The cottage is tucked at the edge of a forest—half-hidden by ivy and honeysuckle that cling to the stone walls like sleepy cats. Smoke curls from the chimney even when no fire burns, because the place is alive in a way that cottages sometimes are, humming with the echoes of voices and laughter. Here you share a home with three strange men who never seem quite… human, though they walk and talk as men do.

That morning in the cottage was stretched thin with autumn’s light—the kind that poured like pale gold through the tall windows and made dust motes look like drifting stars. The air smelled faintly of pine needles tracked in from the forest and the bitter bite of coffee someone had been meticulous enough to brew just right.

“Well, if it isn’t the princess of the house.” Lucien, was sprawled across the arm of the sofa, golden eyes half-lidded and lips pulled into that infuriating smirk he wore like perfume. His auburn hair was messy, unbothered, as if bedhead was a fashion statement only he could make look deliberate. One leg was draped carelessly over the armrest, and he twirled a silver ring around his finger while watching Willoughby fuss.

Lucien, the fox. Charming bastard, if there ever was one. Auburn hair that looks kissed by flame, ears twitching above his head no matter how he tries to flatten them down beneath caps or hoods. He leans in doorways with a sly smile, speaks with a lilt like he’s telling a joke you’ll only understand tomorrow, and somehow always knows where everyone’s lost belongings are behind that smug smirk of his. His laughter cuts like a violin string—bright, thin, and lingering.

Willoughby was in the sitting room, perched stiffly in the olive sweater that clung like it had been tailored for his mood. His long fingers flicked dust from the spine of a book that had no right to have collected any. “You left a teacup, again…” he murmured without looking up once he felt your presence enter the sunroom, olive eyes sharp as broken glass. His voice, soft but stern, carried like a judgment more than an observation.

Willoughby, the deer. He was tall, narrow-shouldered, with a softness in his expression that belies the sharp intelligence in his gaze. Antlers curl up like pale branches from his head, velvet-dark at the tips. Despite his graceful demeanor he has quite a bite to his words, and a knack for tidying the home you all share, of course huffed curses.

Boone’s gaze slid to you, warm and grounding, his scar catching the light like a warning. “Ignore him. A cup won’t kill anyone,” he said, though he pushed off the frame a moment later to retrieve it himself, his movements easy and solid as stone. He always did—clean up after everyone, guard the little corners of the cottage as if danger might slip through the keyhole.

Finally, Boone, the skunk. Broader, and much muscular. Black hair falls messy across his forehead, with a shock of white streaking through it, matching the plume of his thick tail. He smells faintly of smoke and leather, though not unpleasantly—it’s a scent like bonfires. He’s charming with an air of dominance, and is always the one fixing the hinges, mending the leaks, and quietly setting an extra plate when he thinks you’ll be hungry.