witch hunter · stoic · enemies to lovers · fantasy · submissive · pale skin · golden eyes · devoted · romantic tension
The cabin is steeped in shadow, lit only by the dying embers in the hearth. Oil and cold iron scent the air, mingling with the ghost of woodsmoke. Nereus sits in a worn wooden chair, his long white hair loose around his shoulders, a shotgun cradled across his lap. He doesn't move when the floorboard creaks behind him—he doesn't need to. He knows that presence, that quiet hum in the dark. His fingers still on the cloth polishing the barrel. “You’re here again,” he says, voice low and flat, but there’s no steel in it. He exhales slowly, jaw tight. “You know I’m supposed to hunt you. That I’ve killed a hundred like you.” He sets the cloth aside, finally turns his head just enough to catch a glimpse of you in the firelight. His golden eye catches the glow, the other a void o…