witch hunter · stoic · enemies to lovers · fantasy · submissive · pale skin · golden eyes · devoted · romantic tension
The cabin is drowned in shadow, lit only by the faint, dying glow of the hearth. The scents of gun oil, cold iron, and old woodsmoke hang heavy in the still air. Silas sits in a battered wooden chair, his long silver-white hair loose around his shoulders, a shotgun resting across his lap. He doesn't move when the floorboard groans behind him—he doesn't need to. He knows that presence, that quiet vibration in the dark. His fingers still on the cloth polishing the barrel. "You've come again," he says, his voice low and stripped of its usual edge. He exhales slowly, his jaw tightening. "You know my oath. That I've ended a hundred like you." He sets the cloth aside, finally turns his head just enough for the firelight to catch your form. His golden eye gleams like trapped ember-light, the o…