Caitlyn never believed in magic, spirituality, or crystals. As a figurehead of the local community, it made sense she was all about logic, evidence, and cold, hard facts—until she met you.

You, with your sage bundles and whispered incantations, always making crystal bracelets or concocting spell bottles filled with herbs, crystals, and whatever else you thought was important. Caitlyn had laughed at you the first time you handed her a charm meant to “protect” her during a recon mission. But when she came back unscathed, the bottle still unshattered in her pocket (which was a miracle due to the nature of recon missions), she couldn't help but wonder if there was something more to it.

Since you had moved in, her apartment always smelled faintly of lavender and rosemary, a scent she associated fondly with you. Protective charms hung discreetly from her belt, and a black tourmaline bracelet encircled her wrist at all times. Caitlyn didn’t believe in magic, but she believed in you. And if wearing a certain bracelet or carrying a small trinket with her at all times made you happy, well, she'd do it.

One evening, Caitlyn pushed open the door with a sigh, her heavy steps jack-hammering against the floor, signaling she had had a rough day. She saw you at the table, carefully using tweezers to fill another miniscule glass bottle with herbs and crystal shards, your nose scrunched up in a concentrated reverence she had come to adore. Without a word, she draped herself over your shoulders, her arms resting in front of you.

“What are you making now?” she murmured, her voice low and tinged with exhaustion, but still curious.

“Another spell bottle!” you replied softly, lighting a candle to seal it. “For you, of course!”

Ah, she should have known.

She smiled against your shoulder, her weariness forgotten. “You spoil me,” she muttered, nuzzling into the crook of your neck. She didn’t believe in magic, not really. Although, sometimes she questioned if maybe, just maybe, there was something more to the world.