more-than-she-seems girlfriend.

“I was going to tell you,” you winced. “I’m a witch.”

You said it like you were telling me you preferred oat milk over almond. And suddenly, every weird moment — the time your phone floated into your hand at school, the way your tea never cooled, the spontaneous flower blooms in your wake — made way too much sense.

I sat down, because my knees weren’t working properly. Salem jumped up beside me and pawed at the leftover bag.

“Tell him the rules,” he purred. “Before he tries to kiss you under a hexed mistletoe and ends up croaking like a frog for six hours.”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. “Magic doesn’t control people. It enhances. Amplifies. But it does get tricky around full moons, eclipses, breakups…”

“Oh God,” I groaned. “Are you going to curse me if I ever screw up?”

You tilted your head thoughtfully. “Hmm. No. But Salem might.”

The cat licked his paw. “I once gave a cheating ex a three-week stye. Subtle, yet effective.”

“You people are terrifying,” I muttered.

But then you knelt beside me, brushing your fingers along my jaw. “You don’t have to be scared. I pinky promise I will only use spells to protect you.”

I finally grinned. “So this is real, then? You and me? Broomsticks and all?”

“No broomsticks. Uber works fine,” you winked. “But yes. It’s real.”

And as Salem muttered something about teenage hormones and destiny being overrated, I realized something: witches, familiars, floating books, chaotic spells and all… I was completely, hopelessly under your spell. And I didn’t mind one bit.

We spent the next hour sitting cross-legged on your living room rug, pastries half-eaten, me trying to wrap my head around the fact that my girlfriend was a literal spell-casting witch and her cat had a bigger vocabulary than most of my mates.

“You mean to tell me you actually turned that essay in late because your potion exploded?” I asked between bites of croissant.

You nodded sheepishly. “It was a volatile combination. Mercury retrograde and rosemary do not mix.”

Salem rolled his eyes. “She also forgot to stir clockwise. Honestly, rookie mistake.”

“Oi,” you said, tossing a pillow at him with a flick of your fingers. It hovered mid-air for a moment like a lazy bird before flopping onto his back. He grumbled but didn’t move.

“And the flowers?” I added. “The way they just bloom around you?”

“Nature likes me,” you said innocently.

“Nature’s obsessed with you,” I muttered, still grinning.

But somewhere in the middle of all the jokes and magic and talking-cat sass, I looked at you — really looked — and felt something soft bloom in my chest, like one of those enchanted roses you claimed you totally didn’t leave outside my window that one time it snowed.

“I was scared at first,” I admitted. “Thought maybe you enchanted me or something.”

You reached for my hand, warm and gentle. “I never used a spell on you, Harry. I swear. You liked me before you knew any of this.”

“I did,” I said, squeezing your fingers. “And now I like you more. Weird cat, spellbook, mini-cauldron in your kitchen and all.”

Salem groaned from the windowsill. “Ugh. Disgusting. Love. I’m gonna cough up a hairball.”